Judith Duncan - The Renegade And The Heiress

It was a long, empty ride. By the third day out, the skies had turned dark and somber, and the wind kept changing direction. A sure sign that something ugly was building in the mountains. Finn had spent the first night and the entire second day at the first line shack, making repairs to the roof, stocking the shelves with nonperishables and chopping a supply of wood. It was a little after noon when he headed out, and by the time he reached the old tree shattered by lightning, a weather front had moved in. The sky had gotten heavier and more ominous, and the dense, heavy clouds huddled low, with the wind beginning to shift and moan.

It was midafternoon when the first snowflakes started to spiral down, and Finn shifted in the saddle, the thick flakes catching in his eyelashes and graying the landscape. Squinting against the falling snow, he flipped up the collar of his fleece-lined coat, then turned to check on Trouper. The packhorse followed without a lead, and the piebald was plodding along behind, his gait slightly off from a crooked shoulder. The corner of Finn’s mouth lifted just a little. Trouper was probably the most miserable piece of horse-flesh he’d ever laid eyes on—thick neck, huge head with mulelike ears, hooves the size of dinner plates, and a thin, stubby tail.

But in spite of all his bad conformation, Finn wouldn’t have traded him for a sack of gold. Trouper was the best packhorse, bar none, that he had in his stable. He was as surefooted as a goat, had better mountain sense than most humans, and was as wily as a coyote. If Finn ever needed to get out of a bad situation, all he had to do was turn the horse around, smack him on the rump and let the big piebald lead him home.

A smile still tugging at his mouth, Finn straightened in the saddle, angling his head against the falling snow, using the wide brim of his Stetson to keep the snow out of his eyes. He checked the underbrush, then whistled for Rooney. The dog appeared on the trail in front of him, tail wagging, his eyes bright. Rooney was mostly German shepherd, with a few other strains mixed in, and the dog loved these outings. Finn figured that between Trouper and Rooney, he had every contingency pretty much covered.

Finn guided the buckskin around a thick knot of twisted roots, the gust of cold air funneling down around him. Pulling his collar higher, he wondered why in hell he continued to do this—to make this ride every fall. He was getting too old for this crap. And on top of his current disinclination, he did not like the low, ominous sound of the wind.

The buckskin had to lunge up the last steep leg of the trail, and when they broke into a small clearing, Finn reined up, squinting against the whiteness as he studied the sky. The rugged landscape was nearly obscured by the falling snow, the outcroppings of granite and the trunks of trees like ghost shadows in the gloomy whiteness. An eerie silence had settled like a thick blanket, muffling even the sounds of the horse’s breathing. He didn’t like the feel of it, and he didn’t like the way the wind kept shifting. Nor did he like the way the snow was coming down. Unless he missed his guess, there was a helluva storm brewing, and it was the kind of warning anyone who knew these mountains would never ignore. Especially when the second line shack was still a good day’s ride away.

His mount tossed his head and pulled on the reins, then dropped his head and began grazing on thin clumps of grass now coated with white. Within seconds, the gelding’s black mane was thickly dusted with the big wet flakes.

Allowing the horse his head, Finn rested his arms on the saddle horn and stared off into the distance, his expression fixed with consideration. He didn’t like the look of it. Didn’t like the feel of it. And it wasn’t as if he had to complete the trip—and he sure as hell didn’t relish getting caught out here in an early blizzard. This trip was mostly for his own peace of mind.

He studied the scene for a moment longer, then made up his mind. The smart thing to do was turn around and head home. His decision made, he reined his mount around, giving a spoken command to the packhorse.

Their tracks were already covered by the time he crossed the narrow draw, and Finn settled in for a long, miserable ride, the dampness like a cold, wet blanket around him.

The snow continued to fall as Finn backtracked, the sky growing heavier and heavier. He tipped his hat lower on his head, then pulled the collar tighter around his neck and snapped it closed as he guided Gus onto the old goat trail which traversed a rocky ridge. Below was the fast moving river, the water cold and gray and dangerous. It felt as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees, and Finn hunched in the warmth of his coat.

Rooney appeared from the underbrush, his brown-and-black coat dusted with white, his tail arched over his back. He sniffed along the trail, then started across the ridge, his head low, tracking some critter as he trotted ahead of Finn. Suddenly the dog stopped and cocked his ears, turning his head into the wind, his body going perfectly still. Rooney held that pose for a split second; then he dropped his head and emitted a low growl. Finn watched the dog, his expression tightening.

Rooney was as much a legend as his master—a natural tracker and as close to human as any dog could get. He had been on more rescue missions than Finn could count, and just two months before, he’d successfully tracked a kid lost in the bush. He was no ordinary dog. And when he went on alert like that, Finn paid attention.

Finn rode along the ledge to where Rooney was standing, then reined up, turning his mount for a clear view. His expression fixed, he let his gaze slowly drift over the scene below him. Squinting against the relentlessly falling snow, he scanned the scene again, his attention arrested by a shadow of movement on the far side of the river. His muscles tensing, he shifted his head slightly, allowing his peripheral vision to catch the movement again, then he focused on the spot. No doubt about it—someone was there, a barely visible figure stumbling through the heavy veil of falling snow.

A cold prickle feathered along the back of his neck, and Finn narrowed his eyes. Not only should there not be anyone in that area, something was also definitely wrong. Yanking off his doeskin gloves, Finn twisted in the saddle, flipped open one saddlebag and took out the case holding his binoculars. He yanked the powerful binoculars free, then lifted them to his eyes, swearing when he couldn’t locate his target through the heavily falling snow. Finally he got a fix, and he went dead still.

The stumbling figure was a woman, dressed only in a dark green sweater and slacks, with something black wrapped around her head. And the reason she was having so much trouble keeping her feet under her was because it appeared that her hands were tied together in front of her. And even at this distance, Finn could recognize fear. Jamming the binoculars back in the case, he wheeled his mount around, his voice sharp as he gave a hand signal indicating the distant figure. “Rooney. Go. Go find.” He wheeled Gus around again, giving Trouper the command to stay, then he spurred the gelding toward the narrow twisting trail that led down from the ridge, his expression grim, an ugly feeling unfolding in his gut.

It was pretty damned obvious she was on the run from something or somebody—and that was bad enough. But it was going to take him at least half an hour to get to her—half an hour through falling snow and dropping temperatures, and terrain that was so dangerous it was an accident just waiting to happen. But there was no shortcut. He had to get down from the damned ridge, then fight his way through the dense bush to the old wash below and find a reasonably safe, shallow place to ford the cold, churning river.