Prologue Read online

  It felt like a knife twisted in Chloe's heart to hear Travis described by this mercenary who made his living from the capture of human prey.

  She feverishly devised a desperate plan.

  "Oh, Mr. McGuire, is it? Yes, he was here. I took him in while he was ill with sunstroke, but he left town about a month ago. Good riddance, I say," she snapped, wagging her finger to emphasize her grievance. "He was rude and uncooperative, and gave me nothing but trouble. I have no idea where he went and I couldn't care less."

  Rankin studied her a moment with those dead blue eyes, as if weighing the truthfulness of her story. She suspected he was as accurate in his character judgments as was Travis.

  He didn't speak for several long seconds and she was just about to start nervously babbling when he said, "I thank you for your time, Miss Maitland." He put the dollar back in his pocket, then turned and walked toward the road, his spurs ringing again. The sound ridiculed her memory of the slim, dark-haired man she held in her heart.

  When he reached the fence he paused, his hand on the gate, then faced her once more. "I don't suppose McGuire is still around these parts after a month. But just in case you should see him, or remember something else about him, I'll be around town for the next day or so."

  "He'd better not come back here, if he knows what's good for him." Chloe matched him look for look. "Misfortune is not a town that welcomes strangers, Mr. Rankin."

  * * *

  An hour later the sun was down and Chloe went out to the shop to saddle Lester. She knew it was a daring thing she planned, to try to find her way in the dark to a place she hadn’t seen for ten years. To go to a man she wasn’t sure would even be civil to her after the horrible thing she’d said to him.

  She’d braided her hair and put on her oldest skirt. To stay warm she jammed Frank’s old hat on her head and put on one of his plaid wool shirts as a jacket. In the kitchen she wrapped a loaf of bread and some leftover fried chicken in a dish towel to take with her.

  Chloe hoisted the saddle to Lester’s back. Jace Rankin must have possessed the instincts of a bloodhound to have followed Travis to this remote corner. She imagined being on the wrong end of that Henry rifle with those eyes above the sight and she shivered. Rankin would shoot a man without a second thought. She tightened the cinch strap and quietly led the horse out to the dooryard. Lester did not want to leave her stall at this hour and kept trying to turn back.

  “Lester, be a good girl,” Chloe hissed as she held the reins tightly and looked up and down the road. At the other end of town, past Doc’s, Chloe could make out the light in the saloon windows. Faint piano notes floated up the street, but otherwise the town was quiet.

  She swung onto Lester’s back and pointed her toward the hills on the south rim. “Come on, girl, let’s go,” she said and nudged the horse forward.

  * * *

  Far down the street in front of the dark silhouette of the old hotel, a match flared briefly before a pair of ice-blue eyes as Jace Rankin lit a cheroot. Leaning against the hitching rail, he watched the blacksmith's daughter set a southerly course to meet the man he was searching for. That namby-pamby schoolteacher had been right. McGuire was still around and Chloe Maitland was going to lead Jace right to his hiding place. He smiled to himself with the knowledge that after all these months, his search was finally over.

  * * *

  The moon was as bright as a lamp hanging in the starred sky. Chloe was grateful for the light but it offered no warmth against the chill breeze and she tightened the wool shirt with one hand. All around her the night was alive with sounds of nocturnal animals scuttling through the low brush and announcing her passage. Lester, realizing she had no choice in the matter, settled into a steady, dependable gait as they crossed the flat terrain to the hills.

  Chloe tried to maintain an easy grip on the reins but nervous as she was, it proved a chore. She kept one thought uppermost in her mind—that she was only going to Travis to tell him about Jace Rankin, then she'd turn right around and go home. She would not try to read in his eyes whether he hated her or missed her. And this time he wouldn't be able to make her reveal her thoughts, as he had so often when they were together.

  She reached the foot of the low rocky hills and urged Lester on. They carefully picked their way up the old path, worn smooth by years of wagons and horses making the same trip. She searched for the scant landmarks her memory allowed her to recall but had trouble locating them. Once, she found she'd gone in a complete circle and came out at the same spot where she'd begun.

