To Tame a Wolf. Susan Krinard
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eggs, perhaps flapjacks, as well, and she found herself ravenous.
With her saddlebags over her shoulders, she left the bedroom and entered the living area. Mrs. Bryson had the table set for breakfast. Beth brought a pail of fresh milk from the barn. She smiled at Tally.
“If you’re looking for your friend, he’s outside with my father,” she said. She flushed a little, glancing aside at her mother.
“I hope you slept well,” Mrs. Bryson said. She carried a frying pan of eggs to the table and slid them onto a platter.
“Wonderfully,” Tally said. “Thank you, ma’am.”
“Mr. Kavanagh said he wanted to let you rest up for the day ahead. He must have been out with the horses well before dawn; he’s already helped Mr. Bryson repair the corral fence.” She bustled back to the stove. “For a man who doesn’t talk much, he can certainly make himself useful.”
Indeed, Tally thought. “I’m afraid I haven’t been.”
“Never mind that. The men should be in shortly.” As she’d predicted, Bryson and Kavanagh arrived a few moments later, sharing the silent camaraderie of men who’ve labored together. Kavanagh hardly glanced in Tally’s direction. Bryson invited his guests to sit, said grace and served the meal.
Tally watched Kavanagh out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t spent any part of the night in the bedroom, but the Brysons didn’t realize it. Her secret was safe. When breakfast was finished, Bryson saw her and Kavanagh out to the barn. The horses stood saddled and ready.
“You be careful up there,” Bryson said, passing Kavanagh a bundle that Tally guessed must contain fresh food. “No Apaches as far as I know, but still plenty of places to get into trouble. I’ve been hearing wolves lately.”
Kavanagh seemed to take the warning in the spirit it was intended. He swung into the saddle. “We’ll get by.”
Bryson gazed up at the sky. “I’d swear it’s going to rain. Not that I’m complaining, mind you—rain in the dry season is always welcome. But I hope it doesn’t interfere with your search.”
Tally followed his gaze. She hadn’t considered bad weather to be a factor in finding André, but Bryson was right. Clouds had gathered sometime in the night, and the look of them boded a rare late-spring rain.
She concealed her worry and gripped Bryson’s hand. “Please thank your wife and daughter for their hospitality.”
“That I will. You’re welcome any time. Good luck.”
She tipped her hat and mounted Muérdago. With a last wave, she reined east along the canyon that curved deeper into the mountains. She let the gelding pick his path, since there was really only one way to go and her thoughts were otherwise occupied. Kavanagh rode beside her, easy in posture and expression.
What had he said last night, after he’d kissed her? Now that’s done. A chore to be gotten out of the way, an irritating distraction vanquished. Certainly nothing bad had come of it, except a little wounding of her pride.
So why couldn’t she let it go, as he did? Was it anger she felt, that a man had bested her…or something else entirely?
“How did you sleep?” she asked casually.
“About as well as you.”
“You left the bed to me all night. You’re in danger of being mistaken for a gentleman, Kavanagh.”
He cast her a grim, searching look. “I’m no gentleman, and you’re no lady. That’s the bargain.”
She knew that he meant he had no expectations of her except that she do her part to find André. Kavanagh didn’t know what a precious gift he’d given her—the gift of equality and respect.
She wondered if he would accord his Esperanza such a privilege.
Morning light cast long shadows in the canyon. The gain in elevation along the watercourse brought more pines interspersed with oaks. The forest closed in on either side of the path; red fox squirrels flashed bushy tails in warning. Clouds continued to gather in the southwest, thicker and darker than before.
The first notched pinnacles appeared just as the horses rounded a sharp bend in the arroyo. Red columns, many joined in wall-like ramparts, others standing alone, towered above the trees. Some were shaped like strange animals or birds or gesturing men. Deep joints, like miniature slot canyons, ran between them.
“We’ll see a lot more of those,” Kavanagh remarked, deftly guiding his stallion over a bulging mass of rocks. “This broken terrain was what made the Chiricahuas so good for the Apaches trying to escape the army. Wasn’t easy for men to pursue on horseback.” He glanced at the lowering sky. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him.”
Kavanagh remained in the saddle for the next mile. Often he bent low over Diablo’s barrel, supple as a cat, to examine the ground. When the main trail branched, Kavanagh chose the fainter course. But soon the way became rough and uneven, pushing between ocher turrets and thick stands of pine.
“We walk,” he finally said. Tally dismounted and took Muérdago’s lead. The air was rarer here than at Cold Creek, cooler and sharper. She saw traces of snow on the highest mountains. At noon they briefly stopped for Mrs. Bryson’s sandwiches, made of that morning’s fresh bread and leftover bacon. Kavanagh checked the horses’ hooves for stones, and then continued along the track. He sifted dust between his fingers and paused to contemplate the very rocks as if they spoke to him.
“Your brother came this way,” he said in answer to Tally’s questioning look. “He moved slowly. One of his mules was lame.” He gazed at the steep slope ahead. It was almost impossible to pick out any sort of trail amid the rubble, low shrubs and pinnacles. “I’m going on alone, on foot. The horses can’t travel quick enough in this country. You’ll have to stay here and watch them.”
“I agree, Mr. Kavanagh,” she said. “I’ll make camp.”
He blinked, as if he’d still expected her to argue in the way of a “normal” female. And then he smiled. The expression transformed him—for an instant, no more, just long enough for Tally to glimpse that playful boy who’d splashed her in Castillo Creek.
She smiled back at that boy like the thirteen-year-old girl from Prairie d’Or, the child who’d grown up with farm dirt between her toes and all the wild places as her sanctuaries. The girl who was so good at pretending.
Before she could regret what her own smile revealed, Kavanagh thrust Diablo’s lead into her hand, sat on the nearest boulder and removed his boots and stockings. He sprang to his feet and sprinted lightly up the trail. Fast as he was, his bare feet didn’t dislodge as much as a pebble. He rounded a curve out of Tally’s sight.
Tally led the horses to the shade of a cliff. The strong afternoon sunlight hid behind heavy cloud cover, and she thought she smelled rain. The horses were restless, sensing both the change of weather and her unease.
She sat with her back to the cliff and closed her eyes, forcing her thoughts away from André. She wondered if Sim had learned his tracking from the Indians. She’d never heard of a white man running barefoot in the mountains. She’d never heard of anyone quite like Kavanagh.
A light rain began to fall within the first hour. Soon it became a downpour, and Tally moved Muérdago and Diablo to the shelter of a stand of pines. She paced restless circles around the horses, water dripping from the brim of her hat. Dusk fell quickly. Kavanagh returned just as the storm came to an abrupt end.
“I found André,” he said.
TAL DIDN’T SWAY or swoon. Her gaze held Sim’s as she waited for the worst.
“Dead?” she whispered.
“Alive. Barely.” He took her arm and made her sit, though she flinched at the contact. He let her go as soon as he was sure she wouldn’t fall. “He’s only about a mile from here, but he was hidden in an