A rag-tag group of figures hiked downhill. The camo-outfitted posers hoping to hit an elk or deer had given up.
His focus shifted to the opposite bank.
A flash of blue stood out against dark tree trunks. His new favorite color of windbreaker was a vibrant shade of sky blue.
She’d solved one problem by lagging behind after lunch. What the hell had kept her so long inside the tree line? A nap?
His gaze travelled to where he’d watched the rest of her group move into woods below him. No sign of them.
The glasses dropped to his chest. He steadied the rifle against his shoulder while he sighted in on the female figure appearing in his powerful scope’s cross hairs.
He lowered the gun and spit on the ground. Her damn mule stayed inside the timberline, where tree trunks stood too close to risk an inaccurate shot.
The trail she rode skirted the ridge in a few hundred feet. He stowed his rifle, and nudged his horse toward a better vantage point.
“Good old horsey, calm as the ones for tourists at the beach.” He dismounted, patted his mare’s side, and then slid his Remington from the rifle scabbard.
“Well, plant girl, there’s no semi-truck or yapping dog today,” he whispered.
A breeze flipped the leaves to their lighter side. He didn’t hear their rustling. Too many shots had finally wrecked his hearing.
Didn’t need to hear to hit a target. His tight lips curled into an unaccustomed smile while he raised the gun to his shoulder, molding his eye to the cold scope, centering her in the cross hairs . . . waiting. Never point a gun at what you don’t want destroyed.
His steady trigger finger held taut, while thoughts of the kill quickened the beating of his hunter’s heart.
Chapter 6
No chatter, no piles of horse manure, and no sign of Grant or Pitch. Miranda huffed on her pink-tipped fingers.
“Five more minutes and we head home to your oats, Red.” She pulled Kenny’s old ball cap out and eased it onto her head. “Agent Morley will be relaxing by a campfire while my teeth chatter.”
Red’s ears twitched, and birds scolded back an answer from treetops.
In a few more steps, they wove into open terrain. Red stopped, swished his tail, and turned his upright ears to the wide gap ahead.
The dirt trail changed to rock, forming a cliff.
“Good eye. We ought to be able to spot a rider.” She nudged him to move forward.
He pinned his ears and kept his feet planted.
“Come on, Red. Take me to the overlook.” Her calf pushed harder into his left side. “Don’t prove you’re a mule now.”
He took a tentative step, and stopped.
“Five more feet, please?” She clicked her tongue and leaned forward.
Red shuffled onto the outcrop of flat rock, which jutted out a few feet from the path.
He stopped and pawed, launching stones into the canyon below. Where it ended, Sunrise Lake resembled a puddle.
“Crapola. We’re up too far.”
Above and to her left, taller trees dotted the top of a bluff.
No Grant, and no Pitch.
Red backed up.
“Settle, I can’t see.” She looked right, grabbed the saddle horn, and stood in the stirrups.
Sunshine shone against metal across from her. The crack of a gunshot echoed.
A powerful blow threw her backwards.
She clutched the horn. Ripping, searing pain tore into her side.
Red crow-hopped, and she scrambled to stay aboard, throwing herself forward over his neck. His hooves danced inches from the drop-off.
“Whoa!”
She threw her shoulders back, pulled the inside rein, and brought his nose toward the woods. “Go!”
Red spun around and bolted down the trail.
Another bullet bit into a tree near his head. Splinters hit her face.
Red veered to the right, toward the bluff and the shooter below.
“No!” She steered him uphill, through patches of snowbrush and brambles.
A thick branch smacked her forehead, throwing her backward. She grabbed the pommel, dropping the reins. “Whoa. Slow down.”
He ignored her and lunged on.
She grabbed a hank of Red’s mane and tightened her grip. A jolt shot into her side. She pressed into damp warmth. Blood.
Red slowed.
Fading light blurred her visibility. She twisted to look behind and gritted her teeth. Far away from the trail. So far. So lost.
On they crashed, until Red stepped over a log and into a tiny clearing. She sagged forward.
One of the dangling reins snagged in the crotch of a dead branch.
Red jerked to a stop.
“Good boy. Venom won’t find us here.” Her chest slumped over his neck, while her hands slid limply down his heaving sides.
Bone numbing tiredness overtook her fear.
The mule lowered his front legs and then his hind end.
“Thank you, Red,” she whispered, and let her body roll to the ground.
Dampness seeped through her jeans. She shivered, struggling to keep her eyes open.
Have to get away.
Her palm sank into soft earth. She raised her elbow, but her arm buckled. Her cheek landed on moist leaves.
Flicks of silvery light didn’t brighten the forest. Dark to black.
She’d die cowgirl style—with a mule, on a mountain, from a gunshot wound.
No one would ever find her.
~ ~ ~
Grant zipped his down vest and pulled on his Carhartt jacket.
He looked over his shoulder. The setting sun dropped the temperature from brisk to Montana chilly in a few heartbeats.
No hunters below and no more gunshots echoing over the valley.
He’d ridden the same route his whole life, but this trip seemed longer. Didn’t matter. He’d do the drop and head back.
