A Kiss in the Shadows

by Marie Patrick

He watched her as she gingerly touched the handle of the coffeepot with her long, slender fingers before deciding it wasn’t too hot, then poured the steaming liquid, filling the cup to the brim. He almost grinned with anticipation. Wait until she tasted the bitter brew, so different from the cup she had poured him earlier. He’d never been known to make good coffee.

  She never stopped speaking though, her voice hoarse as if her throat stayed full of gravel all the time. “I don’t know why, but I can only assume he hurt you in some way. Or hurt your family. Perhaps, like me, he killed those you loved.” She rose to her full height, her long legs, encased in tan buckskin trousers, slightly apart. Her shoulders were back, her head held high. He recognized the look in her eyes immediately. She was persistent and single-minded.

  “I am the same. Determined and stubborn. With or without your help, I will find Zebulon Logan and bring him to justice. My kind of justice.” She didn’t make a face as she sipped the bitter coffee, which surprised him. Sometimes he made a face, and he made the brew himself. Instead, her gaze rested on him over the rim of the cup, sizing him up, showing him in the stiffness of her stance, in the steadiness of her gaze, she meant what she said.

  Brock smirked. Despite the fact that he never wanted to be responsible for another human being and didn’t want to break his own rules, he liked her. Liked her bravado. Her audacity. She had gumption and guts. “Not unless I find him first.”

  “I’m not here to fight with you, MacDermott. I just think we could work well together.” She took another sip of coffee, her eyes never leaving his face. “Wouldn’t working together be better than tripping over each other? Ask yourself what’s more important—bringing Logan in alone or just bringing him in?”

  Her gaze remained steady. She didn’t blink or dart her eyes to look at something else, and in that moment, the expression on her face, the intensity of her stare, touched him deep down in places he didn’t want to acknowledge. He felt himself wavering, the rules by which he lived his life falling by the wayside as the decision came to him. Regardless of whether he honored her request or denied her once more, Stevie Rae Buchanan was not about to give up. Better to keep her close than to risk her stumbling into his capture of Zeb Logan.

  “All right, you can ride with me, but there are rules, Stevie Rae. When I give an order, I expect you to listen.” He drew closer to her, not more than a foot of space between them. The light scent of honeysuckle rose above the perfume of the pine trees around them and assailed his nose. He shook his head to clear it.

  “Thank you.”

  Brock wasn’t sure what he expected—more gratitude, perhaps?—but it wasn’t the simple “thank you” that fell from her lips, nor the shadow of sadness that fell over her face. She had gotten what she wanted but didn’t seem happy about it at all.

  But then, why would she be?

  Chasing after a wanted killer was not what a woman should be doing. She was young—and beautiful. She should be dancing and socializing, flirting with young men like other women her age. Or married with a passel of children hanging on her skirts. She should be dressed like a lady instead of in the tight-fitting buckskin trousers and faded shirt she wore, wearing fancy hats instead of the beat-up one perched on her head, her blond hair curled into bouncing ringlets.

  And for a split second in time, with the scent of honeysuckle and pine all around him, he saw her that way, her arms around him as they danced a waltz, the bell of her skirts brushing against his legs as they swirled around the dance floor. He even felt the softness of her velvet gown beneath his fingers, the softness of her as he held her close.

  Startled by the image in his head, he blinked and finally tore his gaze away from her. Where in the hell did that come from?

  “I was just about to make something for supper.” He needed a distraction, any distraction, and food was as good as any other.

  “Let me.” She turned away from him then, her long ponytail curling down her back, and strode to the pack mule. Untying one of the sacks from the mule’s back, she proceeded to pull out two cast-iron skillets, several tins, two little sacks, and a small white paper package tied with string. “I’ll prove to you that taking me along won’t be a hardship.”

  Brock said nothing as he leaned against one of the boulders that made up his campsite and watched as she set to work, her movements methodical and efficient. She untied the white string holding the paper package together and began to cut up chunks of smoked beef into one of the skillets with a knife she pulled from her pocket. Opening one of the tin cans, she dumped the vegetables on top of the beef and placed the pan on the coals.

