Linda Warren - Deep In The Heart Of Texas

She wanted to observe them, but there wasn’t time. The air no longer seemed as cold, but the ground was wet, which made walking even harder. They kept pushing on. Miranda felt stronger and managed to keep up. Her legs were tight, but no cramps.

Suddenly the hermit stopped, pointing to a flickering glow in the distance.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Campfire,” he whispered back. “We’ve caught up with Spikes.”

“Oh, no!” she cried, chills running up her spine.

“It’s okay,” he told her. “We’ll just go around them, but we have to be quiet and quick.”

“Okay,” she answered without much enthusiasm. “But how did we catch up with them so fast?”

“Spikes probably stopped to wait for Blackhawk.”

“That’s the Indian who works on the ranch, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, and he really does have eyes and ears like a hawk. So make sure you stay close to me.”

“You can count on that.”

“Let’s go,” he said, looking down at Bandit. “Hush, boy.”

The fire became brighter as they moved closer. The orange flames crackled and hissed toward the sky. Three men sat around the blaze, drinking and talking. Two horses were tethered nearby. The saddles lay on the ground by the fire. As they crept past, giving the campsite a wide berth, they could hear voices, which carried clearly through the night.

“What do you want with the hermit?” Blackhawk asked, sitting cross-legged, a bandanna tied around his forehead. He took another swig of whiskey.

“None of your damn business,” Spikes said, taking the bottle from him. “If you want whiskey, you’ll forget all about this. Especially if you know what’s good for you.”

“I am like a sigh on the wind.”

“Whatever the hell that means,” Spikes answered, taking a swig of whiskey as he rested on his saddle.

The other man seemed asleep or passed out on a blanket by the fire.

They’d almost gone around the group when Miranda stepped on a stick. It popped, and the noise sounded like thunder in the darkness. In an instant, the hermit swung around and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her scream died against his palm.

“Shh,” he whispered into her ear.

Spikes jumped up. “What the hell was that?”

“The night has its own music,” Blackhawk replied, reaching for the bottle.

Spikes kicked the bottle away. “Check it out, you stupid Indian.”

Blackhawk stretched and got to his feet.

Miranda’s heart lodged in her throat. She couldn’t move or speak. She couldn’t do anything but rest against the security of the hermit’s chest. She felt his heart beat with a frantic rhythm. Or was that hers? She couldn’t tell. Their bodies were so close she couldn’t distinguish her heartbeat from his.

He slowly removed his hand and shook his head. She knew what that meant—be quiet, keep still. She wanted to run, get away as fast as she could, and had to restrain the impulse.

The woods seemed to become electrified as Blackhawk made his way directly toward them. Every footstep, every breath, every movement was charged with static energy.

The hermit stepped in front of her, the rifle butt resting on his hip, his finger on the trigger. For a split second, the fear left her as she realized what he was doing. He was protecting her, using his body as a shield. He was a total stranger, and yet he’d put his life in jeopardy for her. She felt closer to him than anyone in her family. In what—twenty-four hours?—this man, whose name she didn’t know, was willing to risk his life to save hers.

She shivered at his bravery and shoved her hand into her pocket, her fingers touching the cold steel. She wouldn’t let him down. If anything happened, she had the gun.

Her heart raced, and her body began to tremble as Blackhawk slipped closer. About fifteen feet from them, he stopped. The only sound Miranda heard was the beating of her heart as the Indian gazed at them through the darkness. The moonlight was bright enough so they could see each other. Blackhawk’s hair was long, black and dirty, and his eyes were trained on the hermit. He didn’t carry a gun, only a big hunting knife around his waist.

Spine-tingling silence followed.

Miranda held her breath.

“What’s out there?” Spikes called.

The two men continued to stare at each other. Miranda waited for the hermit to lower his rifle or for Blackhawk to go for his knife, or something—anything—before her nerves burst through the top of her head.

Then suddenly Blackhawk nodded once. The hermit reciprocated.

“A hungry coyote,” Blackhawk answered as he turned and headed back to the fire.

Relief flooded Miranda. She didn’t understand what had just happened, all she knew was that she could breathe again. The hermit took her hand and led her farther and farther away.

They walked steadily without a word. Sometimes they went in circles; at others they went over areas they had already covered. She didn’t ask questions. She knew it had to be a trick to throw Spikes off their trail.

Her legs grew heavier and heavier. When she thought she couldn’t stand the pain a moment longer, the hermit stopped, removed his backpack and slid to the ground, resting against a tree, Bandit by his side.

She heaved a grateful sigh and plopped down on the ground, leaning back against a fallen log. It took a while for her heart rate to still and her pain to ease. Then she closed her eyes and let the night sounds engulf her, alien yet soothing sounds that were growing familiar. As her body relaxed, she finally had to ask or she was going to burst with curiosity. “Why didn’t Blackhawk say something?”

“Guess he was repaying a debt,” he replied, pulling his hat low. “I hauled him out of Beaver Creek a few times. He always cursed me and mumbled in a drunken haze about a wife and kids and how he should be dead, too.”

“What happened to his wife and kids?”

“Don’t know. Never asked.”

“Were you sure he wasn’t going to give us away?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Hell no, you never know what a drunk’s going to do.”

“But you didn’t aim your rifle at him or anything.”

He pushed the hat back impatiently, and she thought he was going to say something about her questions, but instead, he shook his head. “Pointing a gun at him would only have angered him. Besides, I could see he didn’t have a gun and a bullet is much faster than a knife. If he’d done anything, I could have dropped him in an instant, and Spikes and his friend would’ve been dead before they knew what happened.”

Then why hadn’t he killed them? she thought to her horror. What was she thinking? Mass murder. God, no. She didn’t want anyone—not even Spikes—to die because of her. She just wanted to be home and safe with her family.

Family? Someone in her family had paid Spikes to kidnap her. She couldn’t escape that grim truth. She had a feeling that before she reached the safety of her home, someone was going to die. Would it be her? The hermit? Or Spikes?

Something rustled in the leaves and she hardly noticed. She wasn’t afraid of the woods anymore. She was only afraid of Spikes.

The night air chilled her and she slid her hands into her pockets. Her fingers touched the cold steel and she thought of the initials on the handle.

She sat up straighter, gathering courage. “Could I ask a favor?”

There was a long strained pause after her question. Then, without mercy, he answered, “I’ve already granted you one favor. That’s all you’re going to get.”

His voice didn’t deter her. She had to know. “It’s just a small favor.”

He said nothing, just sat as if turned to stone.

“You see,” she persisted, “if we’re going to face death together, I figure I should at least know your name. I refuse to call you Hermit.”