Brasso snorted, and lumbered up a slight rise in the narrow trail.
A distinct whinny-bray of a mule erupted from behind an outgrowth of choke cherry bushes.
His two pack mules brayed in response.
Hairs on the back of Grant’s neck lifted. He stared into shadowed forest, while his hand shot to his hip holster. The Glock grip pressed into his fingers. “Who’s there?”
Pawing permeated the brief quiet between brays.
“Whoa, Brasso.”
An outline of a saddled mule bobbing his head came in and out of view. He stretched his neck, restrained by the bridle.
The rope holding the pack animals dug into his thigh. “Relax, jennies.”
The other mule spotted him, bared his teeth, and issued another ear-piercing command.
“Okay, I get it. You’re caught.” Grant shoved the gun back and tied Brasso to a tree trunk. He picked his way in dim light toward the wide-eyed animal.
A dark blotchy streak flowed across the mule’s shoulder.
“Easy, big guy.” Grant ran his hands over its withers and onto its rump, which displayed his cousin’s familiar brand.
The hide had a few scratches, but no gashes or scrapes. He freed the rein from the branch and turned to lead him out.
The mule grabbed the shoulder of his jacket with his teeth and pulled him backward.
“Hey there,” Grant growled, and spun around.
In the shadow of a low hanging branch, a person in a blue jacket lay curled on their side.
He skirted the mule and knelt down. “Are you okay?” A long braid hung down her shoulder. He pushed it back and pressed his finger to her carotid artery. A steady beat thumped in her neck.
Red scratches crisscrossed her pale cheeks. A lump bulged above o
ne eye.
He leaned closer and furrowed his brow, then rolled her over.
The coppery smell of fresh blood tainted the air.
Her eyes remained closed while he lifted her blood-soaked shirt.
“I need to check your injury,” he said.
A ragged flap of skin covered raw flesh on her side. Dark residue indicated a bullet wound, luckily shallow.
She wasn’t dressed in camo.
“Judas Priest,” he muttered. His jaw clenched.
He squinted into the dense forest and put his fist down to balance on warm ground next to her.
“You’re a smart mule. Laid down by her didn’t you?” He patted the mule’s muzzle hanging over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve stitched up worse dings in trainings.”
Grant took off his coat and wrapped it around her body. Placing one hand under her legs, he lifted her and pulled her to his chest.
The mule’s head remained by his shoulder while he headed back to the trail.
“Damn idiot hunters. Elk don’t wear bright blue.” He dodged a low branch. “Who’s the idiot? I’m talking to a mule.”
He shifted her head to the crook of his arm and pulled her close to step over a log.
His eyes widened. Broken nose, auburn braid . . . he studied her lanky body.
He’d cleared the log, but his boot caught on brambles, pitching them forward. His heart drummed while he lumbered from tree to tree until he spotted a mule’s ears rising above a dense thicket.
No whinnies or snorts from the animals.
He panned the area and then tied her mule to the end jenny. Brasso flipped his head, his nostrils flaring at the scent of blood.
“Easy boy,” he crooned to his dancing horse. “She needs our help. If you ever pay attention, now would—”
Her mule nickered, and Brasso stood still.
“Good boy,” he soothed.
He rubbed his cheek. How to mount a horse balancing another hundred plus pounds?
Shifting her to hang over his shoulder rotated her long legs to lie against his chest. Legs he’d admired more than once. Get back in the saddle, Morley. One giant jump squat should work. Then what?
They’d passed a flat-topped boulder on the trail, which meant another twenty minutes to the cabin and supplies. Ride downhill?
Too dark and Stan wouldn’t wait.
No options.
With her weight centered on his left shoulder, he pinned her to his chest with his right arm.
He grabbed the reins and a section of Brasso’s mane, put his left foot in the stirrup, crouched, and leapt into the saddle.
He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Good boy, Brasso.” He shifted her butt to sit crosswise on his lap and gathered the lead line.
Dark red stained his leather glove. The Winchester groaned while he raised it a bit out of its scabbard. He unsnapped the cover on his hip holster.
He’d be on his own to find the cabin in the dark, toting an injured woman. Sweat beaded on his brow. Damn roof accident of Dad’s.
No. Your bad, Morley. Should’ve been home to help. “Walk on, Brasso.”
Her head swayed to each plodding step.
A hoof cracked a branch. Her eyelids never fluttered.
His muscles remained tightened to full alert. Nervous because she’d been shot on the mountain he considered his back yard?
No.
Deeper, darker.
Killers roamed near Emma Springs.
The reins compressed in his grip.
An owl hooted. Shadows lengthened into eerie fingers over the path.
The owl’s second hoot boomed.
Grant’s head jerked skyward, toward the night hunter staking his turf.
A glowing moon rose in an indigo sky.
“Pick it up, Brasso.” He squeezed the animal’s flanks.
Thirty feet ahead, a mountain juniper grew at an odd slant.
His grip relaxed.
First time he’d trekked the mountain alongside his dad, he’d heard the tale of how a giant used his foot to tip the shrub and mark the entry to their hidden cabin.
