THE RENEGADE AND THE HEIRESS

by Judith Duncan

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  Chapter 1

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  The weather did hold, and Wednesday morning dawned bright and clear. There was still a touch of frost hanging in the air as Finn reined his big buckskin gelding around and headed up the trail behind the barn. His dog Rooney nosed through the underbrush, his head down tracking some scent. The packhorse, all loaded down with supplies, plodded along behind him.

  If he had special-ordered it, Finn couldn't have asked for a better day to head out. Not a cloud in the sky, the air crisp and clean, aspens still cloaked in gold, the rugged countryside so beautiful it made his chest hurt. Dried fallen leaves crunched beneath Gus's freshly shod hooves as they passed through a thick stand of poplar, their passage startling a huge raven off the trail ahead. It was the kind of day where a man should be able to fill his lungs and savor being alive. But for some reason, the brightness of the day left Finn feeling even more empty than usual. For more years than he cared to remember, he'd been making this trip. And over the years, it had turned into a kind of spiritual pilgrimage—a time to think, a time to assess and evaluate, a time to try and locate some small kernel of peace within himself. But finding even a trace of that inner contentment was becoming harder and harder to do. He wasn't even sure what he hoped to find in himself anymore.

  Guiding Gus around a shale face, Finn hardened his jaw and studied the jagged gray barrier rising up in his path. Maybe he was just like those mountains. So damned hardened and dead inside, there was nothing left.

  It was a long, empty ride. By the third day out, the skies had turned dark and somber, and the wind kept changing direction. A sure sign that something ugly was building in the mountains. Finn had spent the first night and the entire second day at the first line shack, making repairs to the roof, stocking the shelves with nonperishables and chopping a supply of wood. It was a little after noon when he headed out, and by the time he reached the old tree shattered by lightning, a weather front had moved in. The sky had gotten heavier and more ominous, and the dense, heavy clouds huddled low, with the wind beginning to shift and moan.

  It was midafternoon when the first snowflakes started to spiral down, and Finn shifted in the saddle, the thick flakes catching in his eyelashes and graying the landscape. Squinting against the falling snow, he flipped up the collar of his fleece-lined coat, then turned to check on Trouper. The packhorse followed without a lead, and the piebald was plodding along behind, his gait slightly off from a crooked shoulder. The corner of Finn's mouth lifted just a little. Trouper was probably the most miserable piece of horseflesh he'd ever laid eyes on—thick neck, huge head with mulelike ears, hooves the size of dinner plates, and a thin, stubby tail.

  But in spite of all his bad conformation, Finn wouldn't have traded him for a sack of gold. Trouper was the best packhorse, bar none, that he had in his stable. He was as surefooted as a goat, had better mountain sense than most humans, and was as wily as a coyote. If Finn ever needed to get out of a bad situation, all he had to do was turn the horse around, smack him on the rump and let the big piebald lead him home.

  A smile still tugging at his mouth, Finn straightened in the saddle, angling his head against the falling snow, using the wide brim of his Stetson to keep the snow out of his eyes. He checked the underbrush, then whistled for Rooney. The dog appeared on the trail in front of him, tail wagging, his eyes bright. Rooney was mostly German shepherd, with a few other strains mixed in, and the dog loved these outings. Finn figured that between Trouper and Rooney, he had every contingency pretty much covered.

  Finn guided the buckskin around a thick knot of twisted roots, the gust of cold air funneling down around him. Pulling his collar higher, he wondered why in hell he continued to do this—to make this ride every fall. He was getting too old for this crap. And on top of his current disinclination, he did not like the low, ominous sound of the wind.

  The buckskin had to lunge up the last steep leg of the trail, and when they broke into a small clearing, Finn reined up, squinting against the whiteness as he studied the sky. The rugged landscape was nearly obscured by the falling snow, the outcroppings of granite and the trunks of trees like ghost shadows in the gloomy whiteness. An eerie silence had settled like a thick blanket, muffling even the sounds of the horse's breathing. He didn't like the feel of it, and he didn't like the way the wind kept shifting. Nor did he like the way the snow was coming down. Unless he missed his guess, there was a helluva storm brewing, and it was the kind of warning anyone who knew these mountains would never ignore. Especially when the second line shack was still a good day's ride away.

