Her Sheriff Bodyguard

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“Might do better to get some sleep,” he said.

“That,” she said crisply, “is difficult.”

He resumed eating. “Yeah, probably impossible. Better than riding a horse, though, isn’t it?”

She laughed aloud, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Yes, much better,” she said between her fingers.

“Good. You were a disaster on horseback.”

She laughed again. “Was I really?”

He shot her a sideways glance. “You were.”

He didn’t say it unkindly, but it nettled her just the same. Was he always so blunt? All at once she wondered what sort of woman he was used to? What sort of woman did he like?

Fernanda patted her mouth with her wrinkled napkin and stood up. “I go for walk,” she announced.

Hawk snagged her forearm as she moved past. “No, you don’t, señora.”

“Ah,” she acknowledged after a slight hesitation. “Perhaps I do not.”

Hawk grinned up at her. “I do like a smart woman, Fernanda.”

He wondered at the odd look that crossed Caroline’s face, but before he could puzzle over it, he saw Jingo signaling him from the doorway. He rose, tossed down the sorry excuse for a napkin, and followed the driver outside. Dusk was falling; the big orange sun slipped slowly behind the hills and shadows were lengthening.

“Time to roll, Hawk. Got us about three hours till full dark.”

Hawk tried to shrug off the tension that tightened his belly into knots. Darkness was never a good time to avoid danger, especially the kind he sensed dogging the two women under his protection.

He paced twice around the stagecoach and tried to think about the situation he found himself in. A woman like Caroline MacFarlane was always going to be trouble, purposely sticking her pretty little neck out and just begging some lowlife to harm her. As soft and female as she appeared, she had a spine of steel and a stubborn streak wide as a housewife’s broom.

But he sure did wish her hands weren’t so white, that her voice wasn’t low and just throaty enough to sound seductive. That her mouth... Ah, hell, he couldn’t think about her mouth. And that hair, like fine spun silk and so black it reminded him of an ebony Arabian he’d lusted after years ago.

He handed his rifle up to Jingo and sat until Caroline and Fernanda walked out of the station and climbed into the coach. Followed half a heartbeat later by Overby.

Hawk eyed him. The gambler might not look menacing, but he sure made Hawk’s nerves twitch.

* * *

Caroline closed her eyes to avoid Mr. Overby’s glassy stare. The stagecoach had set off at a rapid clip and, despite the rough ride, the man had slept until ten minutes ago. Now that it was growing dark outside he suddenly became talkative.

Fernanda sent her a warning glance, and she resolved not to engage in conversation. Like most men, no doubt he was violently opposed to giving women the vote; the less she said the better.

Outside the coach window the landscape changed from gently rolling golden hills and broad valleys to a high tree-swathed plateau. Pines, Caroline guessed. Dark green, like those at their camp two nights ago, only closer together. Not much grew on the ground beneath them save for a kind of straggly grass with pale yellow flowers. Her lips firmed. The state of Oregon was inhospitable to not only women’s rights; green growing things struggled for life, as well.

So Mr. Rivera did not like her speeches, did he? She would say he was a typical male, except that he was not typical at all. She had never known a man even remotely like him. In Texas, the Rangers were famous. And feared. After three days in Rivera’s company, she could understand why.

Hawk Rivera rarely smiled, and his disturbing green eyes missed nothing. He had even noticed her choking on the whiskey he’d brought last night and that she did not finish her stew an hour ago.

His skin was tanned to a shade darker than even the stage driver’s. Perhaps Rivera was part Mexican? But his given name was Anderson—not a Mexican name. Hawk could be an Indian nickname, a spirit name she’d heard it termed. Yes, that was it. He was like a hawk, predatory and no doubt lethal when crossed.

His voice, however, had no hint of an accent, Mexican or Indian. Though his words were blunt, they were carefully chosen and always to the point. Had he had some schooling, then? Also she couldn’t help wondering why he had left Texas.

A shout from the driver jolted her to attention. The coach slowed, then swerved hard to the right. Fernanda jerked awake. “What is happening?”

* * *

Hawk spotted something on the road ahead and yelled at Jingo. A tree lay across the trail, fresh cut it looked like.