Sarah McCarty - Caine's Reckoning

Casting one quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped through the bushes, making sure he wasn’t following. Tracker stood where she’d left him, leaning against a thin tree, tossing that ugly knife in his hands, flipping it end to end before catching it. Desi shuddered, imagining him in a rage, and ducked through the brush. She had no intention of calling for him. This was her chance, and she was taking it.

“You cannot expect decent women to be seen in the company of someone like her.”

The way the older woman, Mrs. Hatchet, referred to Desi set Caine’s back teeth to grinding. And it wasn’t because of the nasal twang to her voice or the highfalutin way she pronounced her words. It was her absolute belief that because she had a husband to shield her that she was better than other women who’d run up against the hard truth of this land. Specifically, Desi.

“Lady, what I expect is silence and obedience.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the open range beyond their sheltered spot. “In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re in the middle of Indian country. Those gunshots are going to attract every Comanche out there, so what I expect is for you to use the next few minutes getting ready to ride, because as soon as we gather what we can off those bodies, we’re lighting out.”

“You’re robbing the dead?”

If a man had made such an accusation, he’d have punched him in the mouth for both the insult and the stupidity behind it. But the insult came from a woman, which tied his hands. “I’m taking what we need to survive.”

Caine spun on his heel. Son of a bitch, he was never taking a wife if he had to put up with crap like that on a daily basis. He expected to see Desi waiting for him with Tracker and Sam. She wasn’t. Sam was at the edge of the trees, checking out the action on a revolver while Tracker was efficiently going over the rest of the possessions looking for anything useful.

“Where’s the woman?”

Sam flicked his used-up smoke into the stream, a genuine grin on his lips. “With the horses.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“Escaping.” Tracker dumped out a saddlebag. “I figure we’ve got about twenty minutes before she sweet-talks that big mustang into opening its mouth for the bit.”

This he had to see. Caine cut through the scrub brush to the horses. Evidence of Desi’s attempts was everywhere. A bridle dangled from a horse already tacked out in a nose band. A saddle lurched off the side of a hardy paint mustang with the conformation of a runner. He stepped up to the brown-and-white paint, patting the deeply muscled chest that said he could go for miles without foundering. He ran his hand down its spine, murmuring soothingly as it fussed and gathered his scent, studying the tracks in the muddy ground as he righted the saddle.

Bare footprints littered the mud in mute testament to Desi’s frustration. Sure as shit, she didn’t know anything about tack, but that hadn’t lessened her determination. The tracks spun in a circle, deepened as she’d put her weight squarely on both heels, and then took off in a straight line. The depth and distance between the prints indicated she’d been in a hurry.

Caine looked up the rise. He flipped the paint’s stirrup onto the saddle, kneed him gently to warn him to cut the crap when he sucked in wind and tightened the cinch when he blew out. With an easy leap he was in the saddle, a smile on his lips as he studied those tracks. Damn, if she hadn’t had the guts to light out on foot.

He spun the paint around and urged him up the rise. The outlaws might have been stupid, but they’d known good horseflesh. The paint responded as if he hadn’t just finished a hard ride, driving fast up the hill, eager to run, dancing in a circle when Caine pulled him up at the top.

It wasn’t hard to find Desi in the scraggly sea of winter dead brush. The bright sun shone off her blond hair like a brilliant white-gold beacon. He shook his head. She was heading due west, straight into Indian country. Caine gave the paint its head, smiling as the horse plunged down the rise. A man just had to admire the amount of gumption that drove a woman to take control of her future despite the odds or a poor sense of direction.

He was about forty feet behind Desi before she looked back. He had an impression of big blue eyes in a white face and a startled expression before she took off, bare feet flying across the ground, hair streaming behind her. Caine leaned over the cow pony’s neck. The animal surged forward. Human or cattle, it didn’t matter to the horse. He knew his job. Chase, catch and maintain. He did it well, dispelling the myth that paints made poor cow ponies.

The paint caught up with Desi in less than a minute. Caine reached down, snagging the back of the too-big coat, lifting her up. If her first screech didn’t draw every Indian and bandit for twenty miles, the second surely would. It was all he could do to lift her onto the saddle as she struggled. Damn, who knew one small woman could hold so much wiggle?

“Hold still, damn it!”

If anything, she struggled harder. “Let me go!”

“No.” He gave her a shake. “Settle down.”

She braced her foot on his, lightening his load. Her arm wrapped around his, her fingers tangling in the excess folds of his coat, slipping off his shirtsleeve before grabbing desperately at his wrist.

“I’m not going back!”

“Well, you’re sure as shit not heading out on your own.”

“Watch me!”

She wrenched to the left and to the right. The pony danced beneath them as the coat flapped against his sides. A hard shove and she almost succeeded in unseating him. One minute he had more woman than he could contain and the next he held an empty coat. Caine swore, dropped the coat and leaned back. The pony sat on its haunches, slid ten feet and spun, lunging anew after Desi, who ran ahead, her fair skin glowing in the sunlight, looking like one of those golden nymphs he’d seen paintings of in that fancy whorehouse up Chicago way.

The woman’s determination was no match for the paint’s speed. In about three heartbeats, he was running beside her, adjusting his stride to match her panicked darts, crowding her to where Caine wanted her to go. Over the thunder of the pony’s hooves, Caine could hear her labored breathing, her desperate sobs. Damn it! Why was she making this so hard?

He leapt off the pony’s back and hit the ground running, catching her around the waist as he spun, cushioning her against his chest as he took the brunt of the fall on his back. He crossed his arms over her torso, keeping free of her teeth, trapping her feet with his legs, letting her exhaust herself with her struggles until she was tired enough to find reason.

It took about four minutes for her to figure out she wasn’t going anywhere. When she did, her body just collapsed against his, her skull thunking on his collarbone one last time, her hips settling into the cradle of his groin, her buttocks cushioning the hard length of his cock. Not by a twitch of an eyelash did she let on that she knew what was poking at her down there. She simply turned her face west and stared as her labored breathing pushed her ribs against his.

“You ’bout ready to see reason?”

“I’m not going back.”

Her body was about played out, but her stubbornness sure wasn’t. “Why not?”

She crossed one arm over her breasts. “I’ll die there.”

Her body shook with shivers. He slid her off to the side, keeping her anchored with one arm as he sat up. “That’s a mighty serious accusation.”

“It’s the truth.”

He stood, grabbing his hat before pulling her up with him, admiring the way her breasts swelled over the ridge of her arm. Her hand slipped, treating him to a glimpse of one hard-tipped peak. She was a pretty little thing, all pink and white with a nipped-in waist and rosebud nipples. His cock, hard and aching from the chase, pulsed in response to the inadvertent display. “Tell me why.”