***
A twig snapped in the darkness and Sheridan’s heart hammered. Sprawled on her stomach she slithered over the rock careful not to make any sound. Her bones ached, cold bit at her, and her muscles screamed in pain. She froze at the crunch of boots nearby. She squirmed backward as silently as she could, ducking into a small opening.
She’d lost her horse in the mad chase. Somehow, someone had realized she had left. Barely a mile from the ranch, a shot had rung out. She had urged Sugar into a gallop. Her horse was powerful, bred for speed and stamina, so she had eaten the miles up.
The ride through the mountain trail was hard and brutal with Sullivan’s hired guns nipping at her heels. Sheridan had passed the river and started to climb the trail more than two hours ago then Sugar had thrown her. Sheridan had been on foot since, trudging steadily.
She was grateful that she had studied the map Thomas had given her. He had not given it to her as an act of kindness, but as a dare for her to go to Elijah. She pushed the memories to one side and concentrated.
The persistence of her tracker scared and infuriated her. He had been on her for almost an hour and she was painfully aware that she took him closer and closer to Elijah’s mountain cabin. She rubbed at the chill that dug deep into her body. Exhaustion weighed on her, but she squared her shoulders. She was close to Elijah’s cabin if she had read everything on the map correctly. She had crossed the rivers, passed the third ridge, and only had one more to go. With the moon shimmering overhead lighting her path, she trudged on using sheer will, and the images of her fate under Sullivan and his men to fuel her steps.
A bullet pinged on the boulder above her, she ducked. She broke into a run, scrambling up the hillside, hoping to put herself out of the range of fire. She stumbled over roots and rocks. The trail angled up the slope through the trees. She made a mad dash trying to reach the thickets for cover. She crawled between two slabs of rock and made herself as small as possible.
Her lungs burned. Her breath sawed from her throat. Sweat slicked her skin despite the cold mountain air, and her muscles begged for relief.
The low hiss of a rattle reached her ear.
Her heart stilled.
With prayers rioting in her mind she cautiously eased out of her squatting position. She took small easy steps away until the rattling died down. Branches snapped behind her, and the clatter of hooves came perilously close. She saw an opening between two larger boulders and sped towards it. She listened carefully for any rattling before she stumbled into the crevice, holding herself small and tight. She crouched amongst the rocks, hardly daring to breathe as she saw her hunter for the first time.
Disbelief widened her eyes. She knew him, Ben Jefferson. He had been a wrangler at the ranch for over a year. She pressed herself in tighter, heart racing as he edged closer with cold caution.
Her fingers itched, and she wished Sugar had not taken off with the carpet bag containing her pistol, because she would have shot him.
More rustling, then the clattering of stones as they rolled down the hill and another rider burst forth from the underbrush.
“Be quiet,” Ben hissed.
“I think the little hellion knows we are hot on her trail, silence is unnecessary,” the new comer drawled. He was thick and barrel-chested, but sat on his horse with easy grace. The scratch of his match as he lit his cigar sounded loud in the night.
He looked harder, and she instinctively knew he was the more dangerous of the two. She had not known he tracked her. With a certainty she could not explain, she knew Ben had been the one to alert her by his bumbling presence.
“She is gone,” Ben said.
“She is still here,” the other man muttered around his cigar.
Something inside of her wilted at the sure drawl.
“No she ain’t, Hardin. I am telling you—”
“Shut up.”
Ben’s mouth slammed shut at the rough order.
Har
din continued, “She is without horse, and she is on foot. She is here. Spread out. And don’t be a fucking idiot and shoot at her again. The boss needs her alive.”
Sheridan closed her eyes tightly sending up a swift prayer they would not find her. If it had been Ben alone, she would have possibly stood a chance if he caught her. He was of a slim build and was about her height. If they tussled she might have triumphed.
Wind howled down from the slopes of the mountain and bit into her bones. She held herself still, and searched in the darkness for a rock. Her fingers clenched over one and she tested its weight.
It would have to do. If they found her, she would not surrender without a fight.
Chapter Three
An enraged scream echoed in the hills, slicing through the cold mountain air. Elijah Kincaid lifted his head and scanned the surroundings. He hesitated. The deer he had been gutting would probably be stolen upon his return, taken by the mountain cat that had been stalking his every move. He sheathed his hunting knife and slinked deeper into the woods as another cry pierced the silence of the night. He travelled downwind of the screaming and cursing. He moved swift, sure, and silent. Elijah veered left, his senses sharp as he followed the tracks barely visible through the trees and over the ridge. The icy wind lifted his flannel shirt and poncho, kissing over his skin like sharpened blades.