  His mount tossed his head and pulled on the reins, then dropped his head and began grazing on thin clumps of grass now coated with white. Within seconds, the gelding's black mane was thickly dusted with the big wet flakes.

  Allowing the horse his head, Finn rested his arms on the saddle horn and stared off into the distance, his expression fixed with consideration. He didn't like the look of it. Didn't like the feel of it. And it wasn't as if he had to complete the trip—and he sure as hell didn't relish getting caught out here in an early blizzard. This trip was mostly for his own peace of mind.

  He studied the scene for a moment longer, then made up his mind. The smart thing to do was turn around and head home. His decision made, he reined his mount around, giving a spoken command to the packhorse.

  Their tracks were already covered by the time he crossed the narrow draw, and Finn settled in for a long, miserable ride, the dampness like a cold, wet blanket around him.

  The snow continued to fall as Finn backtracked, the sky growing heavier and heavier. He tipped his hat lower on his head, then pulled the collar tighter around his neck and snapped it closed as he guided Gus onto the old goat trail which traversed a rocky ridge. Below was the fast moving river, the water cold and gray and dangerous. It felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees, and Finn hunched in the warmth of his coat.

  Rooney appeared from the underbrush, his brown-and-black coat dusted with white, his tail arched over his back. He sniffed along the trail, then started across the ridge, his head low, tracking some critter as he trotted ahead of Finn. Suddenly the dog stopped and cocked his ears, turning his head into the wind, his body going perfectly still. Rooney held that pose for a split second; then he dropped his head and emitted a low growl. Finn watched the dog, his expression tightening.

  Rooney was as much a legend as his master—a natural tracker and as close to human as any dog could get. He had been on more rescue missions than Finn could count, and just two months before, he'd successfully tracked a kid lost in the bush. He was no ordinary dog. And when he went on alert like that, Finn paid attention.

  Finn rode along the ledge to where Rooney was standing, then reined up, turning his mount for a clear view. His expression fixed, he let his gaze slowly drift over the scene below him. Squinting against the relentlessly falling snow, he scanned the scene again, his attention arrested by a shadow of movement on the far side of the river. His muscles tensing, he shifted his head slightly, allowing his peripheral vision to catch the movement again, then he focused on the spot. No doubt about it—someone was there, a barely visible figure stumbling through the heavy veil of falling snow.

  A cold prickle feathered along the back of his neck, and Finn narrowed his eyes. Not only should there not be anyone in that area, something was also definitely wrong. Yanking off his doeskin gloves, Finn twisted in the saddle, flipped open one saddlebag and took out the case holding his binoculars. He yanked the powerful binoculars free, then lifted them to his eyes, swearing when he couldn't locate his target through the heavily falling snow. Finally he got a fix, and he went dead still.

  The stumbling figure was a woman, dressed only in a dark green sweater and slacks, with something black wrapped around her head. And the reason she was having so much trouble keeping her feet under her was because it appeared that her hands were tied together in front of her. And even at this distance, Finn could recogn
ize fear. Jamming the binoculars back in the case, he wheeled his mount around, his voice sharp as he gave a hand signal indicating the distant figure. "Rooney. Go. Go find." He wheeled Gus around again, giving Trouper the command to stay, then he spurred the gelding toward the narrow twisting trail that led down from the ridge, his expression grim, an ugly feeling unfolding in his gut.

  It was pretty damned obvious she was on the run from something or somebody—and that was bad enough. But it was going to take him at least half an hour to get to her half an hour through falling snow and dropping temperatures, and terrain that was so dangerous it was an accident just waiting to happen. But there was no shortcut. He had to get down from the damned ridge, then fight his way through the dense bush to the old wash below and find a reasonably safe, shallow place to ford the cold, churning river.