  Finally getting her bearings she reached a pile of rocks marking the grave of prospector, Jim Clancy, who'd died twenty years earlier when a boulder broke loose from the cliff above and crushed him. After his burial, the boulder had been rolled to his grave where it sat as a headstone. Over the years superstitious miners would pass and throw another rock on Clancy's grave for luck, until a sizable mound was erected. Frank's claim was just beyond Clancy's.

  It was getting too dark to let Lester find the path. She climbed down from the horse and carefully led her toward the parcel Travis was working on. She couldn't see much but in the distance she heard the faint rushing of water in El Diablo, the 140-mile trough excavated to bring in the water necessary for placer mining.

  Gravel crunched beneath her shoes and Lester was getting skittish. She strained to see ahead, looking for a campfire or a lantern, anything. She was positive she was close to the claim. But the path was deserted and silent except for the bubble of El Diablo and the call of a lone night bird. Lester pulled back on the reins, her frightened whinny making Chloe flinch.

  She was beginning to regret her impulsive decision to come up here at night. It had seemed like a good idea to use the darkness as a shield but it was working against her. She took one more step when suddenly, from behind, a crushing arm closed around her neck and she heard the click of a gun hammer right next to her ear. Lester shied but Chloe maintained a death grip on the reins. The cold point of a gun shoved against her temple. She froze, pulled up on tiptoe, every muscle stiff with a terror so great her heart felt like it would explode. Adrenaline flooded her and sent a prickling sensation to her armpits.

  "You move one eyelash and I'll splatter your brains all over your horse," a low, furious voice warned. A voice she knew.

  "Travis," she cried in a hoarse gasp, "please don't hurt me."

  His arm fell away instantly and he holstered the Colt. Turning her roughly toward the moonlight, he knocked off her big-brimmed hat. He studied her, then swiftly touched her face and hair with both hands as if to confirm what his eyes told him.

  "Chloe," he said finally, his voice husky with fear at what had nearly happened. He pulled her into his embrace for a brief moment, pressing her head to his shoulder. Then he held her back at arm's length, his tone and expression hard. "For a minute I thought you were Jace Rankin. I almost shot you. What the hell are you doing up here in the dark, dressed like that?"

  Her legs, locked at the knees a moment before, were now as rubbery as a newborn's. She wanted to keep leaning against his tall form, inhaling the familiar scent of him through his shirt, but he pushed her away.

  "What do you want?" he repeated.

  She took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow her heart, then rubbed her windpipe where his arm had bruised it. She'd felt encouraged in that instant when he recognized her and hugged her, hopeful that he still had some kind feeling for her, even if it was only gratitude. But now his anger had taken over. Just as she suspected, he despised her. Her back and shoulders tensed as she struggled beneath the weight of his punishing coldness. She would deliver her message and go.

  "Rankin's here."

  "What do you mean 'here'?" he demanded, looking over her shoulder into the darkness. His stomach clenched at the thought that she might be so vengeful about his leaving that she'd lead Jace Rankin to this hiding place. "Did you tell him where I am?"

  "Do you really think I'd do that? Don't you t
rust me at all?" Chloe asked, her arms held wide to emphasize the question. She could see his frown in the moonlight that made him look as gray as a corpse.

  Travis had forgotten himself in the moment of recognition, when he'd realized who she was. It had felt so good to hold her for that instant. But he remembered the expression on her face the morning he'd left her, the name she'd called him, the pain that had followed. "You know how it is. Jailbirds can't afford to trust anyone."

  She winced as he added his razor-sharp sarcasm to her burden of guilt, but her back remained straight and tight. "Travis, I'm sorry for that—more than you know. I didn't mean it."

  He ignored her penitence and returned to the subject. "What about Rankin?"

  Wouldn't he even acknowledge her apology? This was how it was to be between them? Pride pulled her chin up and put an edge on her words. "He's in Misfortune, hunting for you, asking questions. I talked to him not more than two hours ago. I thought you'd want to know." She turned to leave, not wanting to spend another moment in his presence, loving him, hating him.