  Stevie Rae remained silent as she worked. He stayed silent, too, as he watched, fascinated by the economy of her movements. A lock of honey blond hair slipped from beneath her hat and dangled in her face, wavering in the breeze. Brock had a sudden impulse to tuck that errant tress behind her ear, but he forced himself to remain against the rock.

  Into the other skillet, she dumped a tin can of sliced apples in a brown syrup, added what he thought was oatmeal and several other ingredients, and mixed it well before placing the lid on top and resting the pan on the hot coals of the fire. His gaze remained on her as she placed some of the coals on top of the skillet’s lid using a pair of tongs she’d pulled from the sack, before she turned her attention back to the other pan, the contents of which had started to bubble merrily. And she made a fresh pot of coffee, too, dumping the last of the bitter stuff he made.

  After a while, the smell of food tickled the emptiness in his belly, tempting him to move closer to the fire.

  “It’s ready.”

  He didn’t waste any time. Darkness shrouded the campsite, the glow of the fire the only light. He sat next to her and they shared the beef stew from the same skillet. He’d been prepared to eat a tin of cold beans, but this was too good to interrupt with talking, although, in truth, he never spoke much anyway. And the apple concoction? Her version of apple cobbler left his mouth filled with the tart sweetness and just a taste of cinnamon.

  In fact, the meal filled the hole in his stomach quite nicely. Perhaps having her along wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.

  • • •

  As Stevie Rae cleaned the skillets and put them away, she smiled a little to herself. The first part of her plan had gone wonderfully, although for a moment or two, when she first approached him, she thought he’d shoot first and ask questions later.

  She removed the bedroll from Whiskey Pete’s back, untied the strings holding it together, then smoothed the heavy blankets on the ground near the fire before settling on top of them with a sigh. Sitting with her legs crossed, she removed her hat and pulled the leather strap holding her hair back. She finger-combed the long, curling mass into some semblance of order—all under his intent stare.

  What is he thinking?

  Finally, his gaze left her and he placed several more logs on the fire. She couldn’t quite take her eyes from him as he stretched out on his own bedroll, his back propped up against his saddle. When she first saw him, she thought he was handsome. Now, as he sat across from her, the firelight dancing on his stern features, she revised her opinion. Yes, he was quite possibly the most handsome man she’d ever seen, bar none—not even Lucas matched the granite set of his features nor his piercing eyes—but there was more to him than just good looks.

  She asked herself what drove him. What made him ride from town to town in search of one man?

  He didn’t speak as he pulled a pipe and pouch of tobacco from his saddlebag and tamped the tobacco into the bowl. Taking a small stick from the fire, the end burning brightly, he touched the flame to the tobacco and puffed the pipe alight. The aroma of the fine blend mixed with the pervasive scent of the pine trees and the wood smoke of the fire brought a memory she didn’t want. Her father had smoked a pipe. It had been a constant part of Steven Buchanan, clenched between his teeth more often than not. The aroma of the tobacco permeated everything he owned. Even when money was
tight, he always made sure he had a pouch of tobacco. She still had the meerschaum pipe wrapped in a square of burlap tucked it into her saddlebag along with his pocket watch, the only things left of the man who had loved her unconditionally.

  She cleared her throat, swallowing against the sudden, unbidden lump rising there. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  “Got nothing to say.” Smoke wreathed his head and his teeth clamped harder on the stem of the pipe.

  She ignored his terse reply and asked, “Why do you hunt Zeb Logan? What did he do to you?”

  “That’s my business, don’t you think?”

  “I told you what he did to me.” Though her tone was flat, she couldn’t help the hopefulness that had snuck into it.

  He stared at her, the firelight reflecting on his face, and his eyes, those sharp shards of granite, glittered. With pain? With sadness? After a few minutes of silence, he removed the pipe from his mouth and said, “Let’s just say he needs to be brought to justice.”

