Free Strokes Vol #3 by Delilah Devlin Page A

fall back. An invitation extended with the lowering of my eyelids. Beneath the sweep of my lashes, I noted the tensing of his jaw, the narrowing of his gaze. He was looking at my mouth.
    And then slowly, he bent closer, his mouth drawing nearer. “We should head back into the canyon and follow the edge of the stream.”
    I drew in a ragged breath. He was so damn close. Just kiss me.
    He moved away, but not before I saw one corner of his firm mouth twitch.
    My face grew hot. Almost as hot as the juncture of my thighs where moisture pooled. Only once before, when he’d checked my seat on his horse and the length of my stirrups before we left the parking lot, had he stood that near. And then, his hand had been on my boot, easing it in and out of my stirrups, adjusting the length a notch. His hand had brushed my calf just above my boot, but I’d assumed it was accidental, because he certainly hadn’t given me any clear sign he was as aware of my body as I was of his.
    From that first moment when he’d arrived in his big Ford pickup with an old dented trailer in tow, I’d been intensely aware of him. I was to lead a ground team up one possible trailhead while another team followed a well-established hiking route. We’d all stood staring at the park map behind the Plexiglas; Zane beside my shoulder as I’d traced the first team’s route with a finger.
    Zane had shaken his head. “Do we even know that was where they planned to go?”
    The trail was popular. “Where would you go?”
    “Straight up the ridge overlooking the canyon.”
    The face of the bare outcropping of rock was a favorite with climbers, but the rugged trail along its edge led into wild backcountry. Only skilled hikers, and ones who carried proper gear, including GPS and radios, should ever attempt it.
    The two boys didn’t have the extra gear and carried only sleeping bags and light packs with food for two days. Their parents had thought they intended to sleep in the canyon camping area, but the ranger at the station remembered them standing in front of this very map and asking about trails.
    Zane and I took the harder route. The one he said two boys who liked to look for trouble would go. By the end of day one, we’d found signs.
    Zane bent over his saddle, peering at the dusty trail. “Two hikers.”
    “We don’t know it’s our boys.”
    “It’s two men. Wide strides. Light steps. They don’t weigh much. And they’re heading straight up. They haven’t stopped to eat. There’s no trash. My guess is they wanted to make the first bluff and camp there for the night to watch the sunset.”
    On horseback, we’d made the bluff before noon. The boys’ campsite was evident from the trash they’d only half buried. Ramen bags. Energy bar wrappers.
    Zane and I hadn’t stopped until we’d found their second campsite. One they’d taken even less time to clean up, because it was obvious they were already scared. They’d traveled in nearly a circle before bedding down, footsteps crossing their own paths.
    With darkness falling, we’d stopped to rest the horses and rolled out own sleeping bags. The Army MRE bags we carried had provided a hot meal with a huge amount of calories. I hadn’t wanted to finish mine, but he’d pushed the crackers and peanut butter at me, silently insisting I eat everything. I’d guessed he didn’t want me lagging from lack of energy or complaining of hunger.
    We’d lain on the dirt, three feet between our bags, beneath a starry sky. And although my body was tired and aching, I’d been too aware of his proximity to fall asleep quickly. I kept remembering how he’d looked that day, straw cowboy hat atop his dark hair, his long black braid swaying between his shoulders. He wore a light chambray, long-sleeved shirt over a dark tee. His jeans were Wranglers that hugged his hard ass and thick thighs. Zane was tall, and from the light scruff of beard on his jaw, not full-blooded Native American, although his sharp, wide