  A series of barks signaled Rooney's movements, and Finn settled his weight in the saddle, his face even grimmer. Out of habit he loosened the rifle in the scabbard, a hard knot in his belly as he urged his horse downward, ducking to miss some low-hanging branches. It was going to be one hell of a ride. He just hoped he got her before whoever was after her did.

  Pushing his mount and his horsemanship to the limit, Finn battled his way through the rough terrain, one forbidding thought replaying in his brain. If she were to lose her bearings and stumble down the steep bank and into the river, she wouldn't stand a chance in hell. And he wouldn't stand a chance in hell of getting her out.

  Every minute seemed like an hour, and by the time he finally found a safe, shallow place to ford the churning, glacier-fed river, a good thirty minutes had passed. And by the time Gus scrambled up the bank, the snow was falling so heavily, Finn could barely make out anything.

  Breaking through a thick stand of trees on the periphery of the natural meadow, Finn squinted into the blur of white, his heart missing two solid beats when he spotted her on the ground, Rooney whining and nuzzling her head.

  Dread shooting through him, Finn pushed his mount into a gallop. Reaching her, he reined up, and he was out of the saddle before the gelding stopped moving. She was lying there, so still. So very still.

  Dropping to his knees beside her, he stripped off his gloves, his frozen breath hanging in the air as he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. He found a pulse, and a feeling of relief pumped through his chest. She had a pulse. And he could see her breath in the cold air. That at least gave him something to work with.

  Rooney whined and nuzzled her again, and Finn pushed the dog away, his voice gruff when he spoke. "Down, boy. Give me some room here."

  The figure on the ground stirred, and with a massive effort pushed herself up, the fingers on one bound hand closing around a grapefruit-sized rock on the ground. Realizing she had every intention of slugging him, Finn grasped her bound wrists, humor lifting one comer of his mouth. If she had enough juice left to slug him, she was in better shape than he expected. Muttering something, she tried to jerk free from his hold. As she gave a savage twist, the black garment on her head—the thing that looked like a black hangman's hood—slipped over her eyes, partially blinding her.

  Grasping her wrists in one hand, Finn tightened his hold, not about to take any chances with the rock. "Easy, now. Easy," he murmured quietly, then reached out and pulled the head cover off, releasing a cascade of long, wild red hair.

  Still trying to fight her way free, she gave her arms another hefty jerk, grinding out the kind of cusswords he rarely used. Half amused by her tenacity, but with one eye still on the rock she had clutched between her hands, he grasped her arms, holding her immobile. Okay. So he'd give her a minute, until she realized he was not a threat; then he would try to talk some sense into her.

  Dragging herself to her knees, she shook the curly mop of hair out of her eyes, then lifted her head and glared at him. She might as well have hit him with the rock. Finn stared at her, his pulse coming to a complete stop. He felt as if an avalanche had broken loose in his chest. With the snow falling around her like something mystical—and that cascade of fantastic hair—it was as if she were right out of some childhood fable. Snowflakes caught in her bright copper hair like perfect jewels, and the sensation in Finn's chest expanded. She was almost too much to comprehend. With her face sprinkled with freckles, and with her flashing eyes the exact color of spring moss—she reminded him of the wild Celtic warriors that were part of his Irish heritage. It was, he thought dazedly, as if a piece of ancient history had suddenly landed right in his lap.

  For an instant, it was almost as if she were transfixed like a deer caught in headlights, the undercurrent of terror paralyzing her. Then fire and fight appeared in those wide eyes, and she tried to twist free again.

  Finn tightened his hold and spoke again, his voice low and gruff. "It's okay. It's okay—I'm not going to hurt you."

  As if finally realizing it was a total stranger who was holding her, she let go of the rock, then covered her face with her bound hands, a violent reaction shuddering through her. "Oh, God. Oh, God," she whispered brokenly over and over again, her body folding into itself, as if all her strength was gone.

