Tall, Dark, and Determined (7 page)

The pink fluff was on the move.

Which meant some foolish woman traveled alone in an area rife with wildlife, placing her in danger, and therefore under his protection. All because he couldn't pretend he hadn't seen that pink fluff ball bobbing down the mountainside.

No matter that it interfered with his plans. Chase had seen cougar tracks in the area. He started down toward her, giving Decoy the signal to go guard their target while he closed in.

Before he spotted her, Chase had two options. He could wait in the forest for Granger to take Twyler off, roaming about at will with pretty much just Bear and Clump knowing anything about him. Problem with that idea was limited access after the initial observation stage, plus the Williams fellow he'd clocked earlier would set to squawking if he somehow managed to spot him.

No, the smarter option, which Chase now had no choice but to accept, was to take Granger's offer. He'd hire on as the Hope Falls hunter/tracker, keep an eye out for large predators, and keep the cooks in as much fresh meat as possible until Granger returned. At least, in title. Granger expected him to look out for the ladies, too. One of whom roamed alone.

Which meant more time in town, more trouble, more questions from other people. But it also meant more opportunities to discover if the bedridden Braden was the true Braden Lyman, and if so—or even if not—what caused the mine collapse. Why did the Miracle Mining Company sell out so soon? What was going on with that incredible ad and this strange sawmill proposition?

Granger's presence threw him off—it meant that either a legitimate logging enterprise was going up, or they'd fooled a shrewd businessman whose sawmill expertise couldn't be beat.

Too many questions to ignore, and it all started with the man claiming to be Braden Lyman. But to get close, Chase would have to start by working for Hope Falls—and protecting the women. Starting now. He closed the distance, wanting to witness her reaction to Decoy. How people interacted with the wolfhound—and how the dog responded—told Chase more than ten conversations.

She didn't faint
. The first realization brought him to a halt. He'd expected her to faint.
Or scream
. His unassailed ears approved. But when she didn't run off, Chase began to wonder about the woman. Did her lack of cowardice indicate idiocy?

Decoy butted his massive head against frothy fabric, but the woman in pink held still. By now Chase drew close enough to see she hadn't gone stiff with fright. She simply stayed put while Decoy sniffed her skirts—a literal version of what two dozen loggers must be trying with the pretty girl.

“Good wolf-doggy.” Her sweet voice, with its clear, high-pitched inflection, echoed her feminine appearance.

Probably practiced
.

Chase almost reached them, but she began walking again. With that bonnet blocking her vision, she wouldn't see him until the last moment, meaning he'd probably frighten her.
Not good
.

The wind shifted, Decoy tensed, and Chase spotted the cougar whose tracks he'd seen earlier. Yellow eyes fixed on wind-swirled pink ribbons. It pounced with an unearthly shriek. He fired, running toward the girl the moment after the recoil. In one of those strange mountain moments, the shot seemed to echo. The wounded cougar landed, swiping the bonnet as Decoy bounded into the cat, bowling it off the girl and to the grass.

Now seemed as good a time as any for introductions. Chase squatted over by the fallen cat, turning to face the woman when she let out a shriek and jump made futile by Decoy's weight.

“Decoy's made grown men run in fear. A cougar jumps you; you get back up. But I merit a scream?” Honestly, it amused him, but he figured it would embarrass the stuffing out of her.

A rosy blush crept across her cheeks before she answered. “Absolutely. Between a wolf-dog, a cougar, and a man, every sane woman knows which animal is the most frustrating!”

For a second Chase stared at her. Then the chuckles came, piling atop each other until they became guffaws. The woman looked like an angel, all rosy blushes, golden curls, and big blue eyes. But those big blue eyes held an unholy anger, and those petal-like lips spouted insults to make politicians proud.

Chase wanted to set her back down and take a closer look at her shoulder, where claws had caught, but knew better than to touch her. Her wariness gave way to peevishness at his teasing, which helped, but wasn't enough. Mad made a better mood than scared, but something shared would lower her guard more.

With no suave words to offer, Chase wielded humor in a return shot. “And between a she-wolf, cougar, and a woman, we both know which has the sharpest claws.”

For a moment it seemed as though she'd take greater offense. Then her scowl shifted like a branch in the breeze, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. My nerves were worn of course, but you didn't deserve the shriek nor the snark.”

“Snark?” Chase couldn't stop challenging the changeling.

“My friend Evie makes up the most marvelous words,” the girl explained. “Snark is when someone is waspish.”

“Ah.” He leaned forward while she spoke, pressing a folded bandanna against her shoulder, where pink fabric gaped in three slim stripes. The jagged tears flashed glimpses of cream and crimson not unlike those decorating the scrap of fabric twisted alongside her. “Hold this here. You've been scratched.” He frowned at a thin, darker line etched along her neck.

So this is supposed to be a dainty society darling, who suddenly places scandalous ads and heads West on a whim? The sort of woman who's kidnapped one day and wanders the woods alone the next, but knows the difference between a wolf and a behemoth gray dog and remains calm through a cougar attack. Lacey Lyman, intrepid pink fluff ball?
He snorted.

