Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance by Sandra Chastain
Authors: Sandra Chastain
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he hadn’t been certain then, he’d had that knowledge brought to life forever when he’d watched soldiers call innocent women and children savages and slaughter them in the name of good.
But all this was too much for a drifter like him. He didn’t understand what was happening, and he didn’t want to. If it meant dying, Tucker didn’t want the treasure; the ranch was only a dream.
But he was a sucker for dark eyes and wounded old men. And, he told himself as he walked Yank over to Luce, he’d get Luce home to die. That was the honorable thing to do. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he still had a tiny, stubborn sliver of honor.
Yank would have to carry both Tucker and the injured man. Tucker hoped that, for once, the stubborn animal didn’t try to continue fighting the War Between the States. The horse had been on the winning side, and he seemed to delight in reminding Tucker of it as often as he could.
Had Luce been an outlaw, Tucker would have folded him over the horse’s back like a sack of flour. But he wasn’t. And once Tucker made up his mind to get the miner home, he wasn’t going to fail.
Lifting him into the saddle was pure agony for Tucker’s injured ribs. With Raven’s help he finally got him up and slid in behind. Keeping Luce upright was not goingto be easy for either man. Finally Tucker removed the rope the old man used to hold up his pants and tied the two of them together at the waist. Now Tucker could use his arms to support the man’s head and prevent it from lolling forward. It didn’t relieve the pressure of Luce’s weight against his ribs, but it stopped the jostling that set off fresh waves of pain.
“Downriver,” Luce gasped, and slumped forward.
The mist rising from the water burned away under the heat of the brassy morning sun. There was a quietness at the bottom of the steep cliffs through which the river had run for centuries, and an absence of animal life gave a curious empty feel to the canyon.
Only an occasional bird glided along on the brisk air currents that funneled through the slash in the earth. They came upon a solitary family of quail which had obviously flown in, hatched little ones, and apparently been unable to leave.
Raven kept a sharp eye on the edge of the cliffs, but a dozen men could be watching and she wouldn’t know it. They were too close to the wall to look up and see anything but sky. And they were easy targets. Their horses’ footfalls were loud in the silence, making them easy to track, easy to kill.
Finally the old man roused himself and spoke again. “Cross the river here and ride toward the cluster of black rocks with the jagged rim.”
“I hope it isn’t much farther, Luce. My stomach is ready for some food, and you need a bed and some rest.”
“Not far” was the answer. “Behind the rock is a way up.”
They crossed the water, shallow but fast moving, and made their way silently to the ebony-colored rock that took on the shape of inverted fingers, the knuckles forming the jagged edge.
Something about the formation made the hair stand up on the back of Tucker’s neck. He glanced around, searching the top of the ridge. Were they being watched?
But he couldn’t see anybody there.
Nothing about this made any sense to Tucker. He ought to be halfway to Oregon. How in hell had he ended up down here with a wounded man and a woman who was tying him in knots with her lush, regal presence?
The trail behind the rock was exactly where the old man had said. Once they located it, Raven directed Onawa back to the river and along the bank for a short distance, then rode the filly into the water and doubled back. She climbed down, looked around, and finally asked for Tucker’s bandanna.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Cover our tracks,” she said.
Puzzled, he removed it and handed it to her.
“Now your hat.”
The bandanna was one thing, his hat was something else. It was only beginning to dry after its trip down the
But all this was too much for a drifter like him. He didn’t understand what was happening, and he didn’t want to. If it meant dying, Tucker didn’t want the treasure; the ranch was only a dream.
But he was a sucker for dark eyes and wounded old men. And, he told himself as he walked Yank over to Luce, he’d get Luce home to die. That was the honorable thing to do. Whether or not he wanted to admit it, he still had a tiny, stubborn sliver of honor.
Yank would have to carry both Tucker and the injured man. Tucker hoped that, for once, the stubborn animal didn’t try to continue fighting the War Between the States. The horse had been on the winning side, and he seemed to delight in reminding Tucker of it as often as he could.
Had Luce been an outlaw, Tucker would have folded him over the horse’s back like a sack of flour. But he wasn’t. And once Tucker made up his mind to get the miner home, he wasn’t going to fail.
Lifting him into the saddle was pure agony for Tucker’s injured ribs. With Raven’s help he finally got him up and slid in behind. Keeping Luce upright was not goingto be easy for either man. Finally Tucker removed the rope the old man used to hold up his pants and tied the two of them together at the waist. Now Tucker could use his arms to support the man’s head and prevent it from lolling forward. It didn’t relieve the pressure of Luce’s weight against his ribs, but it stopped the jostling that set off fresh waves of pain.
“Downriver,” Luce gasped, and slumped forward.
The mist rising from the water burned away under the heat of the brassy morning sun. There was a quietness at the bottom of the steep cliffs through which the river had run for centuries, and an absence of animal life gave a curious empty feel to the canyon.
Only an occasional bird glided along on the brisk air currents that funneled through the slash in the earth. They came upon a solitary family of quail which had obviously flown in, hatched little ones, and apparently been unable to leave.
Raven kept a sharp eye on the edge of the cliffs, but a dozen men could be watching and she wouldn’t know it. They were too close to the wall to look up and see anything but sky. And they were easy targets. Their horses’ footfalls were loud in the silence, making them easy to track, easy to kill.
Finally the old man roused himself and spoke again. “Cross the river here and ride toward the cluster of black rocks with the jagged rim.”
“I hope it isn’t much farther, Luce. My stomach is ready for some food, and you need a bed and some rest.”
“Not far” was the answer. “Behind the rock is a way up.”
They crossed the water, shallow but fast moving, and made their way silently to the ebony-colored rock that took on the shape of inverted fingers, the knuckles forming the jagged edge.
Something about the formation made the hair stand up on the back of Tucker’s neck. He glanced around, searching the top of the ridge. Were they being watched?
But he couldn’t see anybody there.
Nothing about this made any sense to Tucker. He ought to be halfway to Oregon. How in hell had he ended up down here with a wounded man and a woman who was tying him in knots with her lush, regal presence?
The trail behind the rock was exactly where the old man had said. Once they located it, Raven directed Onawa back to the river and along the bank for a short distance, then rode the filly into the water and doubled back. She climbed down, looked around, and finally asked for Tucker’s bandanna.
“What are you going to do with that?”
“Cover our tracks,” she said.
Puzzled, he removed it and handed it to her.
“Now your hat.”
The bandanna was one thing, his hat was something else. It was only beginning to dry after its trip down the
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