Bj James - Whispers In The Dark

Instead of the common uniform, she was in civilian dress. Boots, jeans, Western shirt, the customary Stetson. He noted she wore a holstered Colt belted at her hip, and no spurs on her boots.

“You move very quietly,” he observed softly as he finished his perusal.

“What you mean is I move very quietly, for a woman.” There was no rancor in her voice. One look warned she had little time or patience with petty angers.

“What I meant,” Rafe replied patiently, “is what I said. You move very quietly, for anyone.”

A slight bow afforded him the point. “Should I say thank you?”

“You don’t strike me as a woman who would waste her breath on false platitudes.”

She chuckled quietly, the humor genuine, giving him another point. “Just how do I strike you, Mr. Courtenay?”

Rafe was not surprised that she knew him. The camp as a whole had been informed by Patrick that he was coming, and what he would expect. “That would require some thought and consideration.”

The laugh again, low, smoky. In the right place, the right circumstance, a little sexy. “Of course,” she agreed. “But you’re a quick study, aren’t you, Mr.—”

“Rafe. From you, I prefer Rafe.”

“If you like.” By her manner she told him his name was of so little consequence at the moment, she would call him George, if he liked. “Now, Rafe.” She moved a step closer. “About that quick study.”

Letting her feel the weight of his scrutiny, he took her measure slowly, with a piercing thoroughness. Another woman might have flinched or blushed, facing such total invasion of her person. But not this one. He liked that, found it challenging, as he drew his study out more than was needed. After a long, long moment, in which Joe Collins’s gaping attention bounced like a racket ball between them, Rafe’s gaze returned to settle on her face.

“All done?” She stood with her hands at her hips, her feet apart, her chin jutted an unmistakable fraction.

“For now.” A cryptic answer, drawing little reaction. She was a cool one.

Her head tilted a bit, a brow lifted. “Well?”

“Do you want the particulars?”

“However you like it, Mr. Courtenay.”

“Rafe,” he reminded.

“Rafe,” she parroted in droll concession.

Silence fell like a gauntlet. Joe Collins stared and waited. Rafe was first to react. “All right,” he mused, tugging the tie he hadn’t taken time to remove down another notch. “The particulars, as I see them. You’re five-five, without the boots, and weigh, maybe, one fifteen with them. Shoulder-length hair. Dark brown, if not black, maybe with a hint of red in sunlight. On a bet, a little unruly at times. Tied, at the moment, with whatever was handy. On the trail, I suspect it will be tucked under the Stetson.”

He waited for the slight acknowledging bow of her head then resumed a concise cataloging of her features. “Oval face, high cheekbones. Fine-textured skin, a tint that suggests it tans easily and rarely bums. A nose with a slight deviation. From a break, I would surmise. Brows, arched and fine, dark as night.

“Your eyes...” He paused only to draw a breath. “In this garish light I can’t say, but too dark for blue or gray, too pale for true brown. Possibly the color of old sherry?” It was a question that begged no answer as he moved on to finer, surer points. “A belligerent chin that telegraphs your moods, and a mouth made for smiling.”

In a short pause in the tabulation, there was a clash of gazes. One chin angled another inch. Neither man nor woman smiled.

With a restrained quirk of his lips Rafe returned to his commentary. “As Simon would expect and demand, you’re obviously in good physical condition. A little slender. Yet, I would wager, strong for your size. You’ve a trim figure, a little boyish for my taste, but appealing.”

Dragging in another, slower breath, his unwavering gaze probing the shadows cast by the Stetson, he murmured, “And no matter how you dress down, no man in his right mind would ever forget you’re a woman.” The quirk became a small smile playing over his face. “Shall I go on, Miss...?”

“O’Hara,” Joe Collins interjected, flustered that in his preoccupation he’d been remiss in common courtesy. “Valentina,” he finished lamely. Both their names has been buzzed through the camp. She’d had the advantage of learning of Rafe Courtenay from camp gossip and speculation.

“O’Hara,” Rafe mused aloud over the name. It suited her to be Irish. It suited very well. “Shall I go on, then, Miss O’Hara?”

“By all means,” she responded with the first hint of strained grace. “Perhaps you’d like to look at my teeth, to judge my age.”

Rafe allowed himself a chuckle. “No need. Your face and body say you’re twenty-two. You’re eyes say thirty-two, thirty-three. I put my trust in the eyes.”

“Touché.” Another point for this man who had become her quiet adversary. “An excellent guess. I’m thirty-three.”

Turning, moving toward the tent she’d just left, she stopped at a table set before it. Carefully, she lifted a cloth covering a dismantled rifle. The oiled barrel was gleaming ebony under the yellow lights; the polished stock, warm mahogany. The tool of a perilous trade, and well cared for.

Her fingers trailed familiarly over burnished wood, curled briefly around the trigger, then lifted from it. Dropping the cloth over the weapon again, she faced him once more as abruptly as she’d turned away. “You disappoint me, Mr. Courtenay.”

“How so, Miss O’Hara?” They were back to formalities, the fencing was over, the gloves were off. “Disappointing you is the last thing I’d want to do.”

