The Renegade And The Heiress. Judith Duncan

worse than this, and taking into account how much she was going to slow them down, they could still make it from here to his place in nine or ten hours—providing she could take that kind of physical punishment. And it would be punishing. The ride back would be no picnic. Even with the falling snow, he was going to make damned sure their trail was nearly impossible to track. And that would mean some hard riding.

      The horses were in the makeshift corral, their haunches turned into the storm, their long winter coats dusted with snow. He had fed them each a flake of hay before he went down to the creek, and he had given Rooney his morning ration of kibbles. But the dog was nowhere to be seen—likely off chasing rabbits. Finn stepped under the overhang of the log cabin, a gust of wind sending a flurry of snow under the eaves. There was a sharpness in the air that hadn’t been there before, and Finn compressed his mouth. The bite in the wind was a sure sign it was going to get ugly. He wasn’t looking forward to the next few hours, that was for damned sure.

      Pressing down the latch, Finn stamped the snow off his boots and opened the door, the flame in the kerosene lamp wavering in the draft. He had left that lamp burning all night. He knew what it was like, to wake up in pitch black, your heart pounding, not knowing where you were.

      He closed the door silently behind him, then propped his rifle against the wall and set the pail by the stove, his gaze shifting to the bunk. She hadn’t moved since he’d gone out. With the flap of the sleeping bag pulled over her head, the only indication there was actually a person under the mound of sleeping bags was that he could see the toes of one foot. If she was that huddled in, he doubted she was going to appreciate the chill in the brisk mountain air.

      He shucked his coat, then opened the door on the stove and added another log, the crackle and snap of burning resin perforating the silence.

      A muffled voice came from the bed. “I’m not going to like getting out of bed, am I?”

      Finn closed the stove door and latched it, then set a pan of water on to heat. He glanced back at the bunk, a touch of humor hovering around his mouth. “I think we can safely assume that.”

      “Damn.” She pushed back the flap and struggled up on one elbow, her hair absolutely wild around her, her dark green sweater crushed and wrinkled. She scrubbed her hand across her face, then opened her eyes really wide, as if trying to get them to stay that way. She looked at him, a disgruntled tone in her voice when she spoke. “Don’t you ever get cold?”

      “No.”

      She flopped back down and pulled the sleeping bag up over her shoulders, snuggling deep in the warmth. “Great. I had to hook up with an ice man.” Then, as if recollection had come back in a rush, she abruptly rolled onto her back and covered her face with her hand, a tremor running through her.

      Finn knew from experience that the worst thing he could do was to give her time to reconnect with the horror of what had happened to her. He spoke, his voice clipped. “We’ve got bad weather moving in. If we’re to stay ahead of it, we’re going to have to hit the road pretty damned quick.”

      He watched her struggle for control, and he saw her physically pull it together. His earlier estimation of her climbed up a notch. She also had one hell of a lot of grit.

      Her face fixed like cast wax, she rose up off the bunk, her shoulders square, her chin held high as she slipped her feet into her shoes. “Excuse me,” she said, her tone royal. “I need to make a trip outside.” Her whole body stiff with indignation, she picked up his coat and put it on, then went to the door. “If you can give me ten minutes, I’ll be ready to go.”

      With far more force than necessary, she slammed the door shut behind her, and Finn heard all the snow slide from the tin roof. Then he heard her swear. Great. Now both her shoes and her coat would be wet. Resting his hands on his hips, he let out a sigh and looked at the ceiling. Okay. Maybe he’d been a bit sharp. And she’d been through a hell of a lot. It wouldn’t have killed him to be a little nicer. He let out another sigh. It was going to be a damned long day.

      She was gone longer than he expected, and he had coffee perking and a pot of instant porridge steaming by the time he heard her at the door, cooing to Rooney. Finn dropped his head, priming himself to be nicer. And in deference to her sensibilities, he had gotten a tin bowl out of the plastic storage container, so she wouldn’t have to eat out of the pot again. And he’d even mixed up a small portion of powdered milk.

      The door swung open and he looked up, expecting a haughty, royal entry. Framed by the gray light from outside, the snow falling behind her, she huddled in the warmth of his coat, a guilty look on her pale face. I’m sorry,” she said, her voice uneven and sounding as if she meant it. “I can be a real pain sometimes.”

      It was the look in her eyes—that solemn, imploring look—that made Finn’s pulse stumble, and he found his chest suddenly tight. An odd kind of intimacy crackled between them, suspending time. It was as if this had happened before, as if they had known each other a very long time. The sensation upended his equilibrium, and he curled his hands into fists, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. It was all he could do to force air into his lungs and dredge up a warped half smile. “Under the circumstances, I think that’s allowed.”

      She stared back at him, time still weirdly suspended, then she turned abruptly and closed the door, and more snow slid off the roof. “No, it’s not,” she said, her voice even more unsteady. “There is never an excuse for bad manners.”

      Finn experienced a flash of unexpected insight. And he knew, from that one comment, that Mallory O’Brien had grown up being brutally honest with herself. And probably with anyone she came in contact with. Needing to alter the mood, he spoke, his tone clipped. “Sure there is.”

      She turned and looked at him, a startled expression in her eyes; then she gave a soft laugh. Finn felt the effects of that chuckle down the entire length of his spine.

      Watching him, she folded her arms and tipped her head to one side, amusement still dancing in her eyes. “Really? You might change your mind on that. You don’t know the levels of rudeness I can sink to.”

      He held her gaze a moment, then looked away, finding it far too easy to get lost in her eyes. “Breakfast is ready,” he said, his tone gruff. “And there’s warm water in the washbasin on the stove. It’s about all I can offer.”

      Her voice was subdued when she answered. “Warm water sounds like heaven.” Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, Finn did up the bottom two snaps on his vest, then picked up the rifle. “There’s a towel on the washstand, and there’s brown sugar and powdered milk on the table, coffee in the pot.” He settled his hat on his head and reached for the door. “I’m going to water the horses and get them ready to move out.”

      Once outside, he blew out a deep breath, his heart still pounding, his body far too hot. He didn’t know what in hell was wrong with him, but it had to stop. He had to stay focused, damn it—her life could depend on it.

      Sobered by that thought, Finn watered the horses in the creek, guessing that the temperature had dropped by another few degrees. He led them back to the corral, then brushed the snow off them and rigged up a hackamore for Trouper. The packhorse didn’t even have a halter on, and since Finn would be breaking trail with him, he needed some method to guide him. He figured he’d killed maybe twenty minutes, maybe half an hour when he went back to the cabin.

      He didn’t know what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t for the bedrolls to be perfectly rolled and stacked neatly on the floor, the dishes washed and packed in the storage container, the towel neatly folded and laid by the repackaged food she had placed by his saddlebags. From the pricey clothes she had on, from her jewelry, he hadn’t expected that kind of capable efficiency. It hit him again that he only knew what she had told him, and that had been damned little. And for some reason, that suddenly irked him.

      His face felt wooden when he tipped his head toward the stacked supplies, acknowledging her effort. “Thanks,” he said, avoiding her gaze. Crouching down by the gear Trouper had been carrying, he undid one waterproof kit bag and started pulling extra clothes out. “The wind has picked up and