Caine's Reckoning. Sarah McCarty
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as Desi and mad enough to chew lead and spit bullets. Served Sam right, though, for thinking Desi had even a passing acquaintance with the word quit.
Untying her hands at the river crossing had been Sam’s first mistake. Thinking a fear of drowning would be a deterrent to trying to escape had been his second. Hell, for that much foolishness he deserved a cold ride back. Water seeped from Desi’s clothes through Caine’s denims as he scanned the countryside. They’d saved half a day by cutting through Hell’s Eight land and slipping through the cave at the back of that box canyon, but he didn’t like how quiet things were. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up straight, which always meant trouble brewing.
He didn’t have to look far for the cause. The women’s kidnapping had been too haphazard to have been carried out by experienced men, which meant they must have been hired by experienced men, meaning there were likely real Comancheros sitting out there without their income. Not good. Chaser, sensing his tension, snorted and did a quick sidestep. Desi’s fingers dug into his shirt.
“Easy.”
Both woman and horse ignored the order. A tightening of the reins brought Chaser in line, but Desi was going to take a bit more effort. She shifted on his lap, looking over his shoulder.
“When we get back to Los Santos, you’re going to be owing me a new pair of moccasins.”
Her wiggling stopped and that peculiar stillness that came over her when she was riled and hiding it froze her up. “I’m sure you can soften them up with a bit of saddle soap.”
“Now why would I be doing that since it was your harebrained idea that got them wet?”
“It wasn’t harebrained, it was…” The sentence trailed off. She tucked her head and that wealth of hair fell over her face, obscuring her expression. He tipped her chin up. She didn’t duck his gaze, just glared at him, blue eyes dark with fury and frustration. And under it all, something he was sure she didn’t want him to see.
“Desperate might be the word you were looking for.” Only desperation could drive a woman to turn her horse into deep water, clinging to the animal’s back with the same reckless courage that had the horse following the command.
Her lips set in a flat line. She jerked her chin, but he didn’t let her hide, just held her there, studying the subtle nuance of her expression as she wrestled with her demons. “The closer we get to Los Santos, the more desperate you get. Care to tell me why?”
Cold resentment pushed out every other emotion in that face that made him think of warm smiles and sultry invitations.
“I already told you.”
Yes, she had, but he’d like a bit more detail. He reached back into the saddlebag and pulled out a stale biscuit and some jerky. “Seeing as that’s the case, I expect you’d like a last meal.”
Her stomach rumbled. She held out her bound wrists, arching her hands back to facilitate being untied.
“Uh-uh.” He dropped the food onto the plateau formed by the oversized gloves. “I learned my lesson watching you teach Sam to swim. Those hands stay tied.”
She rested her hands on her lap, making no attempt to eat the food, presenting him with a clear view of her profile; small nose, pointed chin, smooth forehead and full lips that practically begged for a man to plant a kiss on them. He tapped the biscuit, knowing damn well she understood the order. Not by a twitch of those thick lashes did she acknowledge his presence. Another smile tugged at his lips.
“You keep this up and in about four miles, I’m going to start noticing you’re snubbing me and my feelings are bound to get hurt.”
Nothing. He hitched her back a bit and, keeping one hand on the reins, picked up the biscuit with the other. He held it to her mouth. Her stomach rumbled louder, but those kissable lips stayed tightly closed. She swallowed once. Twice. A person had to be damn hungry to salivate at the thought of a day-old biscuit. “When’s the last time you ate?”
Her lips barely moved as she imparted the information, no doubt worried he was going to shove the biscuit in. “A few days ago.”
Damn. “We were told you women were taken sometime last night.”
Outlaws often did their dirty work by the big Comanche moon that lit the plains like daylight.
She shrugged and turned her face into his chest, stomach rumbling, throat rippling, defying common sense.
He lowered the biscuit and shook his head. “You are one stubborn woman.”
“If you put me on my own horse, you won’t have to endure my company anymore.”
He had to smile at her persistence. “Now why would I do that? It’s not so often I get to hold a pretty woman in my arms that I’m eager to give up the pleasure.”
She rolled those big eyes and snorted indelicately. “I’m dripping wet, smell of horse, blood and other unpleasant things.”
“No arguing, you are a bit ripe.” Her outraged gasp caught on his sense of humor and gave it a tug. “But compared to that dead deer I hauled last week, you’re a clear step up.”
That fast, the steel left her spine. She shrugged down into the coat like a cake gone flat. He wondered if she’d actually been fishing for a compliment.
He returned the biscuit to her mouth. “I’m adding prickly to your list of attributes.”
She shot him a glare.
He shook his head. “Not eating won’t prove anything, and will just leave you too weak to fight.”
She snapped a bite, narrowly missing his fingertips. He waited until she got four good chews in, just enough to have the hard tack spread through her mouth before adding, “Truth be told, though, I don’t think I’ve ever had a prettier woman keep me company in the saddle.”
If looks could kill, he’d be dead. She struggled to get a retort out with the hard tack gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
He dropped the biscuit into her hands and untied the canteen. Pulling the cork free with his teeth, he held it to her lips. She swished the first mouthful around before swallowing. After that, she just drank like there was no tomorrow. He pulled the canteen away, anger churning in his gut. If he’d known what bad shape she was in, he would have insisted she eat and drink back at the river and to hell with her stubbornness or the risk. “I take it that it’s been a while since you’ve had a good drink?”
“Our kidnappers weren’t overly concerned with the niceties.”
“None of us had a drink because of her,” Mavis called over the snort of the sorrel she was riding. Her dark hair was pulled back in a makeshift bun, her clothes as properly straightened as they could be after the day they’d had.
Since Tracker had seen to the other women’s needs earlier while Sam had been fishing Desi out of the San Antonio, Caine didn’t see a need for her outrage. Apparently, Mavis didn’t agree. She pointed at Desi and kept going. “She’s always causing trouble, bringing shame down on us all. No matter how often my brother disciplines her, she continues with her promiscuous ways.”
Desi’s face closed up tighter than a drum. She stared out across the rolling plains, shutting the other woman out. Shutting him out. Caine pulled the coat collar up to shield her as Sam rode up. Sam took one look at Desi’s posture, grabbed the sorrel’s bridle and shook his head.
“For an attractive woman, you sure are ugly,” he informed Mavis as he led her horse away. Mavis didn’t take kindly to that verdict and her argument was both loud and heated until Tracker shut her up by pointing out that she was drawing Indians.
Caine waited until she was out of earshot. “That woman has a belly full of hate for you.”
He didn’t think Desi was going to answer, but finally, she did. “Yes.”
“Her brother is your