Love a Dark Rider

by Shirlee Busbee

  The huge, powerful wolf appeared without warning in front of her, a yellow-eyed black that sprang out of

  nowhere, its gleaming fangs the only thing Sara saw before she instinctively raised the pistol and fired. Her aim—^thank God!—was true, and the wolf yelped agonizingly as it fell at her feet. The sight of the twitching corpse and the sudden cacophony of howls that broke the night air shattered the last of Sara's composure, and throwing caution to the winds, she began to run as fast as her exhausted legs would carry her.

  How long she ran she never knew, the ghastly fate that awaited her if she were to falter or stumble lending her a speed and stamina she had never known she possessed. Darkness surrounded her, only the feeble light of the partially full moon guiding her way as she sped through the night.

  Suddenly a wolf exploded out of the brush to strike at her legs, but again the pistol spat and the big animal spun around, biting at where the bullet had entered its body.

  Briefly, the wolves seemed to fall back, and Sara was filled with the painfully fervent hope that the damage she had inflicted with the pistol had given them a distaste for her. The respite was momentary, however, for all too soon the sounds of renewed pursuit rang in her ears.

  Her legs felt like lead, her breathing so labored that she feared she was going to fall down, never to rise again; and it was then, its twisted shape unique and utterly lovely to Sara, that the half-hollowed oak, outlined by the frail silver light of the moon, loomed up before her. Nearly hysterical with fear and relief, she ran with increased vigor, not even aware that she was laughing and crying at the same time.

  That short, blessed lapse in the chase by the wolves gave Sara barely enough time to scramble up the stunted oak and into the narrow hollow opening that was over five feet above the ground. With a pious prayer that the

  hollow was not home to something deadly or vicious, she dropped her shaking limbs into its welcoming sheath just as the braver members of the pack hurled themselves against the tree, leaping up and snapping at the empty air as Sara disappeared within the shelter of the oak.

  The hollow was snug, Sara's shoulders and back pressed against the sides of the tree, and there was barely enough room for her to bring her arms up in front of her as she shot wildly at the persistent wolves that clawed and sprang up at the entrance of her fortress. Safe for the moment, she began to quake with reaction, her limbs trembling violently, her hands shaking so badly she could hardly grip the pistol.

  The wolves were all around the tree, and from her vantage, she could hear the frightening noises of their whines and snarls, the sound of their clawing feet as they attempted to dig her out of her hiding place. They did not attack continuously. There were long periods of time when Sara thought that perhaps they had given up and gone away, only to have the pack suddenly begin the attack anew.

  It was a very long night. Between attacks, when exhaustion claimed her, she dozed lightly, uneasily, waking the instant the wolves would launch another attack.

  When the first rosy light of dawn began to creep across the purple-hued horizon, Sara awakened foggily from her latest strained nap. She was vaguely aware that it had been quite some time since the last assault by the wolves and she listened intently. There were no longer any sounds of the wolves, and after waiting several moments more, she moved stealthily and risked taking a peek outside her snug little hollow.

  At the base of her tree lay the bodies of three wolves she must have killed during the night, but beyond that, in the ever-spreading light of day, there was not another wolf in sight. Hardly daring to believe that her ordeal

  was over, she continued to glance cautiously around, her ears straining to hear the slightest hint of danger. There were no sounds in the warming air but the sweet song of birds and the faint drone of insects.

  Too afraid to do otherwise, she waited a while longer, and it was only when the sun was fully risen that she warily began to crawl out of her hiding place.

  She had survived the night, but night would come again, and with it the wolves. .. .

  This stunted, blessed hollowed oak was the only safe place for her once darkness fell—she dared not go very far from it or the fate she had escaped last night would truly be hers. Yet if she did not leave its safety, if she did not seek out food and water, she might as well just sit here and let the wolves find her again—she would die anyway!

  Bleakly Sara glanced around her, an endless expanse of grass and chaparral meeting her eyes wherever she looked. Oh, God! How could she have been so foolish! So stupid!

