“What are you doing?” Shannon asked after a minute.
“What does it look like?”
The tone of Whip’s voice made Shannon flinch.
“It looks like you’re packing my gear,” she said.
“Do tell.”
Whip rammed some dried food into a burlap bag and looked around for more.
There wasn’t any.
That, too, irritated him. It reminded him of just how close to the edge Shannon had been before he came along, and how close to the edge she would soon be after he left.
Unless she took a job with Willow.
“Why are you packing my gear?” Shannon asked distinctly.
“Because you’re coming with me.”
Shannon’s eyes closed. I refuse to lose my temper over a yondering man who can’t see love when it’s right in front of him.
When Shannon’s eyes opened, they were as furious as Whip’s. But her words weren’t. They were well chosen, spoken in a low voice, and very distinct.
“You weren’t listening very well,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere except up to Rifle Sight to dig for gold.”
“Oh? You going to eat grass while you dig?”
Shannon blinked. “No.”
“Then you better ride as far as your cabin with me. There aren’t enough supplies left up here to keep even a stubborn little idiot of a girl alive.”
“Don’t worry. There’s no ‘stubborn little idiot of a girl’ around to eat the supplies. There is, however, a thick-shouldered, thickheaded blind man with the appetite and disposition of a starving grizzly who—”
Abruptly Shannon remembered that she had promised herself not to lose her temper with this stubborn, blind mule of a man.
“There are enough supplies for a day of digging,” she said with false calm.
Whip looked at the cloud-seething sky and then back to Shannon.
“By this time tomorrow, it will be storming fit to drown Noah,” he said. “A smart little girl would get her rump moving down the hill to shelter.”
“A smart little girl wouldn’t be up here—”
“Amen.”
“—with a rock-stubborn blind man!”
“Pack up,” was all Whip said.
Shannon didn’t move.
With a savage curse Whip turned to her.
“You calling me stubborn,” he said coldly, “is like the pot yelling at the kettle for being black.”
“Do I sense agreement on the subject of your stubbornness?”
“Right now we couldn’t agree on water being wet, but that doesn’t change the facts. There’s no gold in Rifle Sight. There’s a storm coming. There aren’t enough supplies to see you through the storm.”
Shannon wanted to dispute Whip’s words, but she knew he was right. She had been so busy playing with Prettyface and arguing with Whip that she hadn’t bothered to look at the sky.
She came to her feet in a graceful movement that belied her ragged men’s clothing.
“Fine,” Shannon said grudgingly. “I’ll ride with you as far as my cabin.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
“Don’t worry, yondering man.”
Despite their mutual ill temper, Whip and Shannon worked side by side breaking the camp, understanding what must be done without discussion.
By the time Crowbait was packed and Razorback was saddled, much of Shannon’s anger had bled away into a numbing kind of sadness. She doubted it was the same for Whip. His face was still set and his eyes were still narrowed as he swung into Sugarfoot’s saddle.
Prettyface ranged out around the horses and mule as they took to the vague trail down the mountain. The trip to the cabin was accomplished swiftly and in a silence that made Shannon’s heart ache. Not until they were at the cabin door did Whip speak.
“Gather up some supplies while I check Crowbait. He’s walking kind of light on his left fore-foot.”
Shannon dismounted and went into the cabin. There weren’t many supplies left, but she didn’t grudge a mouthful of them to Whip. He had bought the food, after all, and shot the game. She had done nothing but cook and eat.
She packed all but one day’s worth of her supplies into a burlap bag and carried it out to Whip. He tied the bag onto Crowbait’s pack with a few rawhide strings.
“All set?” he asked.
Numbly Shannon nodded.
Whip swung up into the saddle and looked down at Shannon. The pain in her was almost tangible.
“Hey, honey girl,” Whip said gently, tilting her chin up to him with his left hand. “Turn that smile right side up. People as stubborn and hot-blooded as we are will argue from time to time. Nothing wrong with that.”
