told me nothing has been left undone. But now there is one more thing I’ll required.” Taking a pen and small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, Rafe scribbled a name and telephone number. “Call this number, ask for Tyree.” Tearing the page from the notebook he handed it to Collins. “Tell him I need El Mirlo immediately, then give him specific directions to the camp.”
“Yes, sir.” Collins jumped to attention, Rafe half expected he would salute. “El Mirlo. The Blackbird.” There was awe in the younger man’s tone as he translated the Spanish name of the horse nearly as distinguished as Blackjack. “I’ll see to it right away.”
“One more thing before you go.” Scanning the task force, Rafe detained the ranger with those few short words before he could race away. “The gun, where is he?”
Joe Collins gave him the same odd look he had before, a light flush staining his cheeks. “She, sir,” he managed at last, as if he weren’t sure how his answer would be received. Taking a fold of papers from a hip pocket he offered them to Rafe. “I was instructed to give you this, a dossier explaining who she is.”
Halting in the act of slipping the notebook back in his jacket, Rafe took the papers from him, tucking them away, as well, without a glance. His narrow look swept over the ranger, pinning him in place. “She?”
“Yes, sir.” Another uneasy shrug. “We thought you knew.”
“Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Courtenay?”
Rafe’s turn was slow, measured, the gaze that only seconds ago had held the ranger in place, swept over the woman who stood a half dozen paces away. And though there was no reason to think he’d ever seen her before, nor any woman resembling her, he was struck by a strong sense of déjà vu. A sensation to be explored later, rather than now, as he turned his undeterred regard on her.
Instead of the common uniform, she was in civilian dress. Boots, jeans, Western shirt, the customary Stetson. He noted she wore a holstered Colt belted at her hip, and no spurs on her boots.
“You move very quietly,” he observed softly as he finished his perusal.
“What you mean is I move very quietly, for a woman.” There was no rancor in her voice. One look warned she had little time or patience with petty angers.
“What I meant,” Rafe replied patiently, “is what I said. You move very quietly, for anyone.”
A slight bow afforded him the point. “Should I say thank you?”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who would waste her breath on false platitudes.”
She chuckled quietly, the humor genuine, giving him another point. “Just how do I strike you, Mr. Courtenay?”
Rafe was not surprised that she knew him. The camp as a whole had been informed by Patrick that he was coming, and what he would expect. “That would require some thought and consideration.”
The laugh again, low, smoky. In the right place, the right circumstance, a little sexy. “Of course,” she agreed. “But you’re a quick study, aren’t you, Mr.—”
“Rafe. From you, I prefer Rafe.”
“If you like.” By her manner she told him his name was of so little consequence at the moment, she would call him George, if he liked. “Now, Rafe.” She moved a step closer. “About that quick study.”
Letting her feel the weight of his scrutiny, he took her measure slowly, with a piercing thoroughness. Another woman might have flinched or blushed, facing such total invasion of her person. But not this one. He liked that, found it challenging, as he drew his study out more than was needed. After a long, long moment, in which Joe Collins’s gaping attention bounced like a racket ball between them, Rafe’s gaze returned to settle on her face.
“All done?” She stood with her hands at her hips, her feet apart, her chin jutted an unmistakable fraction.
“For now.” A cryptic answer, drawing little reaction. She was a cool one.
Her head tilted a bit, a brow lifted. “Well?”
“Do you want the particulars?”
“However you like it, Mr. Courtenay.”
“Rafe,” he reminded.
“Rafe,” she parroted in droll concession.
Silence fell like a gauntlet. Joe Collins stared and waited. Rafe was first to react. “All right,” he mused, tugging the tie he hadn’t taken time to remove down another notch. “The particulars, as I see them. You’re five-five, without the boots, and weigh, maybe, one fifteen with them. Shoulder-length hair. Dark brown, if not black, maybe with a hint of red in sunlight. On a bet, a little unruly at times. Tied, at the moment, with whatever was handy. On the trail, I suspect it will be tucked under the Stetson.”
He waited for the slight acknowledging bow of her head then resumed a concise cataloging of her features. “Oval face, high cheekbones. Fine-textured skin, a tint that suggests it tans easily and rarely bums. A nose with a slight deviation. From a break, I would surmise. Brows, arched and fine, dark as night.
“Your eyes...” He paused only to draw a breath. “In this garish light I can’t say, but too dark for blue or gray, too pale for true brown. Possibly the color of old sherry?” It was a question that begged no answer as he moved on to finer, surer points. “A belligerent chin that telegraphs your moods, and a mouth made for smiling.”
In a short pause in the tabulation, there was a clash of gazes. One chin angled another inch. Neither man nor woman smiled.
With a restrained quirk of his lips Rafe returned to his commentary. “As Simon would expect and demand, you’re obviously in good physical condition. A little slender. Yet, I would wager, strong for your size. You’ve a trim figure, a little boyish for my taste, but appealing.”
Dragging in another, slower breath, his unwavering gaze probing the shadows cast by the Stetson, he murmured, “And no matter how you dress down, no man in his right mind would ever forget you’re a woman.” The quirk became a small smile playing over his face. “Shall I go on, Miss...?”
“O’Hara,” Joe Collins interjected, flustered that in his preoccupation he’d been remiss in common courtesy. “Valentina,” he finished lamely. Both their names has been buzzed through the camp. She’d had the advantage of learning of Rafe Courtenay from camp gossip and speculation.
“O’Hara,” Rafe mused aloud over the name. It suited her to be Irish. It suited very well. “Shall I go on, then, Miss O’Hara?”
“By all means,” she responded with the first hint of strained grace. “Perhaps you’d like to look at my teeth, to judge my age.”
Rafe allowed himself a chuckle. “No need. Your face and body say you’re twenty-two. You’re eyes say thirty-two, thirty-three. I put my trust in the eyes.”
“Touché.” Another point for this man who had become her quiet adversary. “An excellent guess. I’m thirty-three.”
Turning, moving toward the tent she’d just left, she stopped at a table set before it. Carefully, she lifted a cloth covering a dismantled rifle. The oiled barrel was gleaming ebony under the yellow lights; the polished stock, warm mahogany. The tool of a perilous trade, and well cared for.
Her fingers trailed familiarly over burnished wood, curled briefly around the trigger, then lifted from it. Dropping the cloth over the weapon again, she faced him once more as abruptly as she’d turned away. “You disappoint me, Mr. Courtenay.”
“How so, Miss O’Hara?” They were back to formalities, the fencing was over, the gloves were off. “Disappointing you is the last thing I’d want to do.”
Valentina laughed. There was wry amusement in its inflection, and in her demeanor. “What you’ve described any eye or any mirror could tell. I expected better from you. More insight. More