  Furious with herself, she stood up. She couldn't just stay here and do nothing! She glanced over to where the three dead wolves lay on the ground. She dared not leave them there because of the stink they would produce and the scavengers they would attract. Swallowing her rising gorge, she spent the next several minutes dragging the heavy bodies as far away from the vicinity of the oak tree as possible.

  The dead wolves disposed of, Sara took another, longer look around her. She didn't rate her chances of finding either water or food very high, but she had to try. She wasn't, she vowed fiercely, going to die without a struggle.

  No matter what she found—unless, of course, it was another place as safe as the hollowed oak—she intended to return well before dusk, and she didn't like to think

  about what she was going to do if she found no water or food.

  Sara found nothing that morning. More terrifyingly, she discovered that her body had reached its limits and that she was not going to be able to travel as far away from the safety of the hollowed oak as she had first thought. After a scant two hours, breathing hard, she half walked, half stumbled back to the oak. Collapsing in a shambles at the base of the tree, just as the sun reached its zenith in the brilliant blue sky, Sara finally gave up. She was going to die. Scrambling up painfully into a sitting position, her back resting against the tree trunk, her knees bent, her arms lying on top of them, she searched the horizon. How flat and unchanging the landscape seemed, and yet she knew that wasn't true. There were all sorts of little draws and rises here and there to break the monotony of the land, but they weren't obvious; they just blended into the sea of grass and chaparral.

  She fixed her sleepy gaze in the direction in which she thought that del Sol might lie and wondered what Yancy was doing at this moment. She smiled faintly. Probably cursing her very name. And the fact that he had lost all chance of ever regaining Casa Paloma. Paloma would now go to Bartholomew and Tansy, and Sara sincerely hoped that they would live a long and happy life there— just as she had planned to do.

  She sighed. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Her eyelids started to flutter shut and then she frowned. What was that? On that slight rise? A silhouette? Was it the dream again? Would she see the Dark Rider of her dreams one last time?

  She straightened, her sleepiness vanishing. It was a silhouette! The unmistakable shape of a horse and rider... A tall, dark rider, his wide-brimmed black hat shading his features as he carefully scanned the horizon. Dimly she noted the smaller chestnut pack horse

  he led behind him and that there was something familiar about the animal— Locuelal

  Sara didn't need to see his face to identify the dark rider. There was such arrogance and purposefulness about him as he sat in the saddle, easily controlling the restive big buckskin horse; such suppressed power in that long, lean form that she knew it could be only one person— Yancy Cantrell!

  She smiled mirthlessly. Of course he would come after her. She was too important to him. Or rather, her children were important to him—vital, in fact. Without them, he lost all claim to Casa Paloma. . . .

  Sara made no attempt to attract his attention. With a fatalistic calm she simply waited, too weary and defeated to move. Yancy had tracked her this far, and he would find her soon enough without any help from her.

  But overriding all other emotions was a fervent thankfulness that he had found her—for whatever reasons. And because he had come after her, she was going to live, no
t die herel A profound sense of gratitude swept over her. Yancy had saved her life! No matter what the future brought, she would never forget that fact. Yancy had saved her lifel

  He rode steadily in her direction, stopping now and then to study the signs on the ground. He had come within two hundred feet of her resting place at the base of the oak before he glanced up, almost instinctively, and spotted her slender, shade-dappled form.

  The buckskin suddenly erupted into movement, thundering swiftly toward her, the small chestnut galloping wildly to keep up. Not six feet away from where she lay, at the sharp jerk of the reins, the buckskin plunged to a savagely abrupt stop, rearing and pawing the air at such rough treatment. Before the horse's hooves touched the ground, Yancy had already swung out of the saddle and was at Sara's side.

  His hat hid his expression, but Sara was groggily aware of the way his hands trembled when he reached out to touch her, the sudden catch of his breath when his gaze met hers. His amber-gold eyes blsized with some strong, undefined emotion and then she was in his arms, his mouth moving urgently against the sweat-dampened hair at her temple.