Grant nudged Brasso onto the narrow side trail. He adjusted his hold to protect her injured side.
Branches brushed his cheek while they wound through a stand of pine trees.
The path led to a small clearing. The moon popped out from behind the clouds, exposing the steep-sided rock wall guarding Mt. Hanlen’s summit.
At this side of its base sat the huge cave his great-grandfather had discovered. He’d fashioned it into their cabin, the back having stone for walls, the front built in weathered wood, a perfect blend of man and mountain.
Last year he and dad had caulked the seam where the wood met the rock on the outside. Tonight, the interior should heat quicker.
And she needed heat. “Hold on, we’re close.” He shifted her in his arms, longing for a head nod, a mumble, anything.
None came.
A fancy jeweled neck slide dangled from her shirt. Even in near dark, it shouted bucks. Her scuffed boots and faded jeans didn’t.
Had she worked late in the lobby as the hitman’s lookout, or simply been an innocent bystander?
What in hell brought her here?
Every move he took felt like sliding a foot along a tightrope strung over the Grand Canyon.
~ ~ ~
Miranda struggled through a thick, hazy fog.
Another sizzling pop broke the stillness.
An ache centered in her side. Dim light came into her focus.
Scents of musky smoke and pine startled her awake. She pushed up on one elbow, wincing, and scoped an unfamiliar room.
A few feet away sat an unshaven man wearing a cowboy hat low on his brow. His chair skidded across rough planks while he pushed it to the edge of her bed. He continued staring at her.
A fire blazed behind him, shining onto the open neck of his shirt.
No tattoo.
She said a silent prayer of thanks, met the stranger’s piercing hazel eyes, and recognized his square jaw and wide shoulders. Relief washed over her. “Grant,” she sighed.
“Why’d you follow me, Miss Whitley?” he demanded.
She studied his tense face and narrowed, accusing eyes. “Did they shoot at you, too? We’ve got to leave, we’re in danger.” She grabbed for his wrist. Pain pierced her side.
“I’ll protect us.” He pushed her hand back to the edge of the bed.
“I know.” She smiled weakly.
“You’re a long way from the Langley’s trail ride.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I stitched your flesh wound and put arnica on your temple. Your jeans are drying by the fire. What happened?” he persisted.
She blinked and looked down at her chest, covered by someone’s loose T-shirt. Her shaky fingers tugged down the hem to mid-thigh. “Last I remember, I’d hit cold, wet ground. Is Red okay?”
“Who’s Red?” The sinews of his neck stiffened.
A log sputtered and tumbled off the grate and onto the wooden floor.
He turned his broad back to her and jabbed it with an iron poker.
Angry? Why? Her head ached. Wait a minute, had she given him her name? How’d he know about the Langleys?
Her eyes darted from him to a sloped rock wall to her left, which trapped her in bed like a butterfly pinned to a board. A half-clothed butterfly.
The fire grew uncomfortably hot. “Red’s the mule.”
He turned back to face her. “I left you in Seattle and found you in the middle of the woods. Why?”
Where were they? She avoided his glare. A tiny cabin?
The recessed fireplace dominated another rock wall behind the headboard. Th
e rest of the small room was open, and mostly wood.
“I got lost on the trail.”
“Before. Tell me exactly what happened so I can evaluate the situation.” The air crackled from the burning logs and his distrust.
What about the shooter? Why’d he keep interrogating her as if she’d committed a crime?
She raised her chin and met his eyes. “I’m vacationing at a dude ranch. We’d gone on a trail ride . . . I got separated and stopped on an outcrop to see better when I got shot.”
His expression never changed. No shock, no sympathy, and no acknowledgment of her plight. “Did you see the shooter?” he asked.
Had she made another deadly decision Friday night? Agent Morley had told her to go home, too.
Trust no one, Shirley’s warning.
~ ~ ~
The Whitley woman appeared too nervous for being rescued in the woods. Grant mentally erased reactions from his face while he sat back in his chair.
Images of creamy soft skin in firelight while he’d dressed her in his undershirt danced in his mind. Nothing inappropriate, but his body remembered all too well tugging off her wet jeans and skimming those lace trimmed panties.
He filed his fingertips across two days growth of rough stubble on his cheeks. Greenhorn guests weren’t allowed to wander off by themselves on a trail ride. He’d called the Langley’s earlier, and they’d been gearing up to search for her.
Impulsive or deceitful? She’d ignored him long enough. “Did you see the shooter?”
She cleared her throat. “Ahh. No.”
Hesitation indicated numerous things in his line of work, none of them endearing him to the woman. Damn, the lump on her forehead had darkened in color. “If you have a bad headache, or nausea, tell me.”
Her eyes darted around the room again like a cornered rat.
Not symptomatic to a concussion. “How’d you pick Emma Springs? Twenty-four hours ago, I would’ve guessed you didn’t know the town existed.”
“I Googled it.” She touched her temple before she pulled the covers to her neck. She patted her throat. Dismay crossed her face.
The Hitman's Mistake (Love Thrives in Emma Springs Book 1) Page 9
