Читать книгу The Ranger - Carol Finch - Страница 9

S hiloh regained consciousness, grimacing at the fiery pain shooting down her left arm. “Ouch!” Dazed, she tried to free her arm from whatever was holding it down.

“Sorry about that,” came the deep baritone voice that belonged to the rough-edged renegade. “I was hoping I’d have your wound cleaned and packed before you came to. Guess you weren’t that lucky.”

“Bad luck seems to be the only kind I’ve had lately,” she mumbled as she pried her eyes open to appraise her captor.

The first thing that registered in her foggy senses was the firelight that flickered across his rugged bronzed features. A beaded headband encircled his raven hair. Thick braids brushed across his noticeably broad shoulders. He looked as wild and tough and untamed as the mustang pony he had been riding earlier.

Frowning, Shiloh surveyed her surroundings. They were tucked inside a cave, protected from the pursuing gunmen and inclement weather. She was stuck with this man, she realized uneasily. She was unsure of his intentions toward her, but she had the unshakable feeling that they weren’t honorable. She had every reason to be wary of him.

“Brace up, sister,” he said as he hovered over her. “I’m going to cleanse the wound again before I bandage it.”

Shiloh bit back a shriek and panted for breath when he dribbled whiskey on her upper arm. She instinctively tried to snatch her arm away from him again, but he held it fast.

“Looks worse than it is,” he assured her. “Your arm will be stiff and sore for a few days, but we’ll keep a close eye on it so it doesn’t get infected.”

Shiloh blinked, bemused. It suddenly hit her like a rockslide that this man, who looked every bit the renegade in full regalia and spoke an Indian dialect, also had an impressive command of English. Earlier, she’d been too busy fighting for her life to register that fact. Getting shot had demanded most of her attention.

She frowned warily as he pulled a tin of ointment from one of the saddlebags. “Who are you?”

“Logan Hawk.” He smoothed the salve on her pulsing arm.

Shiloh sighed as a cool, numbing sensation overrode the fiery pain. “What is that stuff? It works incredibly well.”

“Old Indian remedy.” He fished out several strips of fabric to wrap around her arm. “So, what’s your name, sister?”

Shiloh refused to trust this man, even if he was tending her wound. Furthermore, she was never going to trust any man, with the exception of her brothers—unless they tried to marry her off again. But if her captor thought that being civil and helpful would gain her confidence then he thought wrong. She wasn’t about to give her real name so he could hold her for ransom, after he ravished her repeatedly, while keeping her hostage in this isolated cavern.

“Bernice Colbert,” she lied, borrowing her cousin’s name.

She averted her gaze to watch him bandage her arm. For a man who looked rough and tough she was astonished by his gentleness. He was an intriguing contradiction….

No, he isn’t! When she felt herself softening toward the ruggedly handsome stranger, she redoubled her defenses. She had recently discovered that she was a lousy judge of men. She had a broken heart to show for it. Plus, she had been carrying around this heaping load of demoralizing shame. This unexpected encounter with this puzzling renegade wasn’t going to deter her from holding all men everywhere in low regard.

Logan Hawk eyed her for a long pensive moment, nodded approvingly then said, “Smart lady. Never divulge your real name to a stranger. You aren’t Bernice, are you?”

The man seemed to be a mental step ahead of her. That wasn’t good because she was in a vulnerable situation. She suspected Logan Hawk was a wily con artist who had perfected the tricks of his trade. He made all the right noises in his attempt to gain her trust so she’d lower her guard.

But she wasn’t falling into that trap again—ever.

“Look, Mr. Hawk—”

“Just Hawk will be fine,” he inserted.

“If that’s who you really are,” she said suspiciously. And if she was quick to assume an alias then he might be doing the same thing. “Why don’t you save us both the trouble and tell me exactly what expectations you have here.”

He frowned, befuddled. “Expectations?”

She stared pointedly at her carpetbag that lay atop several leather saddlebags. “By now you have rummaged through my belongings to see that I’m not carrying much cash and no identification and a single-shot derringer, which I’m sure you confiscated.” She watched a wry smile purse his full lips—and she resented the way his amused expression affected her. “So you aren’t sure how much profit you can make from our unexpected encounter. Until you figure it out you’re putting on your party manners to try to earn my trust. But you might as well know right off that it won’t work.”

