Bride of the Shining Mountains (The St. Claire Men) Read Free

ask Pa, just to be certain.”
    Luck’s expression darkened. “Ain’t no need to ask Pa. She’s our
sister, ain’t she? And we kin tell what’s what. Now shut up ’n’ watch her for a
spell. I’ve gotta take a leak, ’n’ I don’t mean to do it with all these strange
folks watchin’.”
    “Better stay clear of the bushes, Luck,” Reagan quipped. “If a
panther jumped out and, with a swipe of his paw, changed you from a he to a
she, Luther’d connive to sell you, too; make no mistake!”
    “Would not,” Lafe said in his brother’s absence; then after
pondering a moment, he added, “Would he?”
    Reagan shrugged her slim shoulders beneath her too-large shirt.
“He’s sellin’ me, ain’t he?” Then, with feigned concern, she said, “Maybe you
ought to go with him, just to make certain he stays out of trouble. That boy
can’t lace his own boots without help.”
    “Boots is sometimes passin’ stubborn,” Lafe mused, “but I expect
that you’re right. One sister’s enough. I don’t need no other.” Lafe turned and
started off in search of Luck, while Reagan pulled and strained with all her
might. She worked the rope until she feared she’d pull her hands clean off,
feeling the hemp bite into the tender flesh of her wrists; then all at once her
bonds gave way.
    Freedom!
    A heartbeat later she was sprinting through the tall grass,
ducking and weaving her way through the throng.
    At the edge of the crowd, she glanced back and saw Lafe pause,
then slowly turn toward the dais. Then, seeming to realize that he’d been
duped, he set up a hue and cry. “Ah, damn it all, Reagan! You get yourself back
here this minute, or I’ll have to tell Pa!”
    The threat spurred Reagan on. She’d had enough of Luther Garrett
and his crazy schemes.
    Somehow she had to elude them, outwit them, find a place to hide,
to gather her wits and decide just what to do next.
    Holding her battered felt hat tightly to her head, she rounded a
wagon and, from the cover it provided, dared another look back.
    A dozen yards to the rear, Lafe was coming on fast. Close upon his
heels came Luck, who, gaining ground, grabbed his brother’s arm and swung him
around to face him. “Jackass! What’d ya leave her alone for, when I told ya to
watch?”
    Lafe bellowed a defensive reply, and in an instant their exchange
dissolved into bickering and the placing of blame. Luck, insulted and outraged,
swung his fist at his brother, and the two went down in a confusing tangle of
limbs.
    Giddy with relief, Reagan left the shelter of the wagon and ran
through the clearing, past hide-covered tepees, outside of which Indian wives
tended their cook fires, past bark lodges where men lazed in the tall grass
under the emerging stars... not slowing until the stitch in her side became too
much to bear.
    On the fringes of the encampment, a few yards from a crudely
fashioned lean-to, she finally paused.
    The structure, a three-sided affair built of supple skins
stretched over sapling poles that had been driven into the ground, was empty,
and except for the sleek bay stallion grazing nearby and the campfire burning
before the lean-to, the place appeared to be deserted.
    Glancing around, Reagan warily approached, catching a whiff of
whatever the absentee owner had left on the spit. It was charred beyond recognition.
Edging closer, she sniffed the stuff suspiciously and felt her stomach rumble.
    How long had it been since she’d eaten? A day? Two? Long enough
that her stomach felt hollow and her limbs shaky and weak, barely able to
support her now that the crisis had passed. She couldn’t go on much longer
without some sort of sustenance, and she reasoned that at this moment, she had
a far greater need of a meal than did the person who’d so carelessly left his
supper to broil over an open fire.
    With barely a twinge of conscience, Reagan lifted the skewer off
the spit and slid the blackened meat from it.
    To her delight, she found that only the outside