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before she started
screaming again. If he wasn't going to sleep he'd have plenty of
time to do it.
    He sat up, raked his fingers through his
hair, and looked toward the stand of creosote bushes where she'd
been pouting over sharing the blanket. Then he looked near the
rocks, the horse, and beside the fire. She was gone.
    Aww, hell. Mason grabbed his hat and went to
look for Miss Fancy Pants.
    Her trail wasn't hard to spot. Only a loco
bear crashing through the creosote, palo verde trees, and clumps of
burr sage would've left a clearer sign. Except a loco bear didn't
wear fancy pink dresses. A few yards from the campsite, Mason
plucked a wisp of white lace from a stand of cholla and rubbed the
fabric between his fingertips. It was soft, soft like a lady's
skin...soft like Ellen used to be, in his memories.
    Frowning, he ducked beneath a branch and
went on. He didn't want to think about Ellen, about home, about his
life...before. The damned Sharpe brothers had made sure none of it
would be left to return to.
    Amelia O'Malley's trail ended at the top of
a boulder-strewn ridge. Mason paused beside a one-armed saguaro,
peering into the darkness. Below him, the ridge sloped into a
pitch-dark valley; the undergrowth was crushed, leading downward,
but he doubted Miss Amelia would've taken that way—at least not
intentionally.
    To his left, a copse of mesquites leaned
whistling in the wind. On his right, the rocky face of the mountain
rose up, boulder piled upon boulder. It wasn't as solid as it
looked, Mason knew—irregular caves and sheltering overhangs dotted
the mountainside. Miss Hoity Toity could be hiding in any one of
them.
    The woman brought nothing but trouble. It
would serve her right if he just left her out there—in one of those
caves, or down in the valley below. Mason sighed and gauged the
slope of the ridge again. If she'd fallen down there, it wouldn't
do a damn bit of good for him to go down after her.
    Unless she'd gotten stuck halfway down.
    Unless she was hurt at the bottom.
    Hell. Shaking his head at what he was about
to do, Mason headed for the ridge, turned his back to the night
sky, and started to climb down. He'd only climbed a few steps
before he realized it was a lot steeper than it looked. No sooner
had the realization come to him than a root gave way beneath his
foot, sending him skidding down the ridge on his knees.
    Mason grabbed with both hands. He'd be
damned if he'd break his own neck chasing after a blasted fancy
woman with more curly hair than sense. His fingernails scraped the
dirt, seeking purchase. Nothing to catch hold of. Grunting, he
landed on his belly and slid another few feet before his fingers
touched something solid.
    Another root. Great. Mason decided to take
his chances, and grabbed it. This one held.
    Spitting dirt and pebbles, he inched his way
to a more stable position. He glanced over his shoulder at the
valley below, wishing he'd brought a rope. Who would've thought
little Miss Corkscrew Curls would get so far?
    " Aaaaamazing Grace, how sweeeeeeet the
sound..."
    The melody floated across the ridge, echoing
faintly in the mountains beyond. A hymn? He was hearing things.
Mason cocked his head and listed again.
    " A wretch like meeeee... "
    Amelia O'Malley. It had to be. What other
woman would be loony enough to sing hymns—even quiet, quavery
ones—in the middle of a mountainside? The sound grew tear-choked
and mournful, like a cat wailing after its mate. A sick cat. Mason
gritted his teeth and climbed in the direction of the wail. It was
his first stroke of luck all day.

    Running away from the poet bandit was a
mistake. Amelia O'Malley was plumb-certain of that now. She'd
thought she could find the trail they'd followed and go back to the
road by herself, then catch the next passing stage. It hadn't
seemed all that complicated when the outlaw guided the horse up the
mountainside. Instead she'd gotten herself lost.
    Amelia rested her chin on her upraised knees
and sighed.