  “So that’s it? You have nothing personal at stake here? You just want to collect the bounty and nothing more?”

  The pipe stem went back in mouth, his jaw tightening as he clamped the stem between his teeth once more. He fished a silver flask from his saddlebag, started to unscrew the top, but changed his mind and put it back. Through it all, his intent stare never left her face. Finally, after what seemed like hours instead of minutes, when Stevie Rae began to squirm under the scrutiny of that glare, he said, “Look, kid, it’s none of your business if I’m here to collect a bounty or why I want him. Just be thankful I’m letting you tag along.”

  She said nothing, but she could have-- the words were just sitting on the tip of her tongue. She should be thankful? Heck, she didn't need him. She could just as easily find Logan on her own. Yet, she hadn’t been able to for the past four months, four long months. Then again, Stevie pondered, Brock hadn’t been able to find the man in more time than that.

  “I suggest you get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

  Stevie Rae removed her boots and crawled between the blankets, not because he suggested it, but because she was tired.

  Brock dumped the ashes from his pipe into the hot coals of the fire and tucked the pipe into his saddlebag. She didn’t say good night, simply turned on her side and closed her eyes, but she heard him settle down into his own bedroll on the other side of the fire and she let out an easy breath for the first time in months.

  Chapter 4

  Have I lost my ever-loving mind?

  Not for the first time, the question chased through Brock’s brain.

  He hadn’t slept…at least, he hadn’t slept for very long or very well. The nightmare, the one that had haunted him for eighteen long months, but which had blessedly been absent for the better part of a week, chose this night to disturb him once again. This time, though, instead of seeing his sister-in-law’s face, he saw Stevie Rae’s, her marvelous blue eyes wide open but unseeing, just as Mary’s had been.

  He’d woken with a start and a curse on his lips and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep—didn’t want to go back to sleep and chance seeing that awful image once again. He cracked open one eye and studied Stevie Rae wrapped in blankets, sleeping on the other side of the campfire, which had long since dwindled to glowing coals.

  What had possessed him to say she could accompany him? What about her made him break his rules? She had valid reasons for wanting to go after Logan, and granted, she was a heck of a cook, but letting her accompany him was a bad idea all around. Hunting a man as dangerous and unpredictable as Zeb Logan wasn’t a job for a woman, especially not that woman, and the last thing he needed or wanted was to be responsible for another person’s safety. He had failed once. And once was more than enough.

  He rolled onto his back. The moon, big and beautiful, seemed to hang suspended over the edge of the earth to the west. To the east, the faint glimmer of daylight marked the coming of a new day.

  He had perhaps another thirty minutes or so before dawn broke. Better to leave her now rather than later.

  Decision made, he moved with the silence of a cat, slipped out of his bedroll, and pulled on his boots after shaking them out to make sure nothing had crawled into them while he slept, then quickly rolled up his blankets and attached them to the saddle that had served as his pillow for the night. He grabbed the coffeepot from the rocks surrounding the fire pit, dumped the dregs of the coffee, then tucked the pot between the blankets of his bedroll. With an economy of motion, he lifted the saddle, placed it on the horse’s back, adjusted the cinches, and glanced behind him.

  Stevie Rae hadn’t awakened to catch him in the act of leaving.

  The blankets covered her up to her neck, leaving her head exposed, her silky blond hair shimmering in the glow of fading moonlight. She slept peacefully, her face, the little bit he could see through the heavy fall of her hair, serene and lovely.

  He whispered an apology as he untied Resolute’s reins and led the horse away from the camp, knowing the thick carpet of pine needles on the ground would muffle any sound.

  Brock MacDermott had never considered himself a coward, but as he settled himself in the saddle, the truth emerged—perhaps he was becoming one. Why else would he have snuck out of camp without waking her? He’d faced scores of dangerous men—men who would kill rather than look at him—and never once had he been afraid. But he just couldn’t face Stevie Rae Buchanan. He didn’t want to see tears fill her eyes when he told her he’d changed his mind. Did that make him a coward? Possibly.

