The Drifter's Bride. Tatiana March

spoke in a rushed whisper, trying to reassure her without wasting time on explanations. ‘My horse is nearby. Stay quiet and follow me.’

      Her eyes widened. Green eyes, he noted. Her mouth sprang open.

      ‘Talk quietly,’ he warned her.

      He saw her chest rise as she filled her lungs, getting ready to cry out in alarm. The poor girl was too frightened to understand he’d come to rescue her. Before she could send a scream rippling across the landscape, Carl grabbed hold of her. He spun her around, slamming her back against his chest, and clamped one hand over her mouth.

      ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said softly into her ear. ‘I’m taking you home.’

      Muffled sounds of protest erupted beneath his callused palm. She thrashed about, fighting to break free from his hold. Soft curves molded against him. The smell of honeysuckle soap drifted in the air, enveloping him.

      Carl steeled his senses against the distraction of feminine lure.

      He had a job to do. A captive to rescue. A reward to earn.

      Keeping one hand pressed across her mouth, he tugged free the red kerchief around his neck and used his teeth to rip the faded cloth in two. Then he slid his hand away from her face and stuffed one half of the fabric into her mouth. The other half he wrapped around her head and secured the gag in place with a knot.

      For her wrists, he used a strip of rawhide that he pulled from his coat pocket. The girl kept fighting him, clearly scared out of her wits. He didn’t like the idea of trussing her up like an outlaw, but it was for her own protection, to keep her silent while they made their escape.

      ‘You’ll be safe soon,’ he promised as he tossed her wriggling body over his shoulder.

      Angry growls assaulted his ears. Small fists pounded at his back. A pair of feet in moccasins plowed into his ribs. Carl ignored it all. He wrapped one arm around her legs, cupped his other hand over her buttocks and raced to his horse, his boots meeting the hard ground in light thuds that only an experienced tracker might hear.

      A hundred dollars, he reminded himself.

      He’d never expected it would be easy money.

      But he had assumed the trouble would come from the Apache.

      * * *

      Jade gave up struggling and draped herself like a dead weight over the man’s shoulder as they hurtled along. Her head dangled down his back and her damp curls slapped about like a bunch of slithery snakes. She hadn’t been subjected to such undignified bouncing since her first ride on an Indian pony.

      She emitted another growl of complaint as the man tossed her facedown on a horse—a blue roan with dark stockings on the forelegs, she could see from her upside-down perch. Sliding too far forward, she almost plunged to the ground. Her captor, now in the saddle behind her, hauled her away from the danger by the waistband of her denim pants. She squirmed as the fabric cut into her belly and the saddle horn poked into her side.

      ‘Take your hands off me, you bastard,’ she yelled.

      It came out as ay-oo-ha-o-e-u-as-ar. Jade gritted her teeth around the dusty cloth he’d stuffed into her mouth and fell into silence. He’d learn her opinion of him soon enough. If, as she suspected, he’d been watching while she bathed in the creek, she’d make him pay for it.

      They rode north two hours, Jade estimated. By the time the man reined in his roan, discomfort had escalated her anger into fury. They had descended from the mountains, to the last sheltered clearing before the trees gave way to the dusty desert plain.

      ‘I’m sorry I had to do this,’ the man said, his palm resting warm and heavy on her buttocks. His hand rose and fell in a comforting pat, as if to add weight to his apology.

      ‘Eh-e-own,’ she mouthed. Let me down.

      ‘Sure.’ He dismounted in a fluid motion, then reached up and pulled her down along the flank of the horse. When the momentum had her sliding toward him, he curled his hands around her waist and lifted her to her feet.

      ‘Ai-eh-oh.’ She lifted her bound hands to point at the gag. Take this off.

      ‘Sure.’

      Unimpressed by his conversational skills, she shot him a sour glance. Tall and muscular, her rescuer was dressed in wool pants and a coat so shabby they belonged in a bonfire. She tried to get a better fix on his looks, but between the tangle of brown hair, the thick coating of stubble on his chin, and the hat pulled low over his brow, all she could see was a flash of white teeth and a pair of amber eyes.

      He pulled a bowie knife from his boot and slipped it between her wrists. Then, appearing to think again, he left the rawhide twine in place, spun her around, and used the tip of the knife to pry apart the knot at the back of her head. As soon as the gag fell loose, she spat out the soggy cloth and whirled to face him.

      ‘You son-of-a-bitch,’ she yelled, fists clenched and shoulders rigid. ‘God only knows what diseases that filthy rag carries. I’ll make sure you regret ever laying eyes on me. You’ll pay for this, you—’

      Her rant came to an abrupt halt as the stranger swooped down to the ground and snapped upright again. Moving faster than a striking rattlesnake, he grabbed her hair with one hand and stuffed the rag he’d picked up from the dirt back into her mouth.

      ‘U-on-oh-a-ith,’ she grunted, full of rage.

      He glared at her, his amber eyes no longer warm. ‘Leave my mother out of it.’

      She glared back, her head tilted to one side to ease the tug of his fist in her hair.

      The man inhaled a long breath and slowly let it out again. ‘Sorry,’ he said. His tone was conciliatory. ‘When you panicked by the creek, I didn’t have the time to explain that I’d come to rescue you. I had to silence you. If you’d screamed, you might have brought the braves down on us.’

      She let out a derisory snort, then spat the rag out for a second time, half expecting the man to stop her, but he didn’t even try. ‘You’re a fool,’ she told him.

      He released his hold on her hair. His other hand remained curled around the handle of the bowie knife. ‘I guess I am a fool,’ he said. ‘A hundred dollars isn’t much for saving a woman from a band of hostile Apaches.’

      ‘A hundred dollars?’ Her tone was caustic. ‘The man before you demanded two hundred, and the one before that asked for three.’ She heaved out a dramatic sigh. ‘Still, I guess it hardly matters anyway, since my father never pays.’

      Her revelation brought about a startled silence. The man stiffened, the knife jutting up in his clenched fist. Jade stepped closer, positioned her wrists against the serrated blade and snapped the leather twine apart, freeing her hands. ‘It will get dark in an hour,’ she said with a glance at the pink glow on the western horizon. ‘Since you rescued me, I expect you to feed me. There’s a creek that flows down the hillside behind those trees.’ She motioned with her head. ‘I’ll go and wash. Call me when dinner is ready.’

      With that parting shot, she marched away.

      The stranger made no attempt to follow.

      * * *

      Carl unsaddled his horse, frustration seething inside him. He should have figured it out before. She’d been moving freely among the Apache women, had talked to them in their own language. What was the truth? Had Jade Anderson fallen in love with a brave who stole her back each time her father sent someone to rescue her? Or did she defy her father and run away of her own free will?

      Run away…

      It occurred to Carl that the girl was taking too long with her washing. He dropped the saddlebags to the ground and rushed down the narrow path, weaving his way between the twisted pines and thorny junipers. When he reached the creek, a startled blue jay flew screeching out of the scrub.

      But there was no sign of Jade Anderson.

      He