“Nothing.”
Abigail fired.
The bullet struck the dirt beneath Strake’s stallion. The animal reared so violently that Strake slid backward over the saddle and hit the street hard enough to lose both his pistol and whatever dignity he still had.
Mateo stared at Abigail.
She lowered the revolver.
“I meant to do that.”
“Of course.”
“Mostly.”
Mateo laughed and urged Estrella forward.
Red Hollow disappeared behind them.
For the next four hours they rode through washes, rocky flats, and dry hills where trails disappeared almost as quickly as they formed. Mateo avoided open ground whenever possible, guiding Estrella through narrow passages between red cliffs. Abigail remained in front of him until they reached a creek hidden beneath cottonwoods.
Isaiah waited there with another horse.
He had circled west after leaving the ridge, using an old freight trail that Rusk’s men rarely traveled. When he saw Abigail alive, the tension left his shoulders for the first time that day. Then he noticed the bruising around her throat.
“Miss Hart,” he said.
“Mr. Freeman.”
Isaiah looked at Mateo.
“You know, most men buy flowers.”
Mateo dismounted.
“I was busy.”
“I noticed.”
Isaiah handed Abigail a canteen.
She drank carefully.
“You saved my life too.”
Isaiah shook his head. “I shot a few hats.”
“You shot them very convincingly.”
“That has always been my gift.”
They moved deeper into the canyon before sunset. Isaiah knew of a narrow shelf where rock concealed them from anyone riding along the upper trail. They ate dried meat, beans, and the remains of a loaf Isaiah had stolen from his own kitchen before leaving.
No one lit a fire.
Abigail slept badly.
Every time she drifted off, she felt the trapdoor dropping beneath her feet. Twice she woke grabbing at her throat. The third time, she found Mateo sitting beside the canyon wall with his rifle across his knees.
“You haven’t slept.”
“Neither have you.”
She moved closer.
“Does your arm hurt?”
“No.”
“That means yes.”
Mateo glanced at the blood on his sleeve.
“I’ve had worse.”
“I hate when men say that.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because having survived worse doesn’t make the current wound disappear.”
Mateo considered the argument.
“That sounds like something from one of your books.”
“It’s something from having eyes.”
He smiled.
She rested her head against his shoulder.
For several minutes they listened to water moving over stone.
Then Abigail whispered, “They almost killed me.”
Mateo’s smile disappeared.
“I know.”
“I thought I was ready.”
“No one is.”
She looked toward him.
“What if you had missed?”
His jaw tightened.
“I didn’t.”
“That isn’t an answer.”