Valentina laughed. There was wry amusement in its inflection, and in her demeanor. “What you’ve described any eye or any mirror could tell. I expected better from you. More insight. More depth.”

“Perhaps I choose to keep my deeper perceptions to myself.”

“What? No detailed questioning of the logistics? No reservations about my skill? No sly wondering if I can really make the shot to free Patrick McCallum’s daughter?”

“I don’t need to question, or wonder. I have no reservations. Not about the logistics or your skill, O’Hara. Because I know Patrick McCallum, I know every alternate avenue has been closed, leaving only the one recourse. I repeat, because I know Patrick, I understand and trust there’s no other way to save his daughter but to put her life in the hands of one person. Because I know Simon McKinzie, because you are his choice, I know you’re the best, the only one, for the job.

“I don’t need your credentials.” Quietly, he reiterated his point, closing the subject. “That this is Patrick’s decision, and you are Simon’s choice, is enough.”

“Except that you plan one small change.”

“Yes. I’m going with you.” She did not react, and he felt no surprise that she would have drawn this conclusion from the bit of conversation she’d overheard. In his mind the reasoning was only logical. “I go in Patrick’s stead, for Courtney and Jordana. And for myself.”

“You’re mistaken,” Valentina contradicted flatly. “No one goes. I ride alone. I work alone.”

“Not this time.”

“This time above all.” Dismissing Rafe, forestalling any protest he might lodge, without a glance, she walked past him. Pausing briefly by the ranger, she murmured, “Joey, the call to Tyree won’t be necessary. Mr. Courtenay won’t be needing El Mirlo.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Joe Collins didn’t speak again, nor did Rafe, while each watched her take the path to the separate corral that cordoned the stallion.

As she approached the temporary fence, the skittish Black Jack, renowned for both his sure feet and savage temperament, snorted and danced away. From his place Rafe could hear, but not distinguish, the words of her singsong croon as she sought to calm and entice the stallion to her.

Rearing, hooves flashing at the air, the horse squealed his displeasure at unfamiliar surroundings and strange people. Valentina did not flinch, her quiet tone did not change. Black Jack raced the length of the back fence. He pawed the dust and tossed his rippling mane. Ears flattened, nostrils flaring, he paced, he pranced, he ignored the woman.

In response, her tone rose a degree. Assuring, calming, it floated across the clearing. “Having a little temper tantrum, are you? I’m not sure I blame you. I wouldn’t like to be cooped up in a strange place, with strange people, any more than you do. But it doesn’t have to be that way. It isn’t that way. I’m here...and we’ve met before.”

The stallion quieted, stared away from the hand she extended. Her song dropped again to a low murmur, her hand was steady. Black Jack snorted, his ears flicked, his head turned to her. He took a tentative step, paused, snorted again, and took another. Stretching out his neck, he nibbled curiously at her fingers. His velvet muzzle roamed over her gently curling hand and nudged at her arm. Quivering, he stood as she stroked him. Then, with a low wicker, he moved, crowding the fence to snuffle at her cheek.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Rafe muttered in an undertone.

“Yes, sir.” Joe Collins exhaled a long held breath. “Me, too.”

And, in that moment, it all clicked into place. Rafe understood the sense of familiarity. He’d never met Valentina O’Hara, but he’d seen her face many times. It had been years since she’d been an Olympian, sweeping the gold in her fields of choice. First with her skill with a rifle, then with her riding. The name he’d forgotten had been on every tongue, for no woman before her had accomplished as much. And none since.

For a time she was the darling of the media, a household word, the season’s wonder. Then, electing not to cash in on her fame, shunning a fortune in endorsements and advertising, she had, quite simply, dropped out of sight.

She’d been nineteen then, Rafe remembered as he watched her. Intrigued, he wondered where she’d been for the past fourteen years? What had she done? How had her path crossed with Simon’s? Why? When?

He had no answers. Perhaps he would find some of them in the dossier given to him by Joe Collins. Some, he suspected, not all. Not the answers that really mattered. But, he vowed, he would have them, before this was done.

“Make the call, Joe,” he said abruptly. “Tell Tyree to meet me at sunup. Not here, but at the wash a half mile north of the basin. Tell him the old map in Patrick’s study identifies it as the Hacker homestead.”

He had given the order without looking away from the stallion and the woman. Now he turned his face to the sky. “It will be dawn soon. I need to be briefed, and there’s a lot of planning left to do before first light.”

“Yes, sir,” Joe put in smartly. With a quick salute, eager to make amends for the blunder in introductions, he launched into the task.

Rafe watched the ranger till he was out of sight before he turned again to the corral. Concern etched his face, uneased by the sureness and rapport established between the stallion and the woman. She was a champion, an expert rider, a phenomenal shot, and one of Simon’s chosen.

But would it be enough?

“Can anyone do this? God help you, lady, can you?” Wheeling about, he stalked to the tent that was his. Catching back the flap that covered the entrance, he paused, his gaze drawn again to her.

“Sunup, O’Hara,” he pledged grimly. “And, like it or not, you and your new pet stallion will have company on the trail and the mountain. Then we’ll see.”