He swiped his butternut-colored sleeve across his sweated brow. Leave it to East Texas to be warm even in late November. Tonight, he’d camp beneath the stars miles from here. Somewhere by a creek so he could bathe and clean up. Tomorrow, he’d find Robert LeBeau’s plantation near Columbus, and the act would begin. He’d have to play up his position as a stepson of a planter-class gentleman, even if his slave-owning stepfather was the last man on earth he wanted to emulate. He needed LeBeau to view him as an equal and introduce him as such to the other well-to-do men of Colorado County, not just as the scout he’d hired seventeen months ago to track down his niece and help kidnap her from the Comanche.
Morning Fawn. How had she fared since she’d been takento her uncle’s? What would it be like to see her again? For all he knew, she’d managed to escape and return toherpeople.
Stubborn. Defiant. During the journey to Fort Belknap, she’d grabbed a gun from one of the younger hands, and Devon had to wrestle her to the ground to get it away from her. Mostly, he’d kept his distance.
Her eyes haunted him still.
Had he ruined her life or saved her? He prayed to God it was the latter.
He should have never taken the job. And he shouldn’t be here now, but a man with any conscience couldn’t stay out of the war forever. He could have remained in Brownsville with the rest of the Federal invasion force, but Captain Jeremy Carson had convinced him that as a Texan, he could better serve as a spy and saboteur.
The Rebs would have to shift the cotton trade now that Brownsville had fallen. It was his job to discover the new routes and disrupt the flow to Mexico, and LeBeau’s plantation lay in the county that housed the most significant cotton warehouse west of the Mississippi.
A leather patch scraped against the thin pinkish scar that ran from his cheekbone just beneath his left eye to the bridge of his nose, the result of a knife fight with a disgruntled Reb. The injury had missed his eye, but a stranger looking at the patch would assume differently. Perfect excuse for being away from his supposed Reb regiment.
He exhaled and willed his hands to leave the stiff patch be.
Instead, he wedged a finger beneath his yellow-trimmed collar. A thin silver chain and locket which had once adorned his wife’s neck now lay cool against his skin. A heavy sigh rattled through him. He had failed her. He’d asked God for forgiveness. Forgiving himself was a different matter.
A far-off yell. Overhead, a handful of crows took flight.
A shiver ran down his backbone. Anyone within shoutingdistance was too close. Knife drawn, he whacked off a nearby juniper branch and swished it across the freshly covered spot beneath the elm.
Another shout, almost discernable.
He hurried to his horse. The last thing he wanted was to be seen near this location. Foot in the stirrup, he nudged his light bay mare forward before he’d settled in the saddle. Up the incline from the creek, he headed for the road, dropping the branch by a cluster of trees.
Hard, quick clomps, and a horse and rider galloped around the bend, a girl with honey-colored hair flowing in the wind.
“Stop her.” A fellow in a red shirt goaded his mount at full throttle, beating his way toward the girl’s dust. “Thief.”
Another rider followed close behind him.
A thief? Devon swung his mount toward her as the girl charged past on a Thoroughbred. She couldn’t have picked a finer horse to steal. With a snap of the reins and the pressure of his calves, he drove his horse to its limit to match her speed, squinting against the stirred-up sand whirling in the air.
Green plaid dress and no side saddle, she rode as if she were being chased by a herd of buffalo. The butt of a carbine bobbed along in a sling. What kind of girl was this?
“Wait.” He charged up alongside her.
Both horses snorted with the effort. Hooves tore through the withered grass.
His heart pounded.
The rider whipped the loose end of her reins against his hand like a matchstick striking kindling. “Get away from me!”
He would not be beaten and outrun by a girl, especially not a thieving one. Pressing the balls of his feet against the stirrups, he raised himself in the saddle and drove his horse onward.
Hair flying, she veered her animal toward the road. Devon kept pace.
Her stirrup dangled within inches of his.Wham. She rammed her foot into his.
Blasted left eye. He should have approached on the other side. Enough. He wrapped the end of the reins around his hand.
Her foot came again. His horse flinched.
Now was the moment. He leaned half out of the saddle, grabbed her, his left arm around her back, and pulled with all of his might.
Her upper body shifted to his lap.
