reassurance connected to a foreign sense of possessiveness. Sam cocked a sandy eyebrow at him, a bit of amusement lightening his gaze as he pulled out his makings. He gestured to Desi with the packet.
“I get the impression this one could spout gospel and those three would label it devil worship.”
Beneath Caine’s fingers, the woman’s muscles tightened to rock hard ridges. “Jesus H. Christ.”
Sam rolled a smoke, the sharpness in the move the only indication of his disgust. “It gets better.”
It would. “What?”
He reached into his pocket for a lucifer. “They’re requesting you return them to their homes immediately.”
“That’s the plan.”
He struck the lucifer on the side of his boot. “But they don’t want her brought along.”
“What do they think I’m going to do, leave her as a treat for whoever comes calling?” Desi flinched. He caught a flash of blue as she cut him a glance from under her lashes. He took his hand out from under her coat. As she pulled the lapels closed, he stroked her back, gentling her worries. He wouldn’t leave her.
Sam lit the cigarette. “Don’t think they’d be averse to the idea.”
“Goddamn!”
“I don’t mind.” The soft statement rode his exasperation, feeding it.
“Well, I sure as he—” he caught himself in time “—heck do.”
Sam flicked the match to the ground and took a draw on his smoke. “The women claim they won’t go if she goes with them.”
“So?”
“Just checking how you feel on that.”
Beneath his hands, Desi’s bones felt as delicate as bird wings. It was hard to believe she’d fought as hard as she had or been so successful with so little, but sometimes it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight as much as the size of the fight in the dog, and this woman had plenty of fight. He admired that. “Tell them when I say mount up, they’ll mount, or they’ll walk tied behind, but one way or another, they’ll go.”
A strident screech from one of the other women snapped his head around. From the pitch he would have assumed the camp was under immediate attack, but in reality, the only one who looked threatened was Tracker. Even from where he stood, Caine could see the anger roll off the women flanking him. The vehemence. Hands waved, fingers pointed, and then, as if it would add emphasis to their point, the women moved in.
Tracker drove the three women back with a slice of his hand and a sharp utterance Caine couldn’t make out. Turning on his heel, he stalked toward them, his long black hair fanning behind him, emphasizing his irritation. He touched the brim of his black hat in deference to Desi as he got close, his expression displaying none of the anger Caine could see simmering under his skin. “This the one the padre was concerned about?”
“Yup. Desi, this is Tracker Ochoa.”
Caine couldn’t blame Tracker for the shake of the head. It was hard to reconcile Father Gerard’s description of “a fragile flower of womanhood” with the hellion who had held off three men with nothing more than sheer grit.
“Hell of a fight you put up, ma’am.”
Desi ducked her head. Her “Thank you” was a wisp of sound as she all but disappeared into the coat. If she was hoping to dispel interest, Caine could have told her she was angling down the wrong path. The contradiction of all that fire banked behind a wall of demure shyness was the perfect recipe to raise a man’s interest. Tracker’s more so than most. For all that he was one scary son of a bitch, he was the softest man Caine had ever seen when it came to women.
Tracker jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “The ladies demand to talk to—” he lifted his nose and pitched his deep baritone to a high falsetto “—whomever is in command.” The irritation in the imitation reflected Tracker’s sentiments on the matter. Whereas Desi had earned the big man’s respect, the other women had apparently stirred up nothing but disgust.
“Appears to me they’re not in a position to demand anything.”
“Give them a chance, they’ll argue that into the ground.”
Caine didn’t intend to give them any chance at all. Giving Desi’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, he stepped back, settled his Stetson on his head and bit back the anger that rose too swiftly these days. “Then I guess this is their lucky day. I’m available.”
Desi breathed a sigh of relief as Caine took his hands off her shoulders. He was simply too much, from the way he watched her with those intense green eyes that seemed to uncover everything she wanted hidden, to the way his chin squared beneath his generous mouth. Everything about him was raw and untamed and uncompromisingly masculine. The lines that bracketed that mouth could indicate either a tendency to frown or smile. Truth be told, she couldn’t imagine so intense a man smiling, but at the same time he didn’t have that negative feel to him that she associated with bitterness. The hat he kept pulled low over his coffee-brown hair only heightened the impression of power. Angled low over his brow, it shaded his eyes and emphasized the command set into the rugged structure of his face. He wasn’t strictly handsome, but she bet there wasn’t a woman in the territory who didn’t stop and speculate when he passed. He had a presence that just screamed danger, while at the same time that innate strength beckoned with the seductive lure of safety. Both messages were delivered with equal strength, leaving it to the imagination which trait would be the one a woman would find in her bed should she be reckless enough to extend an invitation.
Not that she would ever extend an invitation. Desi shivered. The last year had cured her of all girlish illusions to the true nature of men, and as soon as she located her sister, she was going to find at least one place in this world where she could live her life in peace.
Desi watched as Caine crossed the clearing to talk to her fellow captives, his long legs eating up the distance with amazing ease, his muscled buttocks, perfectly outlined by the straps of his chaps, flexing with every step. Nothing in the easy roll of his gait or the set of his wide shoulders indicated impatience, but he was impatient. She’d felt it in his touch a second before he’d stepped away. Part of her hoped he’d unleash that frustration on Mavis, who seemed to feel it was her God-given right to be judge, jury and executioner over all that came into her domain.
Desi grabbed another fold of the coat into her fingers, the lingering warmth from Caine’s body welcome, the surge of his scent not as unpleasant as it should be, and watched as Mavis drew herself to her full height. Tall for a woman, with big bones and an hourglass figure that men admired, Mavis had presence and she was used to getting her way, in one manner or another.
Her two friends, Abigail and Sadie, stood in her shadow, as always, adding their will to hers, blindly following her lead. As one they stood, watching the big Ranger’s approach. From the expression on Mavis’s face, he was about to get an earful. The woman wanted Desi gone—had been campaigning for it for a year—and clearly saw this as a chance to obtain their goal.
Desi would have gladly granted Mavis’s wish, but there’d never been an opportunity. Until now. This was her chance. She couldn’t mess it up. A shudder came out of nowhere, a debilitating mixture of cold and panic starting in her core and radiating outward.
“Don’t you worry, ma’am,” the blond man said, the kindness in his drawl at odds with the hard implacability of his expression. “There isn’t a soul born who can tell Caine Allen what to do. Those women can fuss all they want, but when the dust settles, you’ll be riding with us.”
That was not what she needed to hear right now. “I don’t want to go back there.”
All that statement got her was a raised eyebrow from the sandy-blond man as he blew out a stream of smoke, along with a “Can’t say that I blame you” from the savagely handsome, completely terrifying Tracker.
She