  "Chloe, wait a minute," he said, gripping her elbow. She wasn't going to drop this stingy crumb of information on him and then go, leaving him to wonder about the rest.

  "Let go of my arm," she snapped. "I'm going home."

  "Back to your whiny mama's boy? How does it feel to be kissed by someone with no lips, Chloe?" His tone was scornful, but tense inquiry lay under the words.

  She pointedly looked down at her arm where he held it, then up at this face. "What difference does it make to you? It's none of your business."

  Travis softened a little then and released her. "No, it isn't. Come on, come and sit down."

  She did not soften at all. "Why? So you can insult me again?"

  He sighed. "No. At least come to the fire and give me the details about Rankin." He looked into her set face. "Please."

  At length she nodded. "All right."

  He retrieved her hat, then led the way to his campsite several yards ahead through the brush. It was settled against the slope of another hill. There a small fire burned and he'd pitched his tent.

  He tied Lester to a fence post he'd driven deep into the rocky soil for his own gelding. Then he sat Chloe on a weather-bleached stump near the fire and dropped to one knee in front of her.

  The flames illuminated his upturned face. He was still shaving every day, she noticed, even though there was no one to see him up here. But he looked exhausted, like he worked hard and never slept. She felt such a rush of affection and tenderness her throat ached. She closed her eyes against the hurt for just a moment, resisting the urge to pull his head to her lap and stroke the heavy hair that brushed his shoulders.

  "Tell me what happened," he said.

  She explained Rankin's visit to her backyard, careful to keep her voice steady. "I'm not sure he believed me when I told him I don't know where you are."

  He gazed at the ground and shrugged. "He probably didn't. I've never been able to avoid him for long. He's very good at what he does."

  "Yes, making money on other people's troubles. I never once thought he'd find you in Misfortune, miles from nowhere," she said.

  He glanced into her face. "I know you didn't but I'm not surprised he's here." Then almost to himself, “Jace knows how I think."

  Chloe caught this suddenly familiar reference, but he continued before she could remark upon it.

  "Anyway, thanks for coming up here to warn me. Sorry if I scared you back there." He reached out and almost touched her hand but then pulled back, trying to squelch his feelings for her. He liked the long braid hanging down her back. Looking at her now, he wondered how he could have mistaken her for Rankin. Even in the dark, the plaid shirt and big hat she wore could do nothing to disguise her soft curves and feminine face. His nerves were beginning to fray, he supposed. "You look good, Chloe."

  The compliment surprised her and she ducked her head, shy for a moment. She was glad to feel the tension between them ease, even if it was only temporary.

  "You made the payment on the house?" he asked.

  She nodded. "Yes, I'm safe for another year. How have things been going for you? Are you well?" He looked so tired and worn she was almost sorry for having suggested this lonely exile to him.

  "I've scraped a few dollars out of the ground. No mother lodes. But you were right, it's hard work." He opened his hands to her like a supplicant to show her the half-healed blisters and calluses there.

  She bent forward and held his wounded hands in hers to examine them. Their heads bumped. "I have an ointment for this."

  He chuckled. "Yes, I know you do. I remember my experience with your ointment on my face."

  She laughed, too, her face mere inches from his. "Oh, so do I! You swore at me with amazing energy for a man near death."

  Then, it was as if they both remembered him putting the ointment on her hands.

  His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips and stayed there for several seconds. All he had to do was lean forward a little to cover those lips with his own. He knew they would be soft and lush, just like the rest of her. He'd find solace in her arms and he'd sleep the healing, dreamless sleep he had the first time they made love.

  No. He wasn't about to ask her for anything. Being tired and lonely and missing her were not good enough reasons to ask her to spend the night. Deliberately breaking the spell, he pulled his hands away and rolled back off his knee and stood with his arms crossed.

