A Warrior's Vow. Marilyn Tracy

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      Was that the reason she’d ridden him harder, pushed him with greater determination? So much so that she’d driven him away from the ranch of miracles?

      Exhaustion and fear had brought unfamiliar tears earlier that night. Luckily, the rock-hard Daggert hadn’t seen them, or if he had, he’d pretended otherwise. Now her worry over the little runaway had driven her grief deep inside again, to a lonely place of roiling emotions, with no relief or release.

      She would find him. She had to. That’s all there was to it.

      She reviewed the situation with a cold dispassion. Mentally evaluating any given situation was an exercise she’d learned early in childhood, and had been drilled into her by her adoptive parents. Mental precision kept fear at bay.

      Bracingly, she told herself that a day’s absence was not so long on a very big ranch. And Enrique had a coat, a blanket and a horse named Dandelion.

      And though he couldn’t know it, he had her, a really smart dog and a master tracker named James Daggert going after him.

      “Damn it, lady, go to sleep.” Daggert’s voice was strangely soft. “You’re doing the best you can.”

      She closed her eyes against the weight of the stars, her fears for Enrique and the closeness of the man lying not two feet from her. Her last conscious thought was to wonder how Daggert had known she was awake. And how he’d known to say the one thing that would allow her to relax enough to sleep.

      She woke what seemed seconds later to the sound of something creeping around the camp. Even as fear made her breath catch in her throat, hope that it might be Enrique flooded through her. But on the very real chance it was a bear, she opened her eyes the merest bit.

      At first she couldn’t see anything in the darkness, then she made out James Daggert’s silhouette against a wall of dimming stars. She thought he might be praying, he stood so still, facing the thinnest slice of predawn light on the horizon. He drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. His exhalation hung in the air, and for some reason, it was a lonely sight—man, stars and cloud of warm breath against a black sky.

      The chill of the September morning nipped at her cheeks, and she huddled in her sleeping bag, realizing she’d actually slept all night. As the sky lightened, she watched Daggert move about the camp.

      He packed his things neatly and with considerable skill. He studied the camp with the eyes of a drill sergeant inspecting a parade troop. She’d seen his attention to detail the day before, but watching him when he was unaware of her gave her the opportunity to see that nothing about his movements was wasted. He was, in his way, an efficiency expert.

      She wondered if the precision was a matter of survival. It certainly was in her world. Lack of attention to every nuance of a venture was the ruination of a venture capitalist, and she was one of the very best.

      Leeza suspected Daggert left nothing to chance because lack of forethought on his part might mean certain death for him or the person he sought.

      His horse nickered at him and he whispered for Stone to be quiet.

      Leeza, buried in her warm sleeping bag, smiled beneath the covers.

      She’d never taken the time to watch a man prepare for his day. Any encounters she’d had in the past had ended with a yawn, a polite good-night and the firm shutting of her door as her companion departed. Waking up with a man seemed too great an intimacy, too close to an emotional entanglement.

      Not that she was technically waking up with James Daggert. She stopped smiling.

      The horse nickered again and Daggert moved toward him, running his broad palm over the large, rangy sorrel. He murmured something and the animal rumbled in appreciation.

      “Soon, old man,” Daggert said softly.

      Leeza could hear true affection in his voice, as if he and the horse had been through many rough times together and the dangers they’d faced had forged an unbreakable bond between them. Watching them, she tried imagining feeling the powerful muscles rippling beneath her palm. Instead, her mind substituted Daggert’s bare shoulders. She closed her eyes.

      “Good morning, Belle, you beauty, you.”

      Her eyes flew open. And she blushed, realizing that velvet voice hadn’t been addressing her, but rather her horse.

      The renamed Belle pawed the ground, as if answering him.

      Leeza sighed as Daggert hefted the thick saddle pad, then the hated saddle, onto Belle’s back and cinched it securely. He packed her saddle as carefully as he had his own. When all was aboard the horse, with the exception of Leeza and her sleeping bag, he gave Belle a slice of apple.

      The setter, apparently knowing Daggert’s ritual, came up, wagging his tail and whining at his master.

      Daggert ran his hand down the dog’s soft neck. Leeza thought she’d never seen a man so completely comfortable around animals. It was as if he shared a telepathic communication with them.

      “No use hurrying, Sancho. We have a half hour before full daylight, and if I know women—and contrary to your experience of me, I’ve known a few in my time—the lady won’t be ready, anyway.”

      Leeza could have sworn the dog grinned as his feathered tail swept the earth. James ran his hands down the full length of the dog’s back, and Leeza wriggled even as the animal did.

      Sancho barked.

      Leeza groaned.

      “She’s awake,” Daggert said. “Close your eyes now or her red pajamas will blind you.”

      Daggert firmly believed that a good ninety-nine percent of the human population looked a bit worse for wear after a night out in the open. Not Leeza Nelson.

      She looked as if she’d just stepped from a penthouse apartment, freshly showered, powdered and having had a manicure following a massage. Instead, she’d come around a scraggly mesquite bush and used towelettes for a bath. The only telltale sign that she’d been horseback riding most of the day before was her slightly stiff walk as she approached the campfire.

      He pointed to the coffeepot, then poured some for her before she reached for it without a pot holder. She gave him a dazzling smile that made him wish he’d packed a Kevlar vest.

      Not trusting her friendliness—she hadn’t struck him as a hail-fellow-well-met sort of person—he busied himself unrolling a chamois cloth and spreading out the items Sancho had collected the day before. He sat studying them.

      “What’s all this?” Leeza asked brightly.

      “Clues,” he said.

      “Explain, please,” she said. Not a question, but a command, even if she had softened it. That do-it-my-way attitude again.

      “Sancho brought them in last night.” He held up the branch of scrub oak the dog had carried in his jaws. He pointed to the thistles that had been embedded in his silky coat. “Russian thistle and tumble-weed. Broken, but still fresh, see? And these? Bits of chamisa. Another gum wrapper.”

      “His path,” she said, a note of СКАЧАТЬ