Shannon gave Whip a trembling smile. She brushed her lips over the soft surface of his riding glove.
“Thank you,” she said in a low voice.
“For what?”
“Not riding off in anger. I…I don’t think I could have endured it…not knowing where you were, knowing only that you were angry when you left.”
For an instant Whip could only think how good it would have felt if Shannon’s lips had been against his skin instead of his glove. Then the implications of her words sank in.
“You’ll know where I am,” he said flatly. “You’re coming with me.”
Hope flared like lightning across Shannon’s soul.
“I am?” she asked.
“Bet on it.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Cal’s ranch, just like I said.”
Shannon closed her eyes and fought against the desire to take whatever Whip offered, just so long as she could be with him.
“No, thank you just the same,” Shannon said quietly. “I’ve got claims to work and Cherokee to look after and game to hunt and—”
“Judas H. Priest, you do know how to push a man.”
“—Prettyface wouldn’t do well with strangers,” Shannon finished in the same quiet voice. “I’m staying here, where I belong.”
Whip looked down at the slender, determined girl. He couldn’t help admiring her spirit even as it infuriated him.
“What’s to keep me from picking you up, tying you to that old mule, and taking you wherever I want?” Whip asked.
“Common sense.”
Whip hesitated, then let air hiss out between his teeth.
“You’re going to fight me every step of the way, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I’m not going anywhere with you, so I can’t very well fight you every step of the way, can I?”
Shannon never even saw Whip move. Suddenly a hard arm was around her and she was jerked off her feet. Whip held her against his body with an ease that angered her even as it set her blood on fire.
It set his blood on fire, too. She could see it in the sudden dilation of his pupils, feel it in the hard tension of his body, taste it in the hot kiss that left her shaking and clinging to him, whispering her foolish love for a yondering man.
“It won’t work,” Whip said roughly, hating him-self and the girl who watched him with love in her eyes. “I won’t stay here. I won’t love you.”
“I never asked—”
“The hell you didn’t,” he interrupted savagely.
Whip put Shannon’s feet back on the ground so quickly that she staggered. He jerked the packhorse’s lead rope off Sugarfoot’s saddle horn, freeing Crowbait.
“I want you like hell on fire, but I won’t give up my soul to have you. That’s what love is, honey girl. Giving up your soul.”
He backed Sugarfoot away from Shannon, spun the horse on its hocks, and set out across the meadow at a fast canter.
“Whip!” Shannon called. “I didn’t—I really didn’t mean to ask for your love!”
Nothing came back to her but the fading drumroll of Sugarfoot’s hooves.
Only when Whip was out of sight did Shannon notice that he had left his pack animal and all the supplies with her. She stared at Crowbait’s patient brown eyes and f
ought not to cry out against the sadness that was sweeping over her like a cold wind.
Even though Whip was furious, he had thought of her welfare rather than his own.
“Whip!” Shannon called. “Come back! I can’t help loving you any more than you can help not loving me!”
Only silence answered Shannon, a silence that echoed with Whip’s good-bye.
I want you like hell on fire, but I won’t give up my soul to have you. That’s what love is, honey girl. Giving up your soul.
12
PRETTYFACE nudged Shannon and whined deep in his throat. The movement and the sound reminded her that she was standing in front of her cabin with tears cold on her face. Taking a deep breath, she concentrated on the long list of things that must be done if she was to get through the summer, much less the coming winter.
Crying definitely wasn’t on the list.
She put one hand under Prettyface’s big jaws and rubbed his head with her other hand. His shrewd wolf’s eyes glazed with pleasure. She smiled slightly, smoothed thick fur back into place, and put her cheek against his broad head.
“I’ll be all right, Prettyface,” she said. She straightened and released him. “Go rustle up your dinner while I unpack Crowbait and Razorback and picket them in the meadow.”
Prettyface stood, head cocked, watching Shannon.
“Go on, boy. I know you’re hungry. The pickings were pretty slim for you up in Grizzly Meadow. Go.”
