Before he could get close enough to attack, Patsy brought her weapon down for a second time. Their attacker saw it coming and grabbed the metal edge. Using the force of Patsy’s blow, he sent her flying across the stream into deeper water, the pot slipping from her grasp.
The blackguard had a weapon now. He turned to face Jonah.
But Jonah had a weapon too.
He reached into his belt and unsheathed his knife.
The scoundrel spun and dashed into the woods.
Jonah charged after him, but dry ground gave the man too much advantage. He sprinted through the trees, disappearing within seconds into the darkness.
Breathing heavily, Jonah gave up the chase, unwilling to leave Patsy on her own again.
Had the man been alone, or would he return with friends?
A soft gasp behind him pulled his attention back to Patsy, who stood unsteadily, one hand braced against a boulder, her shoulders heaving.
"You all right?" He moved toward her.
She nodded. "I'm fine." Her gaze strayed to the place where the man had disappeared, something unreadable in the green depths. Vulnerability, perhaps. And fear.
Jonah swallowed hard, forcing himself to face the truth. "Do you realize who that was?” Maybe she hadn’t gotten a good look at him in the fading light. It was hard to believe the man would come this far just to get his revenge. But he had, and he’d been thwarted. If anything, being run off like that would only make him angrier. What would stop him from trying again?
A shadow crossed her face, and she met his eyes. "Douglas. The man from the saloon." She straightened,gathering her composure around her like a cloak, her poker face sliding into place.
Shutting him out.
Disappointment twinged through him.
She was a tough woman, but she didn’t have to carry every burden by herself.
She waded out of the creek, and he followed her. They could talk more back at camp.
But as he settled into making supper, Miss Whitman kept herself busy. She seemed to be trying to avoid talking about her attacker, and he couldn’t bring himself to force the conversation.
The savory aroma of the stew wafted through the cool evening air as he ladled it into tin bowls. He handed one to Miss Whitman, and their fingers brushed for the briefest moment. The touch sent sparks through him.
But she gave no indication she’d felt anything, accepting the bowl with a murmured thank-you, her gaze distant and pensive.
They ate in silence, the crackle of the fire and the chirping of crickets the only sounds in the still night.
A few minutes later, Patsy set her bowl aside, drawing in a deep breath as if steeling herself. "Jonah, about the fight earlier..." She trailed off, her brow furrowing.
"Let me guess. You're going to tell me you had it under control?"
She shook her head, a rueful chuckle escaping. "Not this time. I…I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't stepped in. So thank you. Truly."
His tight jaw loosened as he studied her. She’d offered a real thank-you? He’d not expected that. "You're tougher than most, Patsy. I've no doubt you would've found a way to get free."
She poked at the fire with a stick. "Men like that—the ones who cheat and threaten—they're the kind you have to watch outfor. They're evil, through and through." The bitterness in her voice spoke of painful experience.
Did he dare pry? "How long did you say you worked as a poker player?"
She sighed as her eyes took on a faraway look. "I came to Missoula Mills two months ago, after my husband died."
At the sorrow in her voice, an image of the graves back at the ranch slipped into his mind. Simple stones marked each one, pale in comparison to the grief of losing each person. First Dat, then Mum a week later. Then Lucy.
He pulled himself out of those thoughts before they swallowed him. She’d lost a husband. And recently. He wanted to ask more, to unravel the mystery of her past, but she’d built the walls protecting her heart for a reason, and he would not force his way through them.