  Yancy held her for a long time, hardly daring to believe that he had found her and that she was still alive. He had faced war, Indian attacks, cannon fire and death, but nothing had ever terrified him as much as Sara's disappearance! It was only when Sara croaked, "Thirsty," that he was able to tear himself away from her and go to his horse for the canteen.

  As tenderly as a mother tending a child, he guided the cup to her lips and allowed her to sip a little water. Despite her plea for more, he shook his head. "No, sweetheart," he said gruffly, his throat tight with emotion. 'Too much would be just as bad for you as too little. In a few minutes you can have some more." He poured another cupful, and dipping his scarlet bandanna into the water, he carefully washed her face, letting the cool water drip down her neck to settle between her breasts.

  Sara sighed gratefully. It was heaven. Her eyes closed, she asked wearily, "How did you find me?"

  Yancy's features hardened. Looking at her wan features, he decided savagely that it was just as well that she was half dead—otherwise he might be tempted to thrash her senseless! Staring at the signs of her ordeal which marked her fair skin, his expression softened and he said huskily, "You didn't make my task any easier by heading off in the wrong direction!"

  Sara's eyes flew open. "The wrong direction?" she croaked. "Wasn't I traveling toward Magnolia Grove?"

  Yancy shook his head and smiled grimly. "If you'd kept on in the direction you were going, you'd have

  ended up in Mexico eventually! And because it never occurred to me that you'd go anywhere but to Magnolia Grove, I didn't even bother to look for any tracks— I simply mounted my fastest horse and took off after you. It was two days later before I realized that I had miscalculated and returned to del Sol—not, I might add, in the kindest frame of mind! I immediately organized a search in all directions fanning out from the hacienda, and that afternoon we managed to find your trail. Locuela came trotting merrily up to us the next morning ... it was rather a nasty moment." Yancy's mouth tightened, a bleak expression entering his eyes. "It was obvious that she had somehow escaped from you—she'd broken one of her reins—and it was equally obvious that she had been run and run hard."

  "Wolves," Sara muttered. "She got frightened and broke away. I thought they had killed her."

  "Not Locuela—she's a tough old mare," Yancy said lightly. "And smart. Even in a blizzard she could find her way to del Sol and she can always find water, which is one of the reasons I usually have her with me"—his voice deepened—"and why I didn't really worry about you until we found her roaming free."

  A small silence fell, Sara's eyelids fluttering shut. Yancy stayed where he was, hunkered down beside her, his gaze fixed intently on her exhausted features. After a bit, Sara asked, "Do you think I could have some more water now?"

  Yancy poured another cupful of water from his leather canteen, and handing Sara the tin cup, he said gently, "Drink it slowly, chica —^there's more where that came from, so there's no reason to gulp it down."

  Sara smiled tiredly, and fighting against the instinct to do just that—gulp it—she forced herself to take dainty sips. The water felt so good sliding down her parched throat. The coolness. The wetness. Like nectar. With her

  eyes shut, she just lay there, the taste of the sweet, sweet water lingering on her tongue.

  There was little conversation between them. All through the long, hot afternoon, Yancy periodically gave her small amounts of water, frequently bathing her face and neck and arms to help provide more moisture to her depleted body. The loud, persistent rumbling of her stomach had made him smile and hand her a piece of jerked beef. The beef was hard and tough, the texture of boot leather, but Sara was certain that she had never tasted anything so delectable in her life before, except, of course, for the water....

  The worst of the heat of the day had vanished when Yancy said abruptly, "I spotted a small water hole with a stand of cotton woods a few miles back. It'll be a good place to camp tonight."

  It was a good place for a camp, with plenty of clear, cool water, the leafy cottonwoods providing a modicum of shelter, as well as deadwood for a fire. Yancy had carried her to the campsite on his horse, her slender body protectively cradled in his arms; Locuela, loaded with supplies, trailed behind them. It had been a short ride to the new location, and lying now on a blanket on the ground with Yancy's saddle as a pillow for her head, Sara watched listlessly as he went about setting up camp.