Waving her arm in the direction of the meadow and forest beyond the cabin, Shannon repeated her soft command.
After a moment Prettyface turned and trotted off to the edge of the meadow. He put his nose to the ground and began quartering the area for scent of game.
Shannon turned to Crowbait and Razorback. She unsaddled the mule, switched bridle for halter, and turned to the packhorse. As she worked over the neat diamond hitches securing the supplies, she felt tears crowding her eyes again. It had been Whip’s hands that had tied the knots, Whip’s hands that had loaded the pack saddle, Whip’s hands that had smoothed the blanket pad in place and adjusted the halter.
“Don’t think about it,” Shannon whispered. “There’s too much to be done. Crying over a stubborn yondering man won’t butter any biscuits.”
Shannon tried not to, but her hands still lingered over the pack saddle and supplies, touching everything that Whip had touched, until finally everything was put away in its place. Numbly she led the animals into the meadow to picket them so that they could graze their fill of the sweet grasses.
Just as Shannon was driving in the second picket pin, she heard Prettyface break into savage barking. Her heart hesitated, then beat frantically.
Prettyface made that sound only when strangers came too close.
Motionless, cursing herself for being so addled by Whip’s leaving that she had forgotten to carry the shotgun, Shannon scanned the meadow’s edge for any sign of men.
Abruptly two long-legged mules appeared at the edge of the concealing forest and came swiftly toward Shannon. She leaped to her feet and spun toward the cabin, only to find two more Culpeppers between her and the shotgun she had stupidly left behind.
Shannon didn’t waste any breath calling for help. There was no one around but Prettyface, and he had already warned her. She whirled away from the two-pronged attack and raced for the forest, praying that she had enough speed to make the cover of the trees ahead of the racing mules.
Before Shannon was halfway to the forest, the beating of hooves sounded louder and louder in her ears. Even as she strained to run faster, she knew she was losing the race. She simply wasn’t quick enough to reach the trees before the Culpeppers caught her.
A long, wiry arm reached out and grabbed Shannon just beneath the rib cage. Darcy wasn’t strong enough to lift his struggling prize into the saddle, but he hung on no matter how hard she clawed and bit and screamed.
“Clim was right,” Darcy crowed, slowing his mule. “She’s plumb full of piss and vinegar!”
Beau grunted. It had been the extent of his conversation ever since he had learned just how fast and accurate a bullwhip could be.
“Hold still, darlin’,” Darcy said. “I’m just as ready for it as you are, but Beau gets firsts, him bein’ the oldest and all. I get thirds, so save your fightin’ till—eeeiow!”
The words ended in a cry of shock and fear as Prettyface came up on Darcy’s blind side and leaped straight for his throat.
Darcy dropped Shannon in order to protect himself. An instant later, one hundred and forty pounds of enraged dog slammed into Darcy’s shoulder. The force of the attack knocked him right out of the saddle.
Prettyface followed Darcy down, snarling and snapping the whole way.
Shannon landed on hands and knees on the other side of the mule from the fight. No sooner did she hit the ground than she was on her feet and running again. As she ran, she yelled at Prettyface to break off the attack and flee, for she knew the Culpeppers would have no mercy in them for the loyal hound.
Just as Shannon reached the forest, she glanced back. There was a snarling, swearing tangle of flesh and fur on the ground. Beau was still in the saddle. His six-gun was drawn. The barrel tracked the fight, waiting for an opening.
Inevitably, it would come.
Tears streaming down her face, her breath tearing at her lungs, Shannon raced into the forest, taking the chance Prettyface had given her to escape. And as she ran, she prayed that she could circle back up the mountainside, sneak into the cabin through the cave and grab the shotgun before it was too late to help Prettyface.
Shannon was only partway up the mountainside behind the cabin when Beau’s six-gun opened fire.
WHIP reined Sugarfoot to an abrupt halt at the edge of one of the trail’s many crossings of Avalanche Creek. The horse chewed unhappily at the bit, but was otherwise quiet.
