“If you slow me down,” she said, “I’ll leave you in the dust.”
Blaze gave a faint smile. “Fair enough.”
She watched him a moment longer before turning back to her work, checking her rifle, wiping the sand from the barrel.Blaze walked back to Nancy, the horse’s ears twitching at the smell of death. He stroked her neck.
“Looks like we got company now, girl,” he said.
Nancy snorted softly, tail flicking. Blaze glanced once more at Marisol. The woman was standing among the wreckage, the sun cutting gold across her face and the rifle gleaming like a warning. He felt the faintest spark of something he hadn’t felt in days. It wasn’t hope, but it might have been direction.
He looked toward the horizon and the way the Riders had gone.
“We’ll find them,” Blaze said under his breath. “You hear me, Ma? I’ll find every last one.”
Chapter 11
Marisol finished her stew first. She stood, brushing the dust from her skirt, then wandered a few paces from the fire. The night stretched wide around them, the horizon painted with the last bruised hues of dusk. She pulled her Hawken Plains rifle from its sling and checked the chamber, eyes narrowing toward a nearby ridge.
“You hunting something?” Blaze asked, looking up from where he sat cross-legged beside the fire.
“Maybe,” Marisol said.
Her tone was calm, but her body was coiled tight with focus. Blaze followed her gaze and spotted a bird perched on a dried mesquite skeleton maybe fifty yards away.
“That thing’s half a mile out,” Blaze said.
Marisol didn’t answer. She dropped to one knee, braced the rifle along her forearm, and drew a slow breath. The air went stillfor a moment. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the low rustle of wind across the sand.
Then she squeezed the trigger.
The rifle cracked through the desert stillness. The bird exploded in a burst of feathers, a clean shot dead through the chest. Its wings folded, and it dropped like a stone.
Blaze could do nothing but stare.
Marisol rose smoothly, chambered another round, and dusted her hands.
“Waste of a bullet,” she said, though a faint grin tugged at her mouth.
“It might have been too loud, though,” Blaze said. “If the Riders are near, they’ll hear.”
“I want them to hear,” Marisol said. “Let them know someone’s out here who can shoot straighter than they can run.”
Blaze grinned despite himself. “Can’t argue with that.”
Marisol slung her rifle back over her shoulder and settled near the fire again. Blaze couldn’t take his eyes off her. Not just because of the shot, but because of the ease with which she’dmade it. No hesitation. No breath wasted. Just action—clean and certain.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Blaze asked.
She didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed fixed on the desert horizon.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” she said, “but my brother taught me. Before the Riders killed him.”
Blaze nodded, the wind catching the brim of his hat. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Didn’t mean to stir anything.”
“You didn’t,” she said. “They did.”
After mounting up, the two rode in silence for a while. Birds circled overhead, casting slow-moving shadows across the dunes. Blaze kept his gaze on the faint trail ahead.