  • • •

  The twittering of birds woke Stevie Rae from a sound sleep, the best one she’d had in months. She opened her eyes and stared at the canopy of tree limbs over her head, then stretched, ready to find Zeb Logan and end his miserable life.

  Aside from the birdsong, the camp was eerily quiet. She rolled to her side and scanned her surroundings.

  Damn!

  He’d left her.

  As she sprang to her feet, the blankets tumbled to the ground, and the chill of morning touched her through her clothing. She whirled around in the direction of the horses and heaved a sigh of relief. Willow and Whiskey Pete were still there, reins tied to the low branch, but his horse was gone. In fact, looking around, there was no proof MacDermott had been there at all. Even the fire had died to nothing but ash.

  “Son of a…biscuit eater!” The birds scattered and Whiskey Pete brayed at the sound of her voice. “If he thinks I’m giving up, he’s mistaken.”

  She glanced around the empty camp one more time, torn between the desire to cry and the desire to punch MacDermott in the belly. The longing to do him bodily harm won out. She took a deep breath through gritted teeth, shook out her boots, then stuffed her feet into them and gathered up the blankets of her bedroll, securing the heavy quilts to Whiskey Pete’s back. Within minutes, without the benefit of coffee, without even bothering to wash her face, brush her teeth, or empty her full bladder, she climbed into Willow’s saddle and nudged his sides with her knees. She’d find MacDermott and give him a piece of her mind and then…then she’d find Zeb Logan without his help.

  Not knowing which direction he’d taken—he could have headed back to Little River, but that was unlikely—she headed toward the stream and turned north. It’s the way she would have gone and made complete sense to her. Whether or not he had that sense remained to be seen. Willow’s hooves splashing up water, Whiskey Pete’s plaintive braying disrupting the peace of the morning, she rode deeper into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

  Stevie Rae had always loved these mountains, especially this time of year. Though April had brought warmer weather, patches of snow still remained on the ground. Tender shoots of green burst through the covering of white—new grass and flowers growing beneath the snow. In another few weeks, the landscape would be teeming with color as those flowers bloomed, and yet, at this moment, she hardly noticed. And she cared even less. Her thoughts were focused on one thing—well, two t
hings—first finding MacDermott so she could give him a piece of her mind, then finding Logan.

  A rustling in the trees drew her attention and she tugged on the reins, bringing her horse to a halt. Was it the wind stirring the sweeping branches of the pine trees? Or something else? Her mouth went dry and she shivered beneath the duster she wore as she studied her surroundings.

  There were bears here. And mountain lions, too. Once, long ago, when she assisted her father as he practiced medicine, Stevie Rae had seen what a mountain lion could do to a man, if he survived the attack. She’d never forgotten, nor did she ever want to see that again.

  Every muscle in her body tense, her eyes focused on her surroundings, she reached for the shotgun resting in its fitted slot on the saddle.

  Willow shifted nervously beneath her. Did she smell something? Sense something in the air? She glanced at Whiskey Pete behind her, but the mule seemed unconcerned. His ears twitched, but that was all. Her gaze returned to the forest of trees, the path ahead of her, and the possibility something lurked within the shadows of the branches.

  How long she stayed in this position, muscles taut and slightly trembling, shotgun resting in her arms, she had no idea. Time didn’t seem to matter as she heard the distinct yowl of a puma on the prowl. She only hoped he wasn’t on the prowl for her. Or for MacDermott. Both of them—as well as their traveling companions—would make a tasty meal.

  Another snarl startled her and she tensed even more, but willed herself to stay still. She squeezed her knees against Willow’s body, signaling the horse to stay still as well. No sense in drawing attention to themselves. Movement would just make them an easier target for the big cat.

  In the mountains, sound traveled and became deceptive and she couldn’t tell from which direction the cougar hunted, but his yowls seemed to be moving farther away from her. Stevie Rae let out her breath in a huff. She wouldn’t be the predator’s breakfast, at least not yet, but her unease stayed with her. Moving the rifle onto her lap, she urged Willow forward.