Listening intently, motionless but for his eyes, Whip probed the shadows and forest in all directions. He neither saw nor heard anything to explain his deep unease.
“You’re imagining things,” he muttered.
Yet still he heard Shannon’s voice calling his name with every shift of the wind, every stirring of the forest, every swirl of water over rocks.
Whip, I really didn’t mean to ask for your love.
His big hands clenched into fists.
“Damn you, Shannon. You’re tying me in knots.”
I love you, yondering man.
Whip closed his eyes. His fingers were so tightly clenched that the reins cut even through his riding gloves.
“I don’t want your love,” he said through his teeth. “I don’t want to feel beholden. I can’t stay in just one place, honey girl.”
Suddenly Sugarfoot’s ears pricked and his elegant gray head whipped around to watch the trail behind him.
His rider heard the sounds, too.
Back toward Shannon’s cabin, someone had opened fire with a six-gun. Shannon didn’t own a weapon like that.
But the Culpeppers did.
Whip spun Sugarfoot around and spurred him. As the horse leaped forward, Whip checked that his repeating rifle was safe in its scabbard. There were times when a bullwhip just wouldn’t get the job done. Whip was certain this was one of those times.
Bending low over his mount’s neck, Whip urged the horse to a reckless pace. Rocks and trees raced by, but it seemed to him that he was nailed to the ground, moving at a snail’s space, slow as dawn on the longest night of winter.
He would have sold his soul to be able to reach Shannon before the Culpeppers hurt her.
Sugarfoot pounded back up the Avalanche Creek path, taking the fork in the trail at a dead run, leaping rocks and rotting logs without a break in stride. When the forest thickened again, Sugarfoot slowed just enough to be able to avoid or jump over the natural obstacles that were strewn across the trail. Small runoff channels and big boulders, freshly fallen trees and trees that had long ago fallen, all of them flashed beneath the hooves of the hardrunn
ing horse.
Whip rode Sugarfoot like a big cat, never coming loose no matter which way the horse jumped, always ready with a steady pressure on the reins to help Sugarfoot gather himself after a difficult jump.
As Sugarfoot hurtled yet another log, more shots came from up ahead. The sounds were much closer now. There was no doubt that it was a six-gun. Several six-guns, in fact.
No rifle answered.
No shotgun boomed.
“Run, you big gray bastard,” Whip said through his teeth. “Run!”
Spurs reinforced Whip’s command. Sugarfoot flattened out and gave everything he had. Nose stretched into the wind, tail streaming behind, the horse tore through the forest at a flatly dangerous speed. One misstep, one mistake, and both man and horse would go down in a tangle of broken limbs.
Whip knew it but didn’t care. In his mind was the memory of how the Culpeppers had watched Shannon with eyes that were even more lewd than their words.
And now she was at their mercy.
The trees ahead thinned, telling Whip that the meadow was immediately ahead. As much as he wanted to gallop right up to the cabin, he knew it would be stupid. He wouldn’t be much good to Shannon if he got cut down in a Culpepper crossfire.
And he had no doubt it was the Culpeppers who were after Shannon.
Whip pulled hard on the reins. Sugarfoot sat on his hocks and slid to a stop in a turmoil of dirt and forest debris. The meadow was only thirty feet ahead. Rifle in hand, bullwhip over his shoulder, Whip kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped off. He landed on his feet, running hard.
Before he reached the edge of the trees, a rope shot out of the shadows and tangled around his feet. He rolled as he fell, yanking free of the rope and regaining his balance with a feline twist of his body.
But it was already too late.
When Whip stood, he was looking right up the barrel of Floyd Culpepper’s six-gun. Whip could tell the man was Floyd because he was holding his gun in his left hand. His right wrist was wrapped tightly in rags that might have been clean once, but no longer were.
Pale blue eyes watched Whip with an expression somewhere between malice and glee.
Only Love Page 18
