The Ranger. Carol Finch
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 Troudeau.
He was responsible for her loss of humor, her faith in men and her self-confidence. She also questioned her desirability and appeal as a woman now. Shiloh had his duplicity and deceit to thank for that, damn him!
“Not that I mind you parading around in your skimpy garb,” he remarked, “but I recommend that you get dressed, too. This cave is cool and damp. You don’t need to catch a chill while nursing a bullet wound. By the way, I’m sorry you got in the way of a shot that was meant for me.”
He smiled apologetically and she hated that she was enormously affected by the expression that crinkled his eyes and cut dimples in his stubbled cheeks. She needed to remain on constant alert because men were untrustworthy scoundrels—especially one who took her captive. Yet, there was something about his matter-of-fact manner and sometimes impersonal demeanor that put her at ease. He was nothing like the pretentious aristocrats she’d met in New Orleans.
When he presented his back so she could dress, she reached into her carpetbag for the one and only set of dry clothes she had with her. She darted a wary glance at Hawk at irregular intervals while she shed her chemise then fastened herself into her blouse and riding breeches.
The fact that he made no attempt to pounce while she was dressing was another point in his favor. But Shiloh reminded herself that, given their unconventional introduction and this potentially dangerous situation, the jury was still out on Logan Hawk.
Friend or foe, she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to let her guard down for a single moment until she knew for certain.
Her thoughts scattered and suspicion settled solidly in her mind when she accidentally knocked one of the saddlebags sideways. It toppled from the pile and several banded stacks of bank notes tumbled onto the stone floor.
Her eyes rounded, realizing he was a thief! One who was obviously very good with disguises and impersonations. He was a shyster and scoundrel and she was a fool if she lowered her guard around him.
“You stole this stolen money from your cohorts,” she accused harshly. “Is that why they were shooting at you?” She cursed sourly as she gestured toward her left arm. “It is unfortunate that I was wounded when your vindictive friends were trying to fill you full of lead.”
Self-preservation demanded that she bolt to her feet and dart to safety. But the abrupt movement caused her head to spin and she swayed on her feet. When he tried to steady her, she hatchet-chopped his wrist until he let loose.
“If you plan to dispose of me eventually, then I’m not leaving the how and when up to you,” she snapped as she stamped forward. “If you’re going to shoot me then you might as well do it now.”
“Hold up, Bernice,” he called after her. “You’ve got the wrong idea here.” When she continued toward the mouth of the cave he scowled then came after her. “I know this looks bad—”
“I’ll say it does.” Again, she jerked her arm from his restraining grasp. “You’re a bandit and you’re no better than those men who were shooting at us.”
Hawk hooked his arm around her waist before she could burst through the curtain of rain. He gestured toward the pallet. “Go sit down and I’ll make us some coffee before I explain what’s going on.”
She tilted her chin rebelliously and squirmed for release. “I’m not thirsty. You can explain here and now.”
He bit back a grin when she flashed him one of those this-better-be-good glares. He set her to her feet, and—keeping a firm hold on her so she didn’t do something rash—he heeled-and-toed out of his left boot. When he showed her the badge concealed inside the hollow heel, she gaped at him. He extended the silver star for closer inspection.
Her luminous green eyes popped, then narrowed doubtfully. “A Texas Ranger?” She scoffed caustically. “Of course, you are. That’s why your friends are after you for stealing their loot. I’d hate to venture a guess as to what happened to the unfortunate lawman that you stole this badge from.”
When she tried to dart past him again on her way into the downpour, Hawk jerked her back beside him. “You aren’t going anywhere until I know for certain that the bandits aren’t out there, waiting to pick us off. If you want to get yourself killed—and obviously you do because you were paddling around alone in the river, miles from the protection of civilization—then that’s your business, lady. But I’m on assignment.” He tapped his chest. “I’m not about to jeopardize my mission because you don’t believe I’m who and what I say I am.”
He made a stabbing gesture toward the pallet. “Now…sit…down…damn it,” he said slowly and succinctly. “I’m going to make coffee.” He turned her toward the interior of the cave. “You won’t accomplish a damn thing by going outside, except getting wet again and maybe exposing our whereabouts to those cutthroats.”
Although she stamped over and sat down, her expression indicated she was none too happy about being ordered around. Well, too bad, he thought. He’d put forward his best manners for her benefit, but she was still being contrary and hostile. Nevertheless, she was going to do as he said and that was that.
“Are you still sticking with the name Bernice?” he asked as he scooped up the pot to brew coffee over the small campfire he had positioned near the cave entrance.
“Are you still sticking with the name Logan Hawk?”
“Yep, it’s my name. I’m half Apache,” he confided. “My father, John Fletcher Logan, was a white trapper and trader who came and went from our clan’s camp. My mother was the daughter of Gray Hawk, a medicine man, who decided that marrying his daughter to a white man, so that he could learn English and understand the way the white man thought, was good magic. My grandfather chose his totem as my totem because the hawk is known to be swift and fierce.”
He spread his arms wide. “Logan Hawk. Half white man’s name. Half Apache.”
He glanced over his shoulder, noting that she was still regarding him skeptically. He didn’t know what caused her to be so mistrusting, but he supposed he really couldn’t blame her. He had always been one to err on the side of caution, too.
“Now, would you mind telling me what the devil you were doing in the wilds without a bodyguard or chaperone?” he asked while the coffee boiled on the fire.
She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out her chin. “Yes, I do mind. It’s none of your business.”
His lips twitched as he cast his feisty companion another glance. She might look alluring and feminine, but she was definitely a hellion at heart. He liked that about her—in an exasperated kind of way. He also liked the way she looked and felt when she was pressed familiarly against him….
Hawk squelched the titillating thought immediately. He expected better of himself. This wasn’t the time or the place. He avoided emotional attachments to females. His tumbleweed lifestyle and his lack of acceptance in white society taught him to expect little of nothing from anyone.
The less complications the better was his motto.
When