Rocky Mountain Maverick. Gayle Wilson

it was midafternoon, his excuse for leaving wasn’t terribly convincing. Given a chance to be on their own and without supervision, most cowboys would find a way to keep from going back before suppertime. It was almost expected.

      “What’s the rush? Quarrels will just find something else for us to do. Relax.”

      Nate’s lips flattened, but he didn’t argue. He led the mare over to an outcropping of rock and sat down. His mount began nibbling at the few patches of rough grass growing nearby. He signaled to the dogs and they lay down in a shady spot.

      Michael made a pretense of walking the gelding for a few more minutes before he limped over to join Nate. Instead of sitting down beside him and taking a chance of scaring the kid off, he put his left foot up on the rock, resting his weight on his sound right leg. The position relieved some of the stress on the damaged knee.

      “So how long you been here?”

      “About six months.” The kid was ostensibly watching the two horses, which had begun ranging farther afield in search of more promising grazing.

      “And the others? How long for them?”

      “Less.” The admission was reluctantly made. “Nobody stays long.”

      “Except you.”

      “I told you. I like it here.”

      Despite the determined front the kid was putting up, Michael’s conviction that he was on the run was still strong. There wasn’t much point in trying to push past this kind of stonewalling, however.

      Maybe after he’d been here a while and earned Nate’s trust, the boy would be willing to confide in him. Until then, all he could do was keep an eye on Beaumont and at the same time do the job he’d been sent here for. Maybe if he couldn’t get Nate to talk about himself, he could get him to talk about the Half Spur.

      “You like this place despite the weirdness?”

      Nate turned his head, looking directly at him. His eyes were carefully blank.

      “Those blood samples, for example,” Michael went on. “Nobody knows what they’re for or where they’re sent. You don’t think that’s weird? And Quarrels? Don’t tell me you don’t think there’s plenty strange about him.” No answer. By this time, of course, he wasn’t expecting one. “It makes me wonder what’s really going on here. And since you’ve been here a while…”

      He let the sentence trail encouragingly. There was no response.

      “Suit yourself,” he said after the silence stretched long and empty.

      He pushed off the rock he’d been propped against, intending to admit defeat by going to round up the horses. As he put his left foot on the ground, the damaged knee buckled unexpectedly, throwing him off balance. He put out his hand, grabbing for something solid to keep from falling.

      His reaching fingers encountered Nate Beaumont’s shoulder, closing over it like a lifeline. With its support, he managed to right himself. As soon as he had, he loosened his grip on the kid.

      Nate jumped to his feet, assuming a fighter’s crouch directly in front of him. In his right hand he held the equestrian knife he’d lent Michael minutes before, its short blade exposed.

      Given the speed with which it had appeared, Michael realized belatedly that the boy must have already had the knife out. His hand had rested on the rock near his leg, the blade obviously hidden alongside it. Open and ready.

      Michael straightened, leaning away from the weapon. He held up his hands, shoulder high, their palms toward the kid in a classically submissive posture.

      “Whoa,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”

      The boy’s eyes were feral, his entire body tensed and waiting. “Stay the hell away from me,” he said, his voice as menacing as the knife he held.

      “Look, whatever you’re thinking—”

      Michael had made the mistake of lowering his hands as he talked. The knife moved, threatening his gut.

      “What I think is that you ask too many questions.”

      “I thought I could help,” Michael said, his tone quiet and reasoned.

      “I don’t need your help. Or your concern.”

      “Okay. Whatever you say. Just put the knife down.”

      “So we can talk?”

      The tone of that mocking question was cynical and distrustful. And more bitter than the situation seemed to warrant.

      Maybe he had pushed too hard, Michael acknowledged, but pulling a knife seemed an overreaction that needed some explanation.

      “We don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”

      “How’d you find me?”

      Confused, Michael shook his head, keeping his eyes on the blade. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “I’m talking about how handy you thought a knife would be. How you ought to get one.”

      Again Michael shook his head. “You’ve lost me. First of all, I didn’t find you, because I wasn’t looking for you. And what I said about the knife? That was just making conversation. It didn’t mean a thing.”

      Nate laughed, the sound abrupt, lacking any hint of amusement. The blade didn’t waver. Although he was holding the knife properly—blade up, handle down—there was something about his stance that spoke of desperation rather than intimidation.

      “Just like before, I guess.”

      “Kid, I don’t know what happened to you, or who did what, but I didn’t come here looking for you. I’ve never had any contact with you before yesterday.”