The Ranger. Carol Finch
Shiloh surveyed her surroundings. They were tucked inside a cave, protected from the pursuing gunmen and inclement weather. She was stuck with this man, she realized uneasily. She was unsure of his intentions toward her, but she had the unshakable feeling that they weren’t honorable. She had every reason to be wary of him.
“Brace up, sister,” he said as he hovered over her. “I’m going to cleanse the wound again before I bandage it.”
Shiloh bit back a shriek and panted for breath when he dribbled whiskey on her upper arm. She instinctively tried to snatch her arm away from him again, but he held it fast.
“Looks worse than it is,” he assured her. “Your arm will be stiff and sore for a few days, but we’ll keep a close eye on it so it doesn’t get infected.”
Shiloh blinked, bemused. It suddenly hit her like a rockslide that this man, who looked every bit the renegade in full regalia and spoke an Indian dialect, also had an impressive command of English. Earlier, she’d been too busy fighting for her life to register that fact. Getting shot had demanded most of her attention.
She frowned warily as he pulled a tin of ointment from one of the saddlebags. “Who are you?”
“Logan Hawk.” He smoothed the salve on her pulsing arm.
Shiloh sighed as a cool, numbing sensation overrode the fiery pain. “What is that stuff? It works incredibly well.”
“Old Indian remedy.” He fished out several strips of fabric to wrap around her arm. “So, what’s your name, sister?”
Shiloh refused to trust this man, even if he was tending her wound. Furthermore, she was never going to trust any man, with the exception of her brothers—unless they tried to marry her off again. But if her captor thought that being civil and helpful would gain her confidence then he thought wrong. She wasn’t about to give her real name so he could hold her for ransom, after he ravished her repeatedly, while keeping her hostage in this isolated cavern.
“Bernice Colbert,” she lied, borrowing her cousin’s name.
She averted her gaze to watch him bandage her arm. For a man who looked rough and tough she was astonished by his gentleness. He was an intriguing contradiction….
No, he isn’t! When she felt herself softening toward the ruggedly handsome stranger, she redoubled her defenses. She had recently discovered that she was a lousy judge of men. She had a broken heart to show for it. Plus, she had been carrying around this heaping load of demoralizing shame. This unexpected encounter with this puzzling renegade wasn’t going to deter her from holding all men everywhere in low regard.
Logan Hawk eyed her for a long pensive moment, nodded approvingly then said, “Smart lady. Never divulge your real name to a stranger. You aren’t Bernice, are you?”
The man seemed to be a mental step ahead of her. That wasn’t good because she was in a vulnerable situation. She suspected Logan Hawk was a wily con artist who had perfected the tricks of his trade. He made all the right noises in his attempt to gain her trust so she’d lower her guard.
But she wasn’t falling into that trap again—ever.
“Look, Mr. Hawk—”
“Just Hawk will be fine,” he inserted.
“If that’s who you really are,” she said suspiciously. And if she was quick to assume an alias then he might be doing the same thing. “Why don’t you save us both the trouble and tell me exactly what expectations you have here.”
He frowned, befuddled. “Expectations?”
She stared pointedly at her carpetbag that lay atop several leather saddlebags. “By now you have rummaged through my belongings to see that I’m not carrying much cash and no identification and a single-shot derringer, which I’m sure you confiscated.” She watched a wry smile purse his full lips—and she resented the way his amused expression affected her. “So you aren’t sure how much profit you can make from our unexpected encounter. Until you figure it out you’re putting on your party manners to try to earn my trust. But you might as well know right off that it won’t work.”
He sank down cross-legged beside her. A hint of a smile still quirked his lips. “So my limited amount of charm isn’t going to win you over, is that what you’re saying?”
She nodded her wet head. “That’s precisely what I’m saying, Mr. Hawk.”
“I see.” He stroked his stubbled chin pensively. “So you think I should save myself the trouble and just dispose of you so you won’t slow me down while I’m making my fast getaway from the desperadoes.”
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” she grumbled, and then fidgeted apprehensively.
“I didn’t think so.” He hitched his thumb toward the mouth of the cave where rain poured down in torrents, forming a curtain of water that sealed them off from the outside world. She noticed his dark eyes dancing with devilry as he stared down at her. “But if I do decide to give you a shove off the ledge because you’re more trouble than you’re worth no one will be the wiser. Whoever happens onto your battered body will think this nasty weather caused your fall.”
Shiloh swallowed uneasily as she followed his gaze to the opening of the cavern. Maybe putting ideas in his head wasn’t the best approach. But simpering, whining and begging weren’t her forte. Raised by two older brothers, she had taught herself to be mentally tough and to stand up to them. She never kowtowed to men and she wasn’t about to start now.
She suddenly became aware that Hawk had seen to her comfort by placing her on the padded bedroll. He’d covered her up with the quilt that had been strapped to her horse.
Damn it, why was it taking so long for thoughts and observations to register in her mind? Obviously the incident that had thrust them together—and had left her in uncertain danger—rattled her.
He thrust a piece of pemmican at her. “You’re probably hungry. This is all I have to offer, Bernice,” he said with a knowing grin. “If you’ll do me the courtesy of turning sideways I’d like to shed these wet buckskins.”
Her eyes flew wide open in alarm. “You are going to disrobe in front of me?” she squawked, her voice two octaves higher than normal.
He rose to his feet with the graceful ease of a mountain cat then shrugged casually. “I planned to undress behind your back, but that’s really up to you. If you want to watch—”
“I certainly do not want to watch!” she loudly objected.
Shiloh glared at her taunting captor when he jerked the soggy fringed shirt over his head. The sight of his rippling muscles and his washboard belly had her struggling to breathe normally. Damn the man, he knew exactly how physically appealing he was. She cursed her feminine curiosity for conspiring against her, making her appraise every masculine inch of exposed skin.
Scowling at the ornery devil, Shiloh rolled onto her side and presented her back. She definitely disliked Logan Hawk. No matter what his secret agenda, he was comfortable with his masculinity. He also seemed to delight in ruffling her feathers for sport.
Blast it, she couldn’t figure out this man. One moment he seemed a dangerous threat and the next instant he was playfully teasing her. His unpredictability made it impossible to guess what he planned to do next.
“You can look now,” Hawk prompted a few minutes later.
She twisted around and blinked in surprise as she surveyed his dark breeches, shirt and vest. He had unbraided his long hair and tied it at the nape of his neck. But this more civilized veneer didn’t fool Shiloh one bit. She had witnessed Hawk’s daredevil escape from the desperadoes. She presumed he was at least part Indian, judging by his bronzed skin, high cheekbones, onyx eyes and raven-black hair. He was also an exceptionally skilled rider and capable frontiersman—as well as being about as far from a refined gentleman as he could get. Oddly enough, that was a point in Hawk’s favor—after her disappointing dealings with Antoine