  It was as if her words broke Finn's own trance, and he hauled in a deep breath. Roughly snapped back to reality, he quickly brushed the snow off her hair, not wanting it to melt and leave her head wet. His expression tightened. There was something wrong—very wrong—with her eyes. They were dilated, almost as if she'd been hit on the head or heavily drugged. Recognizing the sluggishness of her movements as the onset of hypothermia, he finished brushing the snow off her, then pulled her against him, trying to shelter her with his body. Pressing her head against his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around her. "It's okay," he whispered, his voice husky. "It's okay. I've got you."

  A sob broke from her and she huddled into him, and Finn tightened his hold, trying to fold her in his own warmth. As if handling a terrified animal, he rubbed her back. His tone quiet and calm, he spoke again. "The name's Finn Donovan." Very carefully he turned her so he could get at her bound hands. "And I'm going to check you over to make sure you're not hurt anywhere. Then I'm going to get the knife off my belt, and I'm going to cut the bindings on your wrists, okay?" The only response he got was another ragged intake of air, and he pressed her head more firmly against him, giving her a little shake. "Okay? I don't want you to be scared. I'm just going to check you over, then I'm going to cut you loose."

  He knew it was a rotten thing to do, to leave her hands tied, but he didn't want to give her a chance with that damned rock again. Keeping his touch slow and light, he checked her head, looking for any bumps that might explain the glazed look in her eyes. All he found was a couple of lacerations on the back of her head and some scrapes. And the only other injuries were some deep scratches on her hands. Reaching back under his coat to retrieve the knife in the leather sheath strapped to his belt, he spoke again, using the same tone he used on a spooked horse. "I'm not going to hurt you, honey. I just need to use it to cut the bindings, okay?"

  As if the last of her strength had just deserted her, she shuddered and went slack in his arms. "Okay," she answered weakly, her voice soft and thick.

  Bringing the knife from under his coat, Finn cut the thick layers of silver duct tape binding her wrists. A strange feeling rose up in his belly when he pulled the tape away, and discovered that whoever had bound her had been in such a hurry, they had taped tightly over her watch, and her skin was purple and bruised from the pressure. His expression hardened by unexpected anger, he replaced the knife in the sheath, snapping the cover closed. Then he awkwardly removed his thick coat, trying to keep one arm around her.

  With the sheepskin lining still warm from his body heat, he wrapped it around her, tucking the collar tightly around her neck. Then as if dressing a rag doll, he stuffed her arms into the sleeves. He was a big man, and the coat enveloped her, the sleeves long enough to cover her hands.

  It was as if his tucking the coat around her broke through her shock, and she
finally realized she was truly safe. Grasping the down-filled vest he had on underneath his coat, she curled into his arms. "Oh, God, oh God," she sobbed over and over again.

  For some reason, her hanging on to him made Finn's heart hurt. Tight-faced with concern, he buttoned up the coat, tucking the folds snugly around her, then he spoke, stroking more snow from her hair. "I don't know what's going on," he said, his tone husky, "but whatever it is, I think we'd better get you out of here."

  Making sure the coat was tucked firmly around her, he scooped her up, then got to his feet. The moment he straightened with her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on, another sob breaking loose. It was as if the exposure to warmth set something off in her, and she started to shiver violently. A strange sensation climbing up his chest, Finn turned and started toward Gus, immediately recognizing two things. One: she was not a tiny little thing. And two: they were in a very bad situation. If he'd had any doubts before, he was now damned sure she was running from someone, and that alone was bad enough, especially when the clearing was so exposed. But the worst part was that they didn't have many hours of daylight left. And it was clear that she was definitely in no shape to spend a night, as had been his original plan, in a makeshift shelter. Which meant at least a three-hour ride back to the first line shack.

  As if aware of what was going on in Finn's head, Rooney remained on guard. The dog stood behind Finn and stared off across the clearing, his ears pricked, his attention fixed, as if watching for someone to appear. Knowing the dog would give him advance warning, Finn concentrated on the redhead. A funny feeling unfolded in his chest as he shifted his hold, and she immediately tightened hers. He gave himself a few seconds for the sensation to settle; then he tucked his head against hers and spoke, his throat tight. "Do you think you could stand up if you held on to old Gus here? I need to get some extra gear out of the saddlebags for you."