Free Spirit's Song by Madeline Baker Page B

blankets and lashed them behind the cantle.
    “Are you sure you can do this?” she asked.
    “No,” Ravenhawk replied, “but I damn well intend to try.”
    She watched Ravenhawk gather his strength as he put one foot in the stirrup, then swung his other leg over the horse’s back.
    Fine lines of pain etched his mouth and eyes.
    “Come on,” he said, and taking his foot from the stirrup, he offered her his left hand.
    Kaylynn put her foot in the stirrup and he lifted her up behind him.
    “Ready?” he asked.
    “If you are.”
    With a nod, he clucked to the gelding. Ready or not, it was time to move on.
     

 
    Chapter Nine
     
    His jaw clenched with anger, Jesse bound up the wound in his right shoulder the best he could. Stupid, he thought, he’d been so damn stupid. Must be getting old, going soft in the head. He knew better than to turn his back on a prisoner, especially one as desperate as Ravenhawk.
    He ran his hand over the shallow furrow along his left temple. He was lucky to be alive, lucky Ravenhawk’s second shot had only creased his hairline.
    He glanced up at the sky, judging the time. A good three hours had passed, making it close to nine o’clock. He supposed he should be grateful Ravenhawk hadn’t slit his throat while he was unconscious, that he hadn’t tied him up so tight he couldn’t get loose, that he hadn’t taken his revolver and the roan and left him unarmed and afoot. But he didn’t feel grateful. He was mad clear through.
    Grimacing with pain, he tied off the end of the makeshift bandage on his shoulder, then took a long drink from his canteen, wishing it was whiskey instead of water.
    He gathered some wood and built a fire, then hunkered down on his heels and stared into the flames. Ravenhawk had taken his rifle and the saddlebags that had held the food and cooking gear. It didn’t matter. He had lived off the land before; he could do it again.
    He would go after them tomorrow at first light.
    He stared into the flames. Abigail had been taken from him on a night like this, a night when the wind moved restlessly through the trees and a full moon hung low in the sky like a ball of thick yellow butter.
    Abigail. When he’d recovered from the brutal beating her father had given him, he had gone looking for her, but it was as if she had disappeared from the face of the earth. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to find her, hadn’t been able to find anyone who knew what had happened to her. He sometimes wondered if, in a fit of rage, her father had killed her.
    He had searched for Abigail for over two years and somewhere along the way, he had taken up bounty hunting. It had seemed an easy way to earn money while he was on the move. In the last seven years, he had hunted and found over a dozen men who had not wanted to be found, but he had never been able to find a trace of Abigail.
    He lifted a hand to his scarred face, remembering the last night he had seen her. They had met at the end of town, determined to run away. He never knew how her father discovered their plans. But suddenly he was there, waiting, along with several other men. When Abigail realized what her father meant to do, she had gone down on her knees, begging her father to let him go. Her pleas had cut into Jesse with more force than the long black snake whip her father had used on him. He would never forget the humiliation of having the woman he loved beg for his life, never forget the way Abigail’s father had looked at her, his cold, blue eyes filled with disgust. He had ordered her taken away. He could still hear Abigail crying his name, her voice choked with fear, vowing that she loved him, would always love him.
    He had endured the brutal whipping in silence. I am a warrior , he had told himself. I will not be afraid. I will not show weakness in front of my enemy.
    Nor would be ever forget the cold satisfaction that had blazed in her father’s eyes as he pulled a knife from his pocket and waved it in front of