prairie gentian, blue flax, and Indian paintbrush. Their scents floated in the air, mingling with the fragrant crushed pine needles underfoot.
Two miles distant Creed could make out a sweeping splotch of gold and black: a small herd of pronghorns grazing a grassy hillock.
He glanced up at the sun's arc. It was nearing ten and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since last night. Even then, all he'd wound up with for his efforts was a case of indigestion.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memory. Flipping the buckle on his saddlebag open, he pulled out a piece of pemmican. With a sigh, he bit into it and chewed slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste.
Buck dropped his head to graze in the sweetgrass at his feet and Creed was content to allow it. The truth was, Creed decided, he was tired. Bone tired. Too tired to be arguing with an ornery female who seemed bent on self-destruction. It had seemed best to leave this morning without exchanging any further pleasantries with Seth's woman. He wasn't up to another argument with her.
His encounter with Étienne LaRousse still haunted him, robbing him of yet another night's sleep. The savage pleasure he'd taken in putting a bullet between the man's eyes remained undiminished, yet, even after all these years, revenge was not the balm he'd hoped it would be. It had done little to right what had seemed wrong inside him for such a long time.
In the past four years, he'd rarely given a thought to his solitary way of life. There had always been women willing to soften his nights, most for a price. One, a madam in Virginia City named Desiree Lupone, more friend than business acquaintance, never charged him for that kindness, nor had she ever turned him away. Even the times he'd come to her half-drunk and made love to her with an almost savage intensity, she'd held him long into the night and soothed away the demons that possessed him. That had seemed enough... until now.
Why?
Unwillingly, his mind conjured up Mariah's face; her soulful amber eyes, the way the shadows of the firelight last night had sculpted the gentle curve of her cheek and emphasized the hint of a dimple. His mental gaze drifted to her lips—too full and wide to be strictly beautiful—they were made to fit a man's mouth.
His loins tightened at the thought and his eyes slid shut with self-disgust. Could he be envious of Seth, for God's sake? Why not? Seth Travers was everything he wasn't: stable, dependable, settled. A man like that was meant for a woman like Mariah. A little house, picket fence, kids flapping around their legs like a flock of fledgling birds. He'd never wanted those things... had he?
A frown creased his brow. Even if he had, that kind of life wasn't meant for him. He'd chosen his path, and it didn't include a steady woman. Certainly not one like Mariah.
Just get her to Seth, you bastard. Just get her there and go see Desiree. You'll get straight again.
Like a warning, the prickle at the back of his neck came again. Merde!
Someone was following him. He heard the faint, unmistakable crack of a horseshoe against a rock somewhere behind him. He'd survived long enough to recognize that sound. But whoever it was, he wasn't being overly cautious. Any fool who wanted to sneak up on a man in rock country knew enough to wrap cloth around his horse's hooves.
Creed nudged Buck over behind the outcrop of granite and dismounted. He yanked the rifle from the boot of his saddle, poised it against the monolith and waited. Whoever it was, he'd be ready.
* * *
Mariah tightened her grip on the reins and stared at the ground where any semblance of a trail had just vanished. Where had Devereaux gone? Blast these trees, she thought. It had been so easy to follow him across the sweeping prairie. He'd been easy to spot, and it had been even easier to avoid being spotted by him in the hills and vales that rolled like ocean swells between the stage station and the foothills.
But the mountains were
Two miles distant Creed could make out a sweeping splotch of gold and black: a small herd of pronghorns grazing a grassy hillock.
He glanced up at the sun's arc. It was nearing ten and his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten since last night. Even then, all he'd wound up with for his efforts was a case of indigestion.
He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memory. Flipping the buckle on his saddlebag open, he pulled out a piece of pemmican. With a sigh, he bit into it and chewed slowly, savoring the bittersweet taste.
Buck dropped his head to graze in the sweetgrass at his feet and Creed was content to allow it. The truth was, Creed decided, he was tired. Bone tired. Too tired to be arguing with an ornery female who seemed bent on self-destruction. It had seemed best to leave this morning without exchanging any further pleasantries with Seth's woman. He wasn't up to another argument with her.
His encounter with Étienne LaRousse still haunted him, robbing him of yet another night's sleep. The savage pleasure he'd taken in putting a bullet between the man's eyes remained undiminished, yet, even after all these years, revenge was not the balm he'd hoped it would be. It had done little to right what had seemed wrong inside him for such a long time.
In the past four years, he'd rarely given a thought to his solitary way of life. There had always been women willing to soften his nights, most for a price. One, a madam in Virginia City named Desiree Lupone, more friend than business acquaintance, never charged him for that kindness, nor had she ever turned him away. Even the times he'd come to her half-drunk and made love to her with an almost savage intensity, she'd held him long into the night and soothed away the demons that possessed him. That had seemed enough... until now.
Why?
Unwillingly, his mind conjured up Mariah's face; her soulful amber eyes, the way the shadows of the firelight last night had sculpted the gentle curve of her cheek and emphasized the hint of a dimple. His mental gaze drifted to her lips—too full and wide to be strictly beautiful—they were made to fit a man's mouth.
His loins tightened at the thought and his eyes slid shut with self-disgust. Could he be envious of Seth, for God's sake? Why not? Seth Travers was everything he wasn't: stable, dependable, settled. A man like that was meant for a woman like Mariah. A little house, picket fence, kids flapping around their legs like a flock of fledgling birds. He'd never wanted those things... had he?
A frown creased his brow. Even if he had, that kind of life wasn't meant for him. He'd chosen his path, and it didn't include a steady woman. Certainly not one like Mariah.
Just get her to Seth, you bastard. Just get her there and go see Desiree. You'll get straight again.
Like a warning, the prickle at the back of his neck came again. Merde!
Someone was following him. He heard the faint, unmistakable crack of a horseshoe against a rock somewhere behind him. He'd survived long enough to recognize that sound. But whoever it was, he wasn't being overly cautious. Any fool who wanted to sneak up on a man in rock country knew enough to wrap cloth around his horse's hooves.
Creed nudged Buck over behind the outcrop of granite and dismounted. He yanked the rifle from the boot of his saddle, poised it against the monolith and waited. Whoever it was, he'd be ready.
* * *
Mariah tightened her grip on the reins and stared at the ground where any semblance of a trail had just vanished. Where had Devereaux gone? Blast these trees, she thought. It had been so easy to follow him across the sweeping prairie. He'd been easy to spot, and it had been even easier to avoid being spotted by him in the hills and vales that rolled like ocean swells between the stage station and the foothills.
But the mountains were
Similar Books
