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Chapter Three

"Life is not separate from death. It only looks that way."

Blackfoot Proverb

The bobcat smelled the mare's terror, if not hers. Reaching for the rifle in the scabbard was out of the question, and even if she did manage to release it, she could never fire off a shot. Her right arm was useless. Debilitating anguish peddled through her torso when she reached for her pistol with her left hand.

The cat zigzagged through the low shrubs; his slanted eyes locked on his prey. Now and then, he would hide behind a thick branch and emerge seconds later belly-crawling toward them. Smart one, him. At that size, it had to be a male. She managed to cock the pistol and then fired it aimlessly in the air. To even think she could hit him from this distance with her left hand was laughable. The cat let out a wild shriek but stopped.

"Ha!" she said, dragging herself to a standing position. "That set you back a wee bit, didn't it?"

A wave of dizziness washed over when she grabbed the reins lying on the ground. Her voice low and soft, she spoke to Cheena. "Good girl for not running. Now we have to find shelter."

The mare blew air through her nose as if she understood. She couldn't mount, and even if she could, she'd be riding forward and looking over her shoulder to keep the bobcat in sight. Better to lead Cheena to safety . . . but where?

The mountains were too far away, the foothills too dangerous. She'd be in the cat's yellow-brown playground, where he blended in like a damn chameleon.

As if struck by lightning, a memory flashed through her brain. She remembered an abandoned mine or two on the way to Sutter's house. The entrances were built into a hill of dirt with fallen rock and debris on both sides of the timbered entrances—one-way entrances that appeared tall enough for Cheena to pass through. Think, girl, think. Was it before or after the narrow trail? Before or after the open plain?

The mines were after both, which meant they had to be close. Leading Cheena, she walked onward, her pistol ready as she looked over her shoulder and kept the cat in her pain-filled vision. He navigated the scrubland with the skill and grace of a seasoned predator, yet wasn't ready or bold enough yet to leave his arena. If he ventured onto the flat land, he'd come at them on a dead run and most likely he'd charge the smallest prey… her.

She held the reins tight, fired another shot in the air and walked on. "Please, please, where are you, abandoned mine?"

Cheena blew a soft whinny and pawed at the dirt with her front foot. Anya looked to her right and sent a silent prayer skyward when the entrance to the first mine came into view. "Hurry, girl, it's not far now and we have to make it before the cat…."

Anya's heart fell to some unknown place below her knees. The cat had emerged from the underbrush, its ear-splitting howls echoing across the land. Hell's fire if it didn't sound like a woman in labor screaming her head off. Anya turned and fired the pistol in the cat's direction. The bullet missed its mark but churned up dirt close enough to bring the animal to heel.

The mine loomed twenty feet before them. Anya pulled on the reins, made it to the entrance and dragged Cheena in behind her. With a gentle slap to Cheena's backside, she shooed the mare further into the low-ceilinged tunnel. Her arm throbbing with pain, she took up a stance inside the timbered entrance and prayed the beast had given up.

Several minutes passed in deadly silence, and Anya breathed a sigh of relief. Her brief respite was shattered when she heard a heavy thud above them. The cat had landed on the roof of the mine and made its presence known by several deep-throated hisses and an unearthly roar. He hadn't given up, hadn't gone away, and Heaven help her if he leaped from the roof and entered the mine.

Her worst fears materialized. With a graceful bound, the cat appeared before her. Long, white teeth glistened as he barked his triumph. The pistol shook in Anya's hand, and in that moment, she knew she would die. Willie-boy's face appeared behind her closed eyelids. She would never see him again. The thought fractured her heart.

A retort from a rifle rent the air and startled her. The cat crashed to the ground, its eyes open, its body as still as the night air. She looked at her gun and realized the smell of smoke was absent in the small cavern. She hadn't fired a gun, but who then?

In her dazed mind, she didn't recognize the man who suddenly appeared. A buckskin tunic, fringed with porcupine quills, beads and elk teeth, clung to his muscular chest. Leggings of the same cloth hugged his hips and long legs. His hair was pulled back and tied with a thin piece of leather at his nape. She was reminded again of the heathen in him—a study of pure male perfection.

"Sutter," she whispered and then folded like a leaf to the ground. A mixture of relief and unbearable anguish from her shoulder flooded her cheeks with tears.

He grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and tossed him aside before he entered. "Where are you hurt?"

"My shoulder…."

Kneeling beside her, he probed and pushed with gentle fingers. "It's dislocated. I'll be right back."

She ticked off the seconds in her mind until he returned. He knelt beside her again and held a gourd to her lips. "Drink, you'll need this."

She panted through the pain. "What . . . What is it?"

"Mescal. Now drink. I have to put your shoulder back in place and I'd be lying if I said it won't hurt."