  Chloe felt the abrupt shift of his attitude and recognized his withdrawal into himself merely by his stance. When she lifted her eyes to look at his closed face, the memory of their last parting hovered like a specter between them. She would go home but not before she explained the wound she'd inflicted. She rose from the stump and took two steps closer to him.

  "Travis, I have to talk to you about that day you left."

  He nodded but didn't speak. His face was blank.

  This was so difficult. It wasn't hard for her to apologize. She'd already done that. It was hard to risk telling him the secrets in her heart, both that day and now. What if he didn't feel the same? What if he didn't even understand? Well, nothing could be as bad as what she'd lived through since he left.

  She took a deep breath and held it for a moment. “That day . . . oh, God, that day was so wonderful and so awful." The memory burned like a hot iron and made the words tumble out in a cascade of pain. "I woke up next to you, feeling really safe for the first time since I was a girl."

  She thought she saw an instant of commiseration in his face, but the poor light made it hard to tell, and then it was gone. She lifted her eyes to look at the moon, now high and white and cold, and laced her fingers together. "Then you told me you were leaving, that you were running from Rankin. I couldn't understand it. Now that I've met him, I know why." She turned back to him, catching and holding his eyes with hers. "But I think you were running from me, too. And that hurt so much, I wanted to die. So even though I love you, I tried to hurt you back. I've missed you every moment you've been gone, but it took all the courage I have to come up here and see you again."

  "I thought you were getting married. What about Peterson, your fiancé?" No one but Travis could make Evan sound like a disgusting affliction.

  She stared into the yellow flames of the fire, trying to decide what to say. How could she tell him that when she'd given herself to Travis on that night, he'd forever consigned her to a life with two options, to be with him or no one?

  "I couldn't marry him or even bear the thought of him touching me after that night we . . . after you . . .

  Travis could not respond. The bleak honesty of her words and her small, quavering voice slashed through him. He wanted to take her in his arms again, to smother her in hungry kisses. But he didn't move. This matter of the heart was a frightening thing. Intense emotions that had been cold ashes for years now reignited in his soul: joy, passion, empathy, remorse for hurting her, and, most unbelievably, hope. And all these emotions added
up to produce one inescapable truth.

  He was in love with Chloe Maitland.

  There could be no more denying this, no more hiding from it. He realized he'd fought it from the beginning. Even when she was the biggest pain in the neck he'd ever known, she had captivated him. Now it was more painful to imagine spending the rest of his years without her.

  What could he offer her? he wondered bitterly. A life on the run with no security? He did not have the right to ask her to give up everything she'd struggled so hard to save to go with him. He jammed his hands into his back pockets and tipped his face toward the sky, as if the answer might be found there.

  Misreading his silence, she despaired. He didn't care. She gave up her seat on the stump. "It isn't important. now, I guess," she said. She walked over to Lester and untied her.

  Her actions jolted him from his thoughts. "Wait a minute, where do you think you're going?" He couldn't let her leave. Not yet.

  She faced him. He looked annoyed again and the firelight accentuated his frown. "I came up here to tell you about Rankin, and I did. Now I'm going home."

  "You can't go back down there alone, in the dark." Surely she didn't think he would let her do that.

  "I certainly can and I will," she retorted, Lester's reins in her hand. Then she waved her arm at the campsite. "There's no reason for me to stay here, is there, Travis." It was a flat statement, not a question, and she mourned inside at the thought. "Besides, I'm not afraid of anything, remember?"

  Her haughty bravery was too thin to disguise the weary hopelessness he heard in her voice. The sound of it alarmed him; he'd known that kind of desolation and what it could do to a person. He half turned from her, pacing back and forth over a short track. Damn it, he hadn't meant to let her get so close to him. But she had.

  Still, he wasn't sure he could lay his soul bare before her and knock down the last wall standing between them. Could he take that chance again? He turned back to her and looked again at the one person who'd given him trust and comfort when everything else in life had failed him. The hell with it, he thought, his mind made up. If he didn't tell her how he felt, she would be gone. And this time he knew he'd never see her again.