  She was so tired, and though she was no longer nearly crazy with thirst, she was hungry. Plaintively, she finally asked, "Could I have another piece of jerky?"

  Busy with starting a fire, Yancy glanced over his shoulder at her. He grinned for the first time, his teeth flashing whitely in his dark, beard-stubbled face. "You must be feeling a little better if all you can think about is your stomach."

  Sara made a face, wrinkling up her nose delightfully at him. "It's not all I can think about. A hot bath would

  be heavenly and a real bed utterly divine, but right now food seems more important!"

  Yancy's grin faded and a shadow crossed his face. His words clipped, he said, "But you ran away from all those things, didn't you?"

  She had been so thankful to see him, so glad that she wasn't going to die beneath that hollowed oak, and he had been so kind, so gentle with her all afternoon that she had momentarily forgotten all that lay between them. Her eyes dropped and she bit her lip. "Yes, I did."

  Yancy's mouth hardened, and biting back the angry, corrosive words that flowed up into his throat, he looked away. Taking a deep, calming breath, he said coolly, "We'll talk about that later. Right now, before it gets any later, I'm going to shoot us some fresh meat."

  Grateful that he had changed the subject, she watched uneasily as he mounted his horse and pulled his rifle from the scabbard. Suddenly swamped by an unspeakable fear at being deserted, Sara had all she could do to prevent herself from calling him back when he rode away. She knew he was coming back; Locuela was securely tied to a stout cottonwood, a tidy pile of supplies not far away; there was fire and water nearby, yet Sara was terrified to be left alone. Last night's events were too fresh, too vivid in her memory, and helplessly, tears burst from her eyes when he vanished from view.

  There was nothing to be scared about, she told herself fiercely. She was safe. Yancy wouldn't desert her. He would come back. She had nothing to fear.

  It was easy to tell herself she had nothing to fear, but she started and jumped at every strange sound for the next several minutes. Yancy had been gone about half an hour when she heard the sounds of a shot drifting on the air. To her intense relief, a short time later he rode into camp, a small deer tied across the cantle of his saddle.

  Sara ate well that night, even though Yancy cautioned her not to overeat. For once she followed his advice without any argument, but it was with a full stomach that she finally fell asleep near the
fire. The sounds of the wolves howling in the distance woke her during the night, but the sight of the fire burning brightly and the feel of Yancy's big body wrapped securely around hers spoon-fashion calmed the instinctive terror she felt when she heard the chilling cries of wolves. Snuggling closer to Yancy's warm body, she fell asleep again almost immediately.

  It took them only two days to reach del Sol, and Sara was appalled to discover that she had spent much of her time wandering in circles. There was not much conversation between them as they traveled back to the hacienda. At Yancy's blunt command, Sara rode on his horse with him, again cradled by his strong arms, her cheek resting on his chest, the powerful beat of his heart a soothing melody to her ears.

  There was such open joy at her safe return to del Sol, the Mexicans crowding close to the big buckskin to reverently touch her hand or foot, that Sara was unbearably moved and filled with guilt. She hadn't done anything wrong, and yet.. .

  At the hacienda itself, after carrying her to her bedroom, Yancy left her in the hands of the women and she was crooned over and coddled by Maria and Dolores and the other house servants. A delicate chicken broth was instantly pressed upon her, and against her feeble protests, Maria tenderly bathed her and gently rubbed a soothing lotion into her parched skin. With soft scoldings and gentle threats, Maria placed Sara in bed and finally left her alone.

  Sara slept soundlessly that night, not even aware when Yancy entered the room and, lighting a candle, stood looking down at her. He stared at her for a long time,

  noting the silky strands of honey-gold hair spread out across the white pillow, the long lashes lying like tawny fans against her cheeks and the sweet curve of her tempting mouth. The expression on his face was darkly brooding. A deep sigh came from him and with exquisite tenderness he dropped a kiss on her forehead and silently departed.