The Ranger. Carol Finch

or poison her.

      Cautious didn’t begin to describe this woman. He drank his coffee and wondered who had made her so suspicious.

      “Last year a Texas Ranger showed up in this neck of the woods,” she said between sips of steaming coffee. “He claimed that he had been sent to evict the Mexican sheepherders who were nesting on property that belonged to a local rancher named Frank Mills. Two men died and their wives headed for the hills, overcome with grief and fear.

      “Although there wasn’t enough evidence to convict Frank of hiring that bloodthirsty gunslinger to impersonate a Ranger, we suspected he was responsible.” She stared him squarely in the eye. “So don’t expect me to take your word as gospel, Hawk. I only believe half of what I see and even less of what a man tells me.”

      Hawk was aware of the incident she mentioned because he had been sent to apprehend the murdering imposter. His Apache upbringing always put him at the top of the list for tracking elusive, high-profile outlaws.

      “Just so you know, the imposter paid the consequences,” he assured her solemnly.

      Her delicately arched brows shot up. “Did he? You know that for a fact?”

      He nodded grimly. “I saw to it that he never hurt another living soul, but he didn’t confess. There was no evidence to convict Frank Mills of conspiracy. A damn shame that.”

      She looked as if she wanted to believe him, but he could see her withdrawing emotionally. He wondered if his mixed heritage and unconventional appearance contributed to her distrust. It did where most folks were concerned.

      Whites had a tendency to judge him by his bronzed skin, dark eyes and jet-black hair. Not to mention the damage done by the white man’s one-sided bad publicity against Indian tribes. Most white folks didn’t care who he was on the inside. He was an Indian; therefore, he must be the enemy.

      The Rangers battalion was one of the few exceptions. His band of brothers judged him on merit, not skin color.

      Hawk discarded the unproductive thought and reminded himself that he was also guilty of holding a grudge against whites because of their unfair treatment of his people.

      And his people were the Apache. Just because he was half-white didn’t change that fact.

      “So…what do you intend to do with me?” she questioned.

      “Take you home when the rain lets up,” he replied. “Just where is home, hmm?”

      She scoffed at his subtle attempt to gain information. “Nice try, Hawk. Now tell me again why you have several bags of money and five unhappy banditos dogging your heels? Oh, yes, I’m supposed to believe that you’re one of the good guys and I’m supposed to place unfaltering faith and trust in your willingness to see me home safely. Right?” She glared at him. “Well, you’re wrong about that. I’m going to need more than your word that you aren’t a threat.”

      Hawk scowled, nearly at the end of his patience with this prickly female. “Are you always this contrary, Bernice?”

      “No, this is one of my good days.” A mischievous smile surfaced before she could bite it back. “I’m usually worse.”

      “I’m starting to believe it,” he mumbled.

       Chapter Three

       H awk stood watch at the mouth of the cave, relieved to note that the rain had let up—temporarily at least. He wanted to be on his way. Being confined to this small space with this maddening but alluring female tempted him to do something foolish and reckless—like yielding to the outrageous urge of kissing her to see if she tasted even half as good as she looked. Staring at her lush, Cupid’s bow mouth for more than a moment at a time was sensual torment.

      Forcing himself to get his mind back to the business at hand, he poked his head outside. “Well, damn,” he grumbled.

      When she walked up behind him, he cautiously glanced back at her. He half expected her to approach him, toting a log for the campfire as her makeshift weapon. He braced himself, in case she decided to pound him on the head.

      Fortunately she wasn’t armed, just curious.

      He pointed in the direction of the men who were riding through the valley. “They aren’t giving up the search,” he grumbled. “But then, I did confiscate a lot of stolen money.” He waited a beat then said, “I’m sorry you ended up in the middle of this. The outlaw gang I infiltrated three months ago won’t want you to walk away, either. Not when you can identify them. This gang doesn’t leave eyewitnesses behind.”

      Shiloh gulped uneasily as she watched the five men weave around the boulders and trees at lower elevations. “Where are our horses? What if the outlaws spot them?”

      “They won’t,” he assured her. “I stashed them in another cave. One of the advantages of these rocky hillsides that my people always favored, when this land was part of the Apacheria, is that you can come and go like a fleeting specter. If you know your way around this valley you can be visible one minute and vanish into thin air the next.”

      He called her attention to the battered stone precipice looming above them. “When the wind blows in from the southwest, swirling and dipping around that peak, you can almost swear there are whispering voices on Ghost Ridge. Which is why this is sacred ground to the Apache. According to the legend, the spirits congregate here, ready to guide us if we are wise enough to listen.”

      He sounded convincing and believable, Shiloh mused as she scanned the towering peak. But it would be a cold day in hell before she took a man at his word again. She had no way of knowing for certain that he wasn’t making up the legend to prey on her gullibility and gain her allegiance. Furthermore, she couldn’t swear that he wasn’t trying to double-cross his cohorts who were out for his blood—and hers—because she could identify the group of ruffians.

      Shiloh glanced down at the rain-drenched riders in the valley below then shifted her attention to the man beside her. “Nothing like having to settle for the lesser of two evils,” she grumbled, exasperated. “You or them. Tough call.”

      Her comment inspired his rumbling chuckle. “At least there’s only one of me compared to five of them. And one of these days you’ll apologize for mistrusting me, just because I’m half Apache.”

      Shiloh tipped her head back to compensate for the difference in their height. He had to be at least six feet three, and an impressive male specimen—much as she was reluctant to admit it. “I don’t hold your heritage against you,” she corrected. “It’s being a man that I object to. Your gender has so many flaws and so few saving graces.”

      He continued to monitor the search party in the distance. “A man-hater, are you? Is anyone in particular responsible for souring you on the rest of the male gender?”

      “That’s none of your business, either.” She lurched around to pace the shadowy confines of the cavern. Thinking of Antoine’s deceit always caused her emotions to roil in frustration.

      “At least tell me the scoundrel’s name,” Hawk requested. “I might decide to look him up and shoot him down for you after I finish this assignment.”

      Shiloh glanced over at him, jolted again by his arresting profile and the hint of amusement in that deep baritone voice. This man couldn’t be all bad…could he? He had offered to avenge the hurt and humiliation she had suffered recently. He had patched her injured arm and found refuge from the rain and from the gunmen who were chasing them.

      The moment she felt herself weakening, wanting to believe he was on the side of law, order and honor, he ruined it all by saying, “Unless of course you deserved what you got. You didn’t have it coming, did you?”

      Well, so much for actually starting to like Hawk, she thought in annoyance. Shiloh stiffened her spine, elevated her chin and rapped out, “No, I most certainly did not have it coming! I was manipulated and misled and entirely too naive and trusting. But that won’t happen again. I guarantee