pursuer that she did not see the great dip in the terrain until she was upon it, until her mount dropped awkwardly into the depression and threw her head over heels and tumbling.
Shadow Walker held his mount to a firm forward pace as the girl’s Indian pony stumbled and threw her in a violent arc over its head.
The girl hit the ground with deadly impact and regret tugged somewhere in the back of Shadow Walker’s mind. He had not wanted the chase to end this way. He had wanted to overcome the girl as he had once before, so he might prove to her that all effort at escape was useless. He had also wanted to prove to her that with his return her defiance would come to an end.
Shadow Walker drew his mount to a sliding halt beside the girl’s motionless body. Her bright hair lying in wet, tangled strands across her face, her brief clothing muddied and torn, her limbs limply outstretched, she looked much like a white man’s ragged, discarded doll, but Shadow Walker knew that appearances could be deceiving.
Crouching beside her, Shadow Walker first felt for the pulsing of life in the girl’s throat. At the steady throbbing there, he ran his hands down her arms and the length of her legs with utmost care. Satisfied that there was no break in the bone, he pushed the heavy strands of hair back from her dirt-stained face and studied the blood that trickledfrom the corner of her mouth. He saw a small, circular cut where her tooth had pierced her lip and dismissed the wound. He then turned her head slowly, searching for other injuries. The girl protested softly when he touched a swelling at the side of her head. He saw her eyelids flicker, then open to narrow slits—and he noted the exact moment when her vision cleared and awareness returned.
Fear dawned in her light eyes when he then repeated, “I speak only once in warning.”
The sun was rapidly slipping down behind the distant hills. Sitting astride in front of Shadow Walker, sharing his horse as they returned to the Cheyenne camp, Miranda remained stiffly silent.
She had recovered from her violent spill. Though she did not remember falling, she clearly recalled the moment when she had regained consciousness to find herself lying on the ground with a blurred figure looking down at her. She remembered thinking as the image cleared that this Indian was a stranger to her—and that he would be considered handsome if not for his emotionless gaze.
Then she saw the fading mark of her rope on his cheek and realized she was seeing Shadow Walker without war paint for the first time. When he spoke, his words echoed through her haze.
I speak only once in warning.
Waiting with unexpected patience for her to becomesteady enough to ride, Shadow Walker had made no attempt to catch her horse but had instead pulled her up to sit astride, in front of him. She could not be certain whether their slow pace back to camp was in deference to her obvious pain, or if it was calculated so that all in the camp might clearly see that he had vanquished her.
Miranda saw malevolence in the eyes of all who looked at her as they rode through the village. She forced her chin to remain high despite the laughter and open ridicule of her condition. Hardly able to think past the pounding in her head, she was never more aware that her future hung at Shadow Walker’s whim.
She ached. Her stomach churned. She wanted nothing more at that moment than to lie down and let the darkness overwhelm her—yet she refused to allow Shadow Walker that final victory.
Fighting impending nausea, Miranda held one thought
No surrender.
CHAPTER FOUR
The predawn quiet of the lodge was broken by the distant howl of a coyote, the muted drone of night prey and a whir of swooping wings that induced a brief silence before the drone resumed—but Shadow Walker was alert to sounds of an entirely different kind.
Raising his head from his sleeping bench, he looked at the slender figure lying across from him. He studied the girl as
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