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"Hey, boss, that you?" Skeeter called out, drawing his rifle.
"It's me, Skeet. Me and the woman."
Skeeter lowered his rifle. A frown wrinkled his forehead. "Where'd ya find her?"
"She was .. . out taking a piss."
Lainie rammed the gun against his ribs so hard, he jumped to the left, dragging her with him for a step.
"You goin' out?"
Killian nodded. "Purty's in charge till I get back."
"Where ya goin'?"
"I'm taking the woman to the rock that lightning struck. I'll be back in a few days."
Skeeter stepped aside. "See ya, boss."
They walked past the lookout and came to the end of the street.
"Mount up," Lainie said under her breath. When he didn't move, she poked him in the ribs again. "Now."
He stabbed his boot in the stirrup and climbed into
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the saddle, trying to shake a heavy sense of impending doom. "Why are we only taking one horse? Two would?"
"I'm in charge here." Keeping the gun pointed at him, she clambered into position behind him. Settling comfortably, she pressed the gun into his side. "That's why there's one horse, and you knew it. Now, let's go."
Killian spurred Captain forward. "You're the boss."
But not for long. He clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. She might have a gun on him now, but she wouldn't be able to keep it up. Sooner or later?and it better be sooner?she'd accidentally give him a heartbeat's worth of time. That's all he'd need with someone like her, just an instant. Then he could get the gun away from her and take control back.
And get the hell away from the naked vulnerability in her eyes ... and the sickening need in his own.
Lainie's arm ached with exhaustion. They'd been riding for hours upon hours, and neither of them had spoken a single word. In the darkness of the cave, Lainie had been ramrod-stiff, her body angled away from his so that there would be no accidental contact. But in the long, wearying hours since, she'd softened a little. Every now and then she'd find herself falling slightly forward, find her arm resting against his thigh.
It was irritating, and when she realized what she was doing, she drew back sharply and cleared her throat, jabbing the gun against his ribs for good measure.
It was because of the heat, she knew, and the endless, glaring light of the sun. She brought a sweaty hand to her brow and shoved a lock of damp, sticky hair from her eyes. Lord, she was tired. And hungry. And weak.
She stared at the broad back in front of her, and before she knew it, she was thinking about how solid it
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looked, how strong. How comfortable it would be if she could lean forward just a little and press her cheek against his back and go to sleep ...
A quiet sigh escaped her parched lips. The horse rocked beneath her, swaying in a gentle, seesawing motion that made her sleepy. Her eyelids fluttered shut. The sudden darkness enfolded her, wrapped her in familiar warmth and took her to a different place, a world of towering fir trees and incessant rain, of cloud-thick gray skies and whispering wind. It felt so real that for a heartbreakingly perfect moment, she tasted the cool moisture of Seattle air, smelled a wisp of cedar.
Home. She was on her way home. It was that thought that had sustained her since leaving the hideout. When the weight of the gun became unbearable, when her fingers hurt from so many hours in the same position, she took strength from the quiet plodding of the horse's hooves, from the slow, steady movement east. Every step they took brought them closer to the Rock, closer to the daughter she'd unwillingly left behind.
"Kelly." The word slipped from her mouth, hovering in the silent air for a second before it disappeared.
At the thought of her daughter, Lainie felt a stunning sense of hopefulness, of relief. She'd done it, just as she'd promised herself. She'd handled the problem and figured out a way to get back. She was on her way home.
In her mind's eye, she saw Kelly fling open the door and hurtle into the kitchen, her long black ringlets bouncing against her back. Her face would be sunburnt from the weeks in Montana, her cheeks pinkened and peeling. She'd be smiling, her crooked teeth framed by the silver track of new braces.
