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his gripping hand to the nape of
her neck. The girl shivered again and he smiled. The Wanderer was
careful as he worked through the knots in the second length,
patient until the wooden teeth of the comb made tracks, bringing
out the gold in her tresses.
    As he worked, the tips of his fingers often
touched skin and the thrill shot to the depths of his belly, where
his core descended to his pelvis. But he forced himself to focus on
his task. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and
breathed to temper his ardor. During his travels, a sage had taught
him this cooling breath – especially valuable in those moments when
serenity was threatened from desire. The balance was a fragile
tension; a sliver of clarity that scarcely held him above the
ecstatic abyss while the Wanderer coaxed the knots from her
hair.
    Her body gave way with each tug of the comb.
The girl leaned into him, her hands dangling to his thighs. The
longer he worked, the more pliant she became, eyelids fluttering
and whimpers escaping from her mouth. Her surrender was provocative
and impossible to resist. The Wanderer succumbed. The girl now
seemed like a lover and he grew tender, working through her scalp
with mild persistence until the tangles became silken threads.
    Then he was done. He put the comb down and
finished with his hands, weaving his fingers through her hair, then
brushing down to the ends. Her tresses glimmered, cascading across
her shoulders and over her breasts. Her long sigh moan trilled
through the Wanderer, and he couldn’t stop himself from combing his
fingers through her hair again.
    Her head swayed and dropped back to his
shoulder, her face turned towards him. Her breath warmed his cheek
and her mouth was close to his the moment she opened her eyes. Her
gaze smoldered when she looked at him, and the Wanderer had no
doubt she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Then she iced over.
The girl swept away with one smooth motion, taking a few steps from
him before running her hands through her hair. She seemed pleased.
She whipped the entire length behind her, a few golden strands
striking the Wanderer in the face. But she didn’t appear to notice.
She glanced at him with a curt nod, her hand out to take back the
comb.
    The cool dismissal in her eyes made him
seethe. The Wanderer flipped the comb at her and dove for the black
depths of the pool. Fury propelled his arms as he went against the
current, his legs kicking brutally and his heart roaring inside his
chest. He was exhausted, but couldn’t stop until he was empty of
wrath and lust. By that time, the girl had gone.

Chapter Three
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    He saw their horses before he saw the
Lawmen. The Wanderer spent the morning foraging along the eastern
hill approaching the hot springs. The woods were generous with his
favorite mushrooms, and his sack was overflowing by afternoon.
Eager to start the fire and make his hash, he came back to camp
early. But the sight of two horses with their braided manes and
cropped tails made the blood drain from his face.
    The Lawmen looked like phantoms. Dressed in
black coats flaring to their knees, they prowled around the camp.
The Wanderer watched the shorter one come to the girl’s tent with
pistol in hand, while the taller one crouched at the fire pit. The
iron weave was cast aside and he sifted through the ashes with one
hand, the other holding his baton with a firm grip.
    But they were afraid. The Wanderer could
smell their fear, the sharp pungency assailing his nostrils. He
also knew from the weapons trembling in their hands, their tight
lips and pale faces. Then he stepped on a twig and the loud crack
shattered the stillness, catapulting the Lawmen into aggressive
defense. The taller one stood, the baton high over his head while
the shorter dropped to the ground and aimed his pistol for the
Wanderer.
    His sack slipped from his fingers, spilling
mushrooms, berries, and herbs at his feet. The Wanderer was
transfixed on the man