He sank down cross-legged beside her. A hint of a smile still quirked his lips. “So my limited amount of charm isn’t going to win you over, is that what you’re saying?”

She nodded her wet head. “That’s precisely what I’m saying, Mr. Hawk.”

“I see.” He stroked his stubbled chin pensively. “So you think I should save myself the trouble and just dispose of you so you won’t slow me down while I’m making my fast getaway from the desperadoes.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” she grumbled, and then fidgeted apprehensively.

“I didn’t think so.” He hitched his thumb toward the mouth of the cave where rain poured down in torrents, forming a curtain of water that sealed them off from the outside world. She noticed his dark eyes dancing with devilry as he stared down at her. “But if I do decide to give you a shove off the ledge because you’re more trouble than you’re worth no one will be the wiser. Whoever happens onto your battered body will think this nasty weather caused your fall.”

Shiloh swallowed uneasily as she followed his gaze to the opening of the cavern. Maybe putting ideas in his head wasn’t the best approach. But simpering, whining and begging weren’t her forte. Raised by two older brothers, she had taught herself to be mentally tough and to stand up to them. She never kowtowed to men and she wasn’t about to start now.

She suddenly became aware that Hawk had seen to her comfort by placing her on the padded bedroll. He’d covered her up with the quilt that had been strapped to her horse.

Damn it, why was it taking so long for thoughts and observations to register in her mind? Obviously the incident that had thrust them together—and had left her in uncertain danger—rattled her.

He thrust a piece of pemmican at her. “You’re probably hungry. This is all I have to offer, Bernice,” he said with a knowing grin. “If you’ll do me the courtesy of turning sideways I’d like to shed these wet buckskins.”

Her eyes flew wide open in alarm. “You are going to disrobe in front of me?” she squawked, her voice two octaves higher than normal.

He rose to his feet with the graceful ease of a mountain cat then shrugged casually. “I planned to undress behind your back, but that’s really up to you. If you want to watch—”

“I certainly do not want to watch!” she loudly objected.

Shiloh glared at her taunting captor when he jerked the soggy fringed shirt over his head. The sight of his rippling muscles and his washboard belly had her struggling to breathe normally. Damn the man, he knew exactly how physically appealing he was. She cursed her feminine curiosity for conspiring against her, making her appraise every masculine inch of exposed skin.

Scowling at the ornery devil, Shiloh rolled onto her side and presented her back. She definitely disliked Logan Hawk. No matter what his secret agenda, he was comfortable with his masculinity. He also seemed to delight in ruffling her feathers for sport.

Blast it, she couldn’t figure out this man. One moment he seemed a dangerous threat and the next instant he was playfully teasing her. His unpredictability made it impossible to guess what he planned to do next.

“You can look now,” Hawk prompted a few minutes later.

She twisted around and blinked in surprise as she surveyed his dark breeches, shirt and vest. He had unbraided his long hair and tied it at the nape of his neck. But this more civilized veneer didn’t fool Shiloh one bit. She had witnessed Hawk’s daredevil escape from the desperadoes. She presumed he was at least part Indian, judging by his bronzed skin, high cheekbones, onyx eyes and raven-black hair. He was also an exceptionally skilled rider and capable frontiersman—as well as being about as far from a refined gentleman as he could get. Oddly enough, that was a point in Hawk’s favor—after her disappointing dealings with Antoine Troudeau.

He was responsible for her loss of humor, her faith in men and her self-confidence. She also questioned her desirability and appeal as a woman now. Shiloh had his duplicity and deceit to thank for that, damn him!

“Not that I mind you parading around in your skimpy garb,” he remarked, “but I recommend that you get dressed, too. This cave is cool and damp. You don’t need to catch a chill while nursing a bullet wound. By the way, I’m sorry you got in the way of a shot that was meant for me.”

He smiled apologetically and she hated that she was enormously affected by the expression that crinkled his eyes and cut dimples in his stubbled cheeks. She needed to remain on constant alert because men were untrustworthy scoundrels—especially one who took her captive. Yet, there was something about his matter-of-fact manner and sometimes impersonal demeanor that put her at ease. He was nothing like the pretentious aristocrats she’d met in New Orleans.

When he presented his back so she could dress, she reached into her carpetbag for the one and only set of dry clothes she had with her. She darted a wary glance at Hawk at irregular intervals while she shed her chemise then fastened herself into her blouse and riding breeches.

The fact that he made no attempt to pounce while she was dressing was another point in his favor. But Shiloh reminded herself that, given their unconventional introduction and this potentially dangerous situation, the jury was still out on Logan Hawk.

Friend or foe, she didn’t know. She wasn’t going to let her guard down for a single moment until she knew for certain.

Her thoughts scattered and suspicion settled solidly in her mind when she accidentally knocked one of the saddlebags sideways. It toppled from the pile and several banded stacks of bank notes tumbled onto the stone floor.

Her eyes rounded, realizing he was a thief! One who was obviously very good with disguises and impersonations. He was a shyster and scoundrel and she was a fool if she lowered her guard around him.

“You stole this stolen money from your cohorts,” she accused harshly. “Is that why they were shooting at you?” She cursed sourly as she gestured toward her left arm. “It is unfortunate that I was wounded when your vindictive friends were trying to fill you full of lead.”

Self-preservation demanded that she bolt to her feet and dart to safety. But the abrupt movement caused her head to spin and she swayed on her feet. When he tried to steady her, she hatchet-chopped his wrist until he let loose.

“If you plan to dispose of me eventually, then I’m not leaving the how and when up to you,” she snapped as she stamped forward. “If you’re going to shoot me then you might as well do it now.”

“Hold up, Bernice,” he called after her. “You’ve got the wrong idea here.” When she continued toward the mouth of the cave he scowled then came after her. “I know this looks bad—”

“I’ll say it does.” Again, she jerked her arm from his restraining grasp. “You’re a bandit and you’re no better than those men who were shooting at us.”

Hawk hooked his arm around her waist before she could burst through the curtain of rain. He gestured toward the pallet. “Go sit down and I’ll make us some coffee before I explain what’s going on.”

She tilted her chin rebelliously and squirmed for release. “I’m not thirsty. You can explain here and now.”

He bit back a grin when she flashed him one of those this-better-be-good glares. He set her to her feet, and—keeping a firm hold on her so she didn’t do something rash—he heeled-and-toed out of his left boot. When he showed her the badge concealed inside the hollow heel, she gaped at him. He extended the silver star for closer inspection.

Her luminous green eyes popped, then narrowed doubtfully. “A Texas Ranger?” She scoffed caustically. “Of course, you are. That’s why your friends are after you for stealing their loot. I’d hate to venture a guess as to what happened to the unfortunate lawman that you stole this badge from.”

When she tried to dart past him again on her way into the downpour, Hawk jerked her back beside him. “You aren’t going anywhere until I know for certain that the bandits aren’t out there, waiting to pick us off. If you want to get yourself killed—and obviously you do because you were paddling around alone in the river, miles from the protection of civilization—then that’s your business, lady. But I’m on assignment.” He tapped his chest. “I’m not about to jeopardize my mission because you don’t believe I’m who and what I say I am.”

He made a stabbing gesture toward the pallet. “Now…sit…down…damn it,” he said slowly and succinctly. “I’m going to make coffee.” He turned her toward the interior of the cave. “You won’t accomplish a damn thing by going outside, except getting wet again and maybe exposing our whereabouts to those cutthroats.”

Although she stamped over and sat down, her expression indicated she was none too happy about being ordered around. Well, too bad, he thought. He’d put forward his best manners for her benefit, but she was still being contrary and hostile. Nevertheless, she was going to do as he said and that was that.

“Are you still sticking with the name Bernice?” he asked as he scooped up the pot to brew coffee over the small campfire he had positioned near the cave entrance.

“Are you still sticking with the name Logan Hawk?”

“Yep, it’s my name. I’m half Apache,” he confided. “My father, John Fletcher Logan, was a white trapper and trader who came and went from our clan’s camp. My mother was the daughter of Gray Hawk, a medicine man, who decided that marrying his daughter to a white man, so that he could learn English and understand the way the white man thought, was good magic. My grandfather chose his totem as my totem because the hawk is known to be swift and fierce.”

He spread his arms wide. “Logan Hawk. Half white man’s name. Half Apache.”

He glanced over his shoulder, noting that she was still regarding him skeptically. He didn’t know what caused her to be so mistrusting, but he supposed he really couldn’t blame her. He had always been one to err on the side of caution, too.

“Now, would you mind telling me what the devil you were doing in the wilds without a bodyguard or chaperone?” he asked while the coffee boiled on the fire.

She crossed her arms over her chest and thrust out her chin. “Yes, I do mind. It’s none of your business.”

His lips twitched as he cast his feisty companion another glance. She might look alluring and feminine, but she was definitely a hellion at heart. He liked that about her—in an exasperated kind of way. He also liked the way she looked and felt when she was pressed familiarly against him….

Hawk squelched the titillating thought immediately. He expected better of himself. This wasn’t the time or the place. He avoided emotional attachments to females. His tumbleweed lifestyle and his lack of acceptance in white society taught him to expect little of nothing from anyone.

The less complications the better was his motto.

When the coffee was hot, he poured two cups. As he handed a cup to her, he noticed she still regarded him warily. She also refused to take a sip until he did. She was so mistrusting that she suspected he might drug or poison her.

Cautious didn’t begin to describe this woman. He drank his coffee and wondered who had made her so suspicious.

“Last year a Texas Ranger showed up in this neck of the woods,” she said between sips of steaming coffee. “He claimed that he had been sent to evict the Mexican sheepherders who were nesting on property that belonged to a local rancher named Frank Mills. Two men died and their wives headed for the hills, overcome with grief and fear.

“Although there wasn’t enough evidence to convict Frank of hiring that bloodthirsty gunslinger to impersonate a Ranger, we suspected he was responsible.” She stared him squarely in the eye. “So don’t expect me to take your word as gospel, Hawk. I only believe half of what I see and even less of what a man tells me.”

Hawk was aware of the incident she mentioned because he had been sent to apprehend the murdering imposter. His Apache upbringing always put him at the top of the list for tracking elusive, high-profile outlaws.

“Just so you know, the imposter paid the consequences,” he assured her solemnly.

Her delicately arched brows shot up. “Did he? You know that for a fact?”

He nodded grimly. “I saw to it that he never hurt another living soul, but he didn’t confess. There was no evidence to convict Frank Mills of conspiracy. A damn shame that.”

She looked as if she wanted to believe him, but he could see her withdrawing emotionally. He wondered if his mixed heritage and unconventional appearance contributed to her distrust. It did where most folks were concerned.

Whites had a tendency to judge him by his bronzed skin, dark eyes and jet-black hair. Not to mention the damage done by the white man’s one-sided bad publicity against Indian tribes. Most white folks didn’t care who he was on the inside. He was an Indian; therefore, he must be the enemy.

The Rangers battalion was one of the few exceptions. His band of brothers judged him on merit, not skin color.

Hawk discarded the unproductive thought and reminded himself that he was also guilty of holding a grudge against whites because of their unfair treatment of his people.

And his people were the Apache. Just because he was half-white didn’t change that fact.

“So…what do you intend to do with me?” she questioned.

“Take you home when the rain lets up,” he replied. “Just where is home, hmm?”

She scoffed at his subtle attempt to gain information. “Nice try, Hawk. Now tell me again why you have several bags of money and five unhappy banditos dogging your heels? Oh, yes, I’m supposed to believe that you’re one of the good guys and I’m supposed to place unfaltering faith and trust in your willingness to see me home safely. Right?” She glared at him. “Well, you’re wrong about that. I’m going to need more than your word that you aren’t a threat.”

Hawk scowled, nearly at the end of his patience with this prickly female. “Are you always this contrary, Bernice?”

“No, this is one of my good days.” A mischievous smile surfaced before she could bite it back. “I’m usually worse.”

“I’m starting to believe it,” he mumbled.