The drink burned going down her throat. She gagged and coughed and finally eked out, "How bad will it hurt?"

"Bad, now take another long sip and tell me when you're ready."

With slurred speech and a shudder, she said, "This is-is horrible. How will I know-know when I'm ready?"

"Sounds like you're almost there, but take another drink. Let me know when the pain starts to ebb."

Several minutes passed while she waited for the mescal to numb her into oblivion, time she spent staring into his beautiful face. "How did you find—?"

A slight smile curved his lush, full lips. "I'm a breed, remember. I can find a beetle in a snowstorm."

"Why-why would a beetle be…be out in a…."

"I think you're ready. Your eyes are glassed over and you're talking nonsense."

"So, now it won't hurt?"

"Not as much. Ready?"

She gave a wobbly nod.

He placed her arm at a ninety-degree angle, grabbed her wrist and her elbow and slowly pulled. She cried out once but then the bone slid back into the socket with ease. The excruciating pain had left her, the residual a dull ache now.

Sutter came to his feet and headed for the entrance.

Her head spun from the mescal when she attempted to sit up. "Don't leave me."

"Getting something to make you more comfortable. Be right back."

She eased herself to the ground again and waited for his return. A smile tugged her lips. Sutter followed me. He's going to help Willie-boy. Her heart sang, whether from Sutter finding her or from the mescal, she didn't know. Right now, she didn't care.

When Sutter returned, he held a small piece of bark and a crude bowl in his hand. A bandana dangled from his fingers. Seated beside her on the ground, he set the bowl down and scraped the inside of the bark loose with his knife. Next, he removed some type of utensil with a round handle from the pouch around his waist. He poured a small amount of mescal into the bowl and pummeled the bark pulp and liquid together.

He looked down at her. "You'll need to remove your shirt so I can rub the salve into your shoulder."

"What kind of salve?"

He gave a chuckle. "I ask you to take your shirt off and you want to know what I have in the bowl?" Another short laugh, followed by a shake of his head. "You always were full of questions."

She had to force her eyes away from those depthless gray pools. Reaching up with her left hand, she loosened two buttons and slid the shirt from her shoulder. "Perhaps that's why every time I asked one, my mom said, “curiosity killed the cat."

"It's white willow bark. That shoulder will be sore for a time and this will dull the ache."

An electric current shot through every cell in her body when his long, brown fingers brought the ointment to her shoulder. She wondered if he felt it too.

Memories washed over her — the first time he touched her, their first kiss, so many timeless, unforgettable moments, she had trouble remembering the ache in her shoulder. With a touch so light, she barely felt it as he rubbed the ointment over the rounded part of her shoulder and under her arm.

She shouldn't have looked into his eyes again, could no longer swallow all the things she wanted to say. "Sutter—"

His eyes hard, he put a hand in the air. "Don't, Anya. Whatever you're busting a gut to explain, I don't want to hear it. Now or ever, do you understand?"

"But there are things you don't know—"

"I know this: You sure know how to murder love, Anya, and that's all I have to know.

She fought back tears while he finished applying the ointment and put her arm in a sling. He had every reason to be angry with her, even hate her, but she thought he'd at least let her tell him she had no choice about marrying Lewis.

He came to his feet, held out his arm and pulled her up. His wild scent washed over her and, for a moment, she thought she might fall to the ground again. "I tracked you for one reason . . . the boy. You were right when you said I have a cold, black heart, but not when it comes to the boy, whether he's white, black, yellow or red."

"Only when it comes to me, huh?"

"Yes. So find another outlet for your guilt."

She searched his face. "My guilt?"

"Yeah. Think about it. It's all about you like it's always been, isn't it?"

Crushed by his cruelty, she couldn't push the words off the end of her tongue. All this time he thought her selfish and uncaring? Hell's fire, how he must hate her.

Her gait unsteady, she brushed past him and struggled to walk a straight line, much less stay on her feet. The damn mescal had really messed with her head…and apparently every muscle in her body.

Sutter was beside her and cupped her elbow. "You'll ride with me."

"I'm perfectly capable of riding Cheena, thank you very much."

He spun her around to face him. "You're in no shape to ride and your mare picked up a stone this morning. I dug it out but her foot is sore. Right now, she doesn't need any added weight."

She wanted to argue with him, had no desire to ride with him after his hurtful words, but if she insisted on riding Cheena, it would confirm her selfish, uncaring nature.

She allowed him to lead her to his enormous stallion where he proceeded to lift her with ease and plop her onto the saddle. Cheena was already tethered to the Appaloosa, who was tethered to the black beast he rode. With the grace of a jungle cat, he leaped onto the horse and settled in behind her. Placing an arm around her waist, he dug his moccasins into the sides of the horse and they were off.

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