“Oh, so that's why your dog was nosing my shoulder.” She cautiously pressed the tips of her fingers to the edge of the bandanna in an obvious bid to avoid touching his hand. “What is his name, by the way? I'm greatly in his debt.”

“Decoy.” As much as it amused him to let her think the dog killed her cougar, honesty made him add, “But I shot the cat.”

“Balderdash.” Her finely drawn brows knit closer in a glower. “How dare you attempt to take the credit for that?”

“Check and see—the cat was shot. Decoy didn't kill him.”

“I know full well the cat was shot since I shot it.” She gave an indignant sniff before admitting, “Well, it only looked like a great streak of tawny brown coming at me, but I still shot it, and that's really the important thing.”

Chase stared at the set line of her jaw and knew Miss Lyman truly believed she'd shot her cougar. A swift perusal of the ground turned up a small pearl-handled pistol. “With that?”

“Don't sound so disbelieving. It's a cunningly crafted piece of weaponry. Simply because something is lovely doesn't mean it isn't useful or even extraordinary, you know.” The growing ferocity of her glower warned him she might apply that principle to more than ludicrously miniscule pistols.

“Explains the echo.” He didn't say more, just checked the carcass. Most likely she'd fired her little toy and not hit anything. The large hole left by his shotgun would convince her, but Chase doubted he'd ask her to look. Bullet wounds were too much, even for this oddly adventurous female.

Except … the cougar took
two
bullets to the chest. One from his shotgun, and one considerably smaller, but no less deadly.

“I can see by the surprise on your face—which it hardly needs be said isn't flattering—that you've discovered I'm a good shot.” Satisfaction laced her voice. “I thought
your
shot was the echo, so I'm glad that much is explained. But what about that awful scream? You yourself mentioned I didn't do it.”

“Cougars do that unearthly shrieking howl. Even the males—though this one's young, about sixty pounds. Just over a year, I'd say.” He looked it over. “Still a big kitten, too curious to resist the lure of your fluttering ribbons. Must've thought he could pounce, grab the ‘wounded creature' you carried, and be off to play with his prize before Decoy moved.”

“My bonnet?” For the first time, the girl went pale. “You think I was attacked over my
bonnet
?”

“Yep.” Of all the things for her to get upset about. Only a woman wouldn't mind the idea of a predator leaping for her throat until someone pointed out it endangered her headgear. Chase decided it was time to head back to Hope Falls. “My bonnet in no way resembles a wounded animal!” “This wouldn't have happened if you had someone with you.” He ignored the issue of her hat. It didn't matter. “Even young cougars aren't foolish enough to attack something traveling in a pair or group. What were you doing out here alone?”

Becoming quite angry and trying not to show it of course
.

Lacey didn't say so. Instead she stared at the stranger before her. Here stood a man daring to chide her as though she were an infant who'd wandered too far from her nurse. Why, the first words he'd spoken were a taunt over her shock at his sudden appearance. Who was this man to dictate her behavior?

Obviously, such rudeness deserved a proper dressing-down.

“What am I doing out here?” She repeated the impertinent question, raising her chin.
“I'm
enjoying a walk on
my
property. And just what, may I ask, do you think
you're
doing here?”

Aside from trying to take me to task
, she silently added.

The grimmest grin she'd ever seen pulled her into his answer before she considered whether or not a grin could truly be grim.
“I'm
enjoying your walk, too.”

“Of all the ridiculous—” Lacey caught herself and changed pattern. “In that case, I suggest you enjoy the walk heading that way, while I enjoy the vistas in this direction.” She gestured widely to illustrate the opposite paths, but stopped abruptly at a swift stinging in her shoulder.
The scratch
.

“No.” His grin disappeared, leaving only the tension stretching tightly around his surprisingly square jaw.

Surprising that Lacey could make it out through that much scruffy stubble, not surprising that the man would boast a square jawline. It seemed, somehow, the shape of stubbornness.

Rounded chins, she suddenly decided, implied better ability to compromise—both a strength and an art. That her own chin happened to be round, rather than square, simply proved it.

“Very well, I'll trade. You go that way, and I'll head back from whence I came.” She made the offer with modified, less sweeping gestures to again illustrate opposite directions. But again, a sharp sting in her shoulder made her drop her left arm.

“No.” Something she could only describe as fierce lightened the dark ash of his gaze. Now he stared at her through a rich burnt umber. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

“No.” Lacey belatedly realized she'd echoed him and hastened to add, “I'll just keep this bandanna pressed against it until the doctor can take a look, and everything will be fine.”

While she finished refusing, he moved. Lacey didn't note any sway of his shoulders indicating a step, heard no scuff or shuffle of his boots. It looked as though the ground itself shifted to bring him forward because now he stood too close.

“What are you doing?” She shrilled the question, loud voice a ladylike assault designed to force him back a measure. Or two.

He didn't step back. Nor did he answer. In fact, he did nothing but take up far too much space for any single person. And even that seemed more a side effect than anything planned. No, this tall, dark stranger managed an almost unnatural stillness as he just … stood. Silently. Looking at her.

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