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.
A series of barks signaled Rooney’s movements, and Finn settled his weight in the saddle, his face even grimmer. Out of habit he loosened the rifle in the scabbard, a hard knot in his belly as he urged his horse downward, ducking to miss some low-hanging branches. It was going to be one hell of a ride. He just hoped he got her before whoever was after her did.
Pushing his mount and his horsemanship to the limit, Finn battled his way through the rough terrain, one forbidding thought replaying in his brain. If she were to lose her bearings and stumble down the steep bank and into the river, she wouldn’t stand a chance in hell. And he wouldn’t stand a chance in hell of getting her out.
Every minute seemed like an hour, and by the time he finally found a safe, shallow place to ford the churning, glacier-fed river, a good thirty minutes had passed. And by the time Gus scrambled up the bank, the snow was falling so heavily, Finn could barely make out anything.
Breaking through a thick stand of trees on the periphery of the natural meadow, Finn squinted into the blur of white, his heart missing two solid beats when he spotted her on the ground, Rooney whining and nuzzling her head.
Dread shooting through him, Finn pushed his mount into a gallop. Reaching her, he reined up, and he was out of the saddle before the gelding stopped moving. She was lying there, so still. So very still.
Dropping to his knees beside her, he stripped off his gloves, his frozen breath hanging in the air as he pressed his fingers against the carotid artery in her neck. He found a pulse, and a feeling of relief pumped through his chest. She had a pulse. And he could see her breath in the cold air. That at least gave him something to work with.
Rooney whined and nuzzled her again, and Finn pushed the dog away, his voice gruff when he spoke. “Down, boy. Give me some room here.”
The figure on the ground stirred, and with a massive effort pushed herself up, the fingers on one bound hand closing around a grapefruit-sized rock on the ground. Realizing she had every intention of slugging him, Finn grasped her bound wrists, humor lifting one corner of his mouth. If she had enough juice left to slug him, she was in better shape than he expected. Muttering something, she tried to jerk free from his hold. As she gave a savage twist, the black garment on her head—the thing that looked like a black hangman’s hood—slipped over her eyes, partially blinding her.
Grasping