The Ranger. Carol Finch

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      She needed this time alone before rejoining her older brothers at their family ranch. She needed time to gather her poise and bolster her bruised pride before she had to explain why she’d returned from New Orleans unexpectedly. She’d been humiliated beyond words, but she refused to let her brothers see her fall to pieces while confiding the events that had sent her running home prematurely.

      She inhaled a fortifying breath and conjured up the image of the dashing Southern gentleman who had charmed her—and then had broken her heart. She muttered under her breath when tears filled her eyes, as they had so often this past week.

      How was it possible to think you loved someone so completely…and suddenly despise him so thoroughly? Shiloh didn’t know, but she had learned a hard lesson about the illusion of love. She wasn’t going to risk her heart again—ever. The pain and humiliation weren’t worth the trouble.

      Shiloh Drummond had officially sworn off men forevermore. And her brothers had better not plan any future matchmaking, either, or she would make them dreadfully sorry for trying to arrange her life! If they hadn’t ganged up on her and sent her to Louisiana to experience so-called “proper society” none of this would have happened.

      Shiloh’s bitter thoughts trailed off when she heard a rumbling sound overhead. She glanced toward the bank of dark clouds that piled on the western horizon like dozens of angry fists raised in threat.

      Angry. She could certainly identify with that. After her hellish week she wanted to strike out at something or someone—namely Antoine Troudeau—to relieve the fury and hurt boiling inside her.

      Shiloh frowned, bemused, when the rumbling sound intensified. Alarm shot through her when she heard unidentified shouts in the distance. Gunshots rang out, destroying what little serenity she had salvaged from her early-morning swim. Her survival instincts kicked in, sending her surging away from the base of the stony ridge to paddle across the river. She needed to retrieve the clothing she’d recently washed so she could conceal herself in the boyish garments and hat that served as her disguise.

      More gunshots filled the air and Shiloh realized the pounding of horses’ hooves, not the distant growl of thunder, caused the rumbling noise. Afraid of being spotted, while she thrashed around in nothing but her wet chemise, Shiloh swam toward her horse. She flinched when the gunfire seemed to come from directly above her.

      When she glanced over her shoulder a gasp of astonishment exploded from her lips. It looked as if a renegade Indian, riding a coal-black, wild-eyed mustang, was falling from the sky—and was about to land right smack-dab on top of her!

      “Oh, God!” Shiloh sucked in a quick breath and swam sideways to get clear before the mustang’s flailing hooves collided with her head.

      “What in the hell?” came a surprised male voice that was much too close for Shiloh’s comfort.

      Horse and rider splashed down, swamping Shiloh and causing her to choke on a wave of water while trying to grab a quick breath. Her hair hung over her face like a mop, making it impossible to see where she was going. Worse, the renegade commenced muttering in an Indian dialect and she couldn’t translate. When he grabbed her arm and yanked her toward him, she didn’t have time to cough and draw air into her lungs before he dragged her beneath the surface.

      Panic set in when she realized her deprived lungs were about to burst. Shiloh instinctively clamped herself around the renegade, desperate to climb up his body to inhale a precious breath. His arm came around her, pushing her upward so she could replenish her starved lungs. Her relief was short-lived because he dragged her beneath the surface again.

      Anxious though she was to escape and to plant her feet on solid ground, the pop and splatter of gunshots incited another jolt of panic. She surfaced long enough to glance up at the rocky ridge where five bearded, heavily armed riders were firing at her because she had the misfortune of crossing paths with the renegade that had his arm clamped around her.

      Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time! Shiloh thought as the renegade shoved her underwater again.

      Although she tried to wrest free, the brawny warrior held firm. He tugged her alongside him as he swam downstream—away from the hail of gunfire pounding down on them. Desperate for another breath, Shiloh floundered upward to drag in much-needed air. To her everlasting relief the Indian didn’t try to yank her beneath the surface again, forcing her to swallow another gallon of water. He did, however, jerk her toward the clump of reeds that lined the river.

      “Keep your head down,” he demanded gruffly. “I’ll fetch your horse.”

      Shiloh didn’t trust him not to take her horse and make a fast getaway. His horse, she noted had come ashore upstream—too far away for her to latch on to it without risking being shot full of bullets.

      “Oh, no you don’t!” She snaked out her hand to anchor herself to the leather holster that hung low on his hips. “That’s my horse and you aren’t going to…!”

      Her voice transformed into a howl of pain. Fire shot through her left arm. Bewilderedly, she glanced down to see blood seeping from the gash on her arm.

      “Damn it, if you’d stayed put that wouldn’t have happened,” he scolded as he hooked his arm around her waist, clamped her body against his and rolled across the creek bank toward her horse.

      Offended though Shiloh was at having her barely clad body molded to the hombre’s muscled torso she didn’t object. There were more serious problems with which to contend—like bullets thudding in the sand and splattering in the reeds. And vile curses raining down that promised the tortures of hell.

      For a fleeting moment Shiloh thought the renegade had rolled on top of her to shield her from another gunshot wound. But then he gathered himself so quickly to bound to his feet so he could catch her horse that she decided she was probably giving him credit for chivalry where credit wasn’t due.

      “Sneaky damn Injun!” one of the men on the cliff bellowed hatefully. “You’ll pay dearly for this! And you sure as hell haven’t seen the last of us, you red-skinned bastard!”

      That said, the scraggly-haired hooligan and his cohorts opened fire again. Bullets pinged off the rocks and trees while Shiloh and her captor headed for cover.

      Once on solid footing, Shiloh tried to lurch away from the dark-eyed hombre who was dressed from head to toe in wet buckskin. Her escape attempt failed miserably. Her captor did, however, snatch up the tattered boys’ clothes she had been using as a protective disguise. He thrust them at her as he half carried, half dragged her to her horse.

      “What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere all by yourself?” he demanded as he shoved the heel of his hand against her rump to hoist her onto the horse.

      “What the hell are you doing dropping from the sky with a bunch of unkempt ruffians breathing down your neck? I was managing just fine until you interrupted my swim and ruined everything!” she snapped right back at him, fear and anger combining to make her voice razor sharp.

      Despite the distant gunfire, he cocked his head to appraise her momentarily before he bounded up behind her. Shiloh wasn’t sure what to make of the expression on his bronzed face or the twinkle in his ebony eyes.

      He actually seemed amused by her snippy retort. Well, she was not amused. Maybe she had been too reckless by striking off from town alone. But she’d had her pride trampled for the first time in her life, had her feelings shredded СКАЧАТЬ