It has to be.
Nothing else would be worth the pain I saw in her eyes.
SHANNON awoke at the first unearthly notes of the panpipes. She had never heard the tune before, but she knew it was a lamentation. Grief resonated in the keening, minor key harmonies and shivering, wailing echoes, as though a man was breathing in pain and exhaling sorrow.
The haunting music closed Shannon’s throat and filled her eyes with tears. As remote and desolate as moonrise in hell, the music mourned for all that was untouchable, unspeakable, irrevocable.
«Damn you, Whip Moran,» she whispered to the darkness. «What right have you to mourn? It was your choice, not mine.»
There was no answer but a soulful cry of loss and damnation breathed into the night.
It was a long time before Shannon slept again, and she wept even in her sleep.
When Shannon awoke again it was still dark. There was nothing to hear but the peculiar hush of a fresh snowfall mantling the land in silence. Shivering, she went to the badly fitted shutters and peered out.
Beneath a clear sky and a waning moon, snow lay everywhere, soft and chill and moist. Too thin to survive the coming day, the layer of snow waited for its inevitable end in the rising heat of the sun.
But until that came, every twig, every leaf, everything touching the snow would leave a clear mark. Especially the hooves of deer.
Hurriedly Shannon dressed, forcing herself to think only of the coming hunt. Thinking about yesterday would only make her hands shake and her stomach clench. If she was to have any chance at all of bringing down a deer, she would have to have steady hands and nerves.
Don’t think about Whip. He’s gone whether he’s here or on the other side of the world.
He doesn’t want me. He couldn’t have made it any plainer if he had carved it on me with that bullwhip of his.
The unexpected weight of her jacket made Shannon check its pockets. The first thing she found was the shotgun shells. The second was the jar and its accompanying bag.
With a grimace of remembered humiliation, Shannon shoved the jar onto a cupboard shelf. The shotgun shells she kept, for she would have a use for them. Blindly, forcing herself not to think of anything but what must be done, Shannon shrugged into the jacket, grateful for its warmth. She felt cold all the way to her soul.
Shivering, she lifted down the shotgun from its pegs, checked it, and found it clean and dry and ready to fire. She grabbed a handful of jerked venison, drank a cupful of cold water from the bucket, and eased out of the cabin into the dense, featureless darkness that preceded dawn.
Breathing softly, Shannon stood just beyond the door and waited to see if Prettyface was going to object to being left alone. As much as she would appreciate his company, he still wasn’t fully recovered. He tired too quickly and was a bit stiff in his hindquarters where he had been shot. Another week would see the dog entirely healed, but she couldn’t wait that long to go hunting. A tracking snow such as this one was too good to pass up.
Prettyface whined at the door and began scratching to get outside.
«No,» Shannon whispered.
Quickly she moved to the side of the house, where the wind couldn’t carry her scent inside.
Prettyface’s whining increased in volume and intensity. So did the scratching sounds.
Shannon knew Prettyface well enough to predict what would happen next. He would start to howl. That would awaken Whip, wherever his campsite was, and he would come investigating.
The thought of having to face Whip again made Shannon’s skin clammy and her stomach churn.
Even if she could face Whip, he would pitch a fit about her taking off to hunt by herself. Yet that was exactly what she had to do. She had to hunt and hunt successfully, without depending on Cherokee. If Shannon couldn’t manage that, she faced death in the coming winter or a lifetime of taking care of other people’s homes, other people’s children, other people’s lives.
And never having her own.
Shannon wasn’t certain which was worse, dying or never having lived in the first place.
«Quiet.»
The low command stilled Prettyface for a few moments. Then he began a high whimpering that would soon escalate into true howling.
«Damnation,» Shannon said beneath her breath.
She opened the door, grabbed Prettyface’s muzzle with both hands, and clamped down.
«You can come with me, but you have to be quiet.»
Prettyface quivered eagerly. And quietly. He knew the hunting ritual too well to make noise now that he was going to be included.
Silently Shannon and the big dog set out in the darkness. She knew that Whip could follow her tracks as easily as she hoped to find and follow deer, but it was several hours until daybreak.
In any case, Whip was going to be waiting around for his brother to show up, not looking for Shannon. Whip had made it savagely clear that he had no desire for more of her company.
With luck, Whip wouldn’t even come to her cabin. Then he wouldn’t even notice she was gone.
* * *
THE sound of a shotgun being triggered woke Whip up. He lay beneath the tarpaulin and a layer of fresh snow and listened intently. Another shot came, sounding the same as the first.
One man. One shotgun.
No answering fire.
A hunter, probably, taking advantage of the tracking snow.
Whip lay half awake, half asleep, feeling worn out and used up, as though he had spent the night in hell rather than in a comfortable bedroll while snow fell softly, making another warm blanket for him to lie beneath. Through slitted eyes, he measured the peach-colored light in the eastern sky. True daybreak was two hours away, for the sun had to climb over some tall peaks before its brilliant rays could fall directly on Echo Basin.
A third shot came echoing through the cold air, quickly followed by another.
Whip smiled thinly.
Must be a miner. No other kind of hunter would take four shots to bring down a deer. Sounded like he was using both barrels, too.
No sooner had the thought come than Whip sat bolt upright in his bedroll, scattering snow in all directions.
She wouldn’t!
But Whip knew that Shannon would. He had never met a girl more stubborn.
Whip crammed his feet into cold boots, adjusted his bullwhip on his shoulder, grabbed his rifle, and ran to the stony outcropping that overlooked the clearing.
There was no smoke coming from the cabin.
She could be asleep.
Then Whip saw the tracks leading away from the cabin. He began swearing under his breath.
A very short time later, Sugarfoot was saddled, bridled, and crow-hopping his way across the clearing. It was the horse’s way of letting Whip know how much it resented a cold blanket and a colder saddle.
Whip rode out his mount’s tantrum without really noticing it. He was still consumed by the knowledge that Shannon was out prowling the gray, icy predawn, hunting her next meal as though she had no other choice but to fend for herself.
Does she think I’m such a bastