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she’d want to ride with him.
    Tucker had no illusions about himself. He was a black sheep, a man who’d deserted his country’s army because he’d disagreed with the orders he’d been given. He had no future and a past that not even he liked to dwell on.He’d done nothing to impress her with his kindness. He was hot, thirsty, and hungry, and his rib cage ached unmercifully. The crowning insult was the unmistakable smell of spilled whiskey.
    She stopped.
    “What’s wrong?” Tucker asked, expecting to hear her say that she was leaving him on his own. He was shocked to realize he’d be disappointed to see her go. That was the last thing he wanted to feel, but he liked riding with her. For the first time in a long time, he felt like sharing himself with another person—something he’d never thought he’d do again. He concentrated on the set of her shoulders.
    Raven, feeling the intensity of his gaze, didn’t allow herself to look at him. Until she knew what to do, the less connection between them, the better. She understood he was part of her quest, but she wasn’t yet comfortable with him or the feelings he provoked in her.
    He was such an imposing figure, strong and powerful. Though he was gruff and distant, and clearly had been on the trail for days, she couldn’t stop her uncomfortable awareness of him as a man.
    Raven had aways been aware of the special feelings that existed between a man and a woman. First she’d seen her sisters fall in love. Then, in the Arapaho camp, she’d watched her Indian sisters and brothers express their interest in each other, openly and joyfully.
    But Raven had never experienced such thoughts before. The sensation was not only disconcerting but unwanted. She was on a mission for the good of her people. Nothing, not even this man who was to show her the way, could be allowed to distract her.
    “We go down here.”
    Tucker looked at the space in the rocks to which she directed her horse and shook his head. “The hell you say.I’ve been known to climb down a few ravines on foot, but to ride off the side of a cliff is something even Yank won’t do.”
    But Yank, who always did what Yank wanted to do, followed Onawa, carefully planting his feet between the huge rocks as he stepped off the side of the mountain. If asked, Tucker would never have admitted that he closed his eyes, but he did. Then, realizing that Yank was moving steadily downward with little effort, Tucker chanced a look.
    Miraculously, they were on a trail, narrow but open. It twisted back and forth so that at any given time the only view was of the boulders ahead or the rocks beside. Unless a person knew the trail was there, it would never be seen. With any luck the bandits, if they were behind him, would ride on by.
    For the first time, Tucker began to breathe easier.
    “How did you know about this trail?” he asked.
    “I didn’t know. The spirits sent a guide. Onawa simply followed.”
    Tucker didn’t argue, but he didn’t believe her either. She’d been here before. Why didn’t she admit it? Because she shared information only when she felt it necessary, otherwise Onawa’s knowledge was a convenient answer for anything she didn’t want to divulge. So? He’d go along. Believing that the horse was leading them made as much sense as spirit messages.
    She was dressed like an Arapaho. He recognized the designs along the neckline of the garment. But now, in the sunlight, he could see that her background was as much white as Indian. The combination made her look exotic. Everything about her was different from any woman he’d ever known. Her dark hair was tied with a strip of soft leather that seemed to match the fringe on her dress. He could see the wound beginning to scab over.
    She seemed at ease riding bareback, allowing herself to roll with the horse’s gait. He took an appreciative glance at her long, shapely legs that she made no attempt to hide—unlike the women he’d known in the more civilized