Twisted Hills Read Online Free PDF Page B

she even mention it?
    His first impulse was to ask her if something was wrong, if she needed his help. But he reminded himself again that he was not the Ranger. He was a man who couldn’t care less what happened to anybody except himself out on this desert crossing. As much as he disliked doing it, he took a breath and looked back and forth.
    â€œSuit yourself,” he called out to the open door.
    He gave a tug on the reins in his hand and started forward, the dun plodding right behind him. Veering slightly, he started walking wide of the wagon and its gaunt roan. As he drew diagonally closer, he saw the horse lift its sand-crusted muzzle and stare toward him and the dun. He saw hunger in the horse’s dark eyes.
    â€œWait,” the woman’s voice called out to him before he got past the wagon, the gaunt roan.
    All right . . .
    The Ranger stopped, almost relieved. He still didn’t speak; he only stood watching as a dark-haired young woman stepped down from inside the wagon and stood staring at him, her right hand pressed close to her long gingham skirt. Sam had seen this position enough to know that she held something there, a revolver, a short shotgun, some sort of weapon.
    â€œWe—” She halted and corrected herself. “That is,
I
cannot move my wagon down the hillside. It has started to tip. It will fall over,” she said, sounding both embarrassed and worried. “Can you please help us,
por favor,
mister
—señor
?”
    Sam heard her stiff clumsy attempt at Spanish.
    â€œI’m not Mexican,” he said. “I speak English.” He kept his voice firm but not unfriendly.
    â€œOh, I see,” the woman said.
    Again, the trace of an accent—ever so slight. She kept her hand pressed against her skirt, watching as Sam stepped forward toward her.
    He looked her up and down, then shifted his gaze to the side of the wagon as he walked closer. Weathered remnants of unreadable letters adorned its side.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with the wagon?” he asked.
    â€œWe—I mean,
I
started back down to the trail, but I turned too much at once and the wagon started tipping. Now I cannot move it in any way that does not make it tip even worse. Can you help me?”
    Sam looked the wagon over and only nodded as he walked. He could see that his walking closer made her uncomfortable. Yet he didn’t stop until he stood ten feet away.
    â€œFirst thing, let’s make clear if you’re a
We
or an
I
,” he said flatly. “I like knowing how many people I’m talking to.”
    â€œI am not alone. My father is inside,” she said. She looked frightened and took an instinctive step backward toward the rear wagon door.
    â€œI will not be taken advantage of,” she said, her voice turning shaky. “I warn you.”
    Sam looked at the wagon door, not believing her.
    â€œFather or not, if I was going to take advantage of you, we wouldn’t be talking right now,” he said, giving his tone a hard edge. He stepped past her and alongside the tilted wagon, inspecting it. Whatever she had pressed to her skirt, it wasn’t a gun, he figured, or else she would have raised it toward him along with her warning.
    â€œOh,” she said, seeming to understand his logic. She followed along behind him and the dun, her first few steps reluctant, then becoming less so as she spoke. “I have been told many bad things about those who ride this desert crossing.”
    â€œIs that a fact?” Sam said, tossing the matter aside as he looked at the dangerously leaning peddler’s wagon. “If that’s a pigsticker you’re holding, you need to put it away. It’ll take the three of us to straighten this rig.”
    He stopped and turned, catching a glimpse of pale bare thigh at the second she lowered her raised skirt over the knife in its hidden leather sheath.
    Who . . .
Sam forced himself not to look away as he