Bj James - Whispers In The Dark

Rafe Courtenay could ride, and the Spanish gelding was truly as extraordinary as the reputation he’d established. But there was much worse to come. Eventually, if the interloper kept up, out of necessity and the need for secrecy they would go to ground, covering the remainder of the route on foot.

But, though a difficult trail grew more demanding, that time had not come, and she put the fortunes of Rafe Courtenay from her mind. The terrain and Black Jack required all her thoughts, her complete concentration. Hunching lower over his great bowed neck, she clung to his mane, urging him on. The same quiet chant that calmed him in the corral, the same gentle touch that enticed him, guided him now. With his great heart he responded.

Where Valentina led, Rafe followed, and the remainder of the day’s ride was silent. Only the scrape and clatter of hooves and the creak of leather marked their passage.

Like a great ball of fire the sun burned in the sky, and the day grew hotter. Higher elevations brought no respite as dust churned and prickly brush clawed and clung. Sweat plastered her shut to shoulders and breasts, and trickled into her eyes. Valentina tugged her hat lower, blinked away the sting of salt, and rode harder.

A little girl waited.

Sparing a glance from his own tribulations, Rafe saw her hardship and her dismissal. “One tough lady,” he reminded himself when no reminder was needed. “With a heart as tough.”

The comment was the last he would make in the hours to come. All his energies were expended in keeping his mount on the hillside and himself in the saddle. Engrossed in his battle, he was hardly aware when they topped a rise and the land flattened into a plateau. As suddenly, they were surrounded by a lush stand of pine. Tall sentinels in thick, scattered ranks, keeping an eternal watch.

Through a winding avenue encompassed by uncanny silence, weary riders and wearier mounts trod over shorn grass. A fragrant carpet, grazing for deer and range cattle. Beyond the stand, one beginning as abruptly as the other ended, lay a small tract of land within a walled enclosure. A sheltered, picturesque expanse, as welcoming as the land before was inhospitable. As cloistered as it had been naked. As temperate as the trail was brutal.

Clustered along a stream meandering lazily through this sky-high canyon were small groves of oak and maple, followed by mahogany and aspen. Each offering a welcome shield from the thrust of the sun. Where the stream was quietest and the shade deepest, Valentina dismounted. Kneeling on a stone, shoulder to shoulder with Black Jack, she drank the clear, sparkling water.

Dismounting with the stiffness of grueling hours in the saddle, Rafe followed suit, grateful for the respite.

As she led her reluctant mount from the stream, Valentina was pleased when he did the same. Taking care, as she had, that his horse not not drink too much, too quickly.

“We’ll camp here for the night.” With the speed of long habit, she unbuckled the cinch, lifting saddle and blanket from Black Jack.

“There’s daylight left. Plenty of it,” Rafe interjected. “We could make a number of miles before dark.”

“There is, and we could.” The saddle lay at the base of a stone. She flung the blanket over another to dry. “But this is it for the day.”

Rafe’s first inclination was to dispute the decision. But like her or not, he’d begun to respect Valentina O’Hara. The trail was a great leveler, a great teacher, and following in her path he’d learned every move had purpose. Every decision had been a judgment call. And each a sound one.

As she gathered grass to scrub the sweat from the stallion’s back, he nodded abruptly. “All right.”

Valentina stopped in mid-stroke, surprise showing through her guarded expression. “All right? You’re agreeing, just like that?”

“Just like that.” Rafe dispatched El Mirlo’s saddle with an expertise rivaling her own. Lifting the horse’s hooves he inspected for lodged pebbles or stone bruises. Then, running his hand from withers to hock, he checked for sprains or scrapes before gathering grass himself.

Val watched him in a mingling of approval and suspicion. “No argument?”

“No.”

“No questions?”

“No questions.” Rafe halted, regarding her thoughtfully before continuing his ministrations to El Mirlo. “I expect you’ll tell me your reasons for stopping,” he murmured almost silently. “In your own good time.”

Valentina had the grace to feel ashamed. Certainly, she didn’t want him here, but his reasons for coming were compelling. And, if she was honest, she had to admit she would have done the same. He was half out of his mind with worry for the little girl and his friends, and she was heckling him.

The urge to apologize nagged at her. But apologies to this man came harder than most, so she simply sidestepped the issue by turning from him. She was still busying herself with the care of the stallion when he walked away.

“Do we risk a fire?” Rafe tossed down an armful of wood gathered as he returned from tethering his mount in the shade of an aspen.

In the waning afternoon the temperature hovered between hot and hot as hell, but nightfall would bring drastic change. At this altitude and season they would be m no danger of freezing, but they would pass an uncomfortable night denied the warmth of fire.

Driving a needle through a length of leather, Valentina finished the minor repair of a bridle before she replied. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t, and every reason we should.”

Succinct, implicit, and he understood. “You still think we’re being watched, and a cold camp would be suspicious?”

“My gut feeling is there’s no one out there. From what we learned of the Apostles, its clear they’re smug and arrogant. The type who believe they’re infallible by divine right and, by that right, destined to strike fear in the influential and the mighty.”

“Paralyzing fear.”

“Exactly. And because it wouldn’t occur to them that Patrick McCallum would dare go against their demands and conditions, we have a certain degree of liberty.”

“For a while, until we’re closer to the cabin,” Rafe interpreted. “If you’re guessing right.”

“If. There’s always one.” Laying the bridle aside, she returned the needle to a small kit and snapped it shut. “In any case, precaution is always sensible. So, to avoid suspicion, we act natural, do as casual wanderers of the desert would.”

“Make camp for the night, build a fire, cook a meal,” he added to the list.

“A quick bath in the stream.” She was rising from the stone that served as her seat. “Before the temperature drops.”

“I’ll gather more wood and start the fire,” Rafe volunteered. “When you’ve finished, I’ll take a dip, as well.”

“Right.” A glance at the sky told Valentina they hadn’t long before the sun slipped behind a mountain and the temperature slide began. Stepping to her saddlebags, she took out a towel and soap and a change of clothes. “I won’t be long.” Hesitating, she added, “Leave the meal to me. If you insist that we travel together, we might as well be fair in the division of chores.”

“Sure.” With his agreement Rafe let the matter drop.

He was gathering wood from a deadfall, keeping a cautious eye for rattlesnakes, when she crossed the clearing to the edge of the stream. There was a startled instant when he wondered if she planned to bathe within view. As she followed the curve of the tumbling stream until she was beyond his sight, he was uncertain if he was pleased or disappointed. Refusing to dwell on this strange reaction to a woman who was everything he found distasteful, he let the quest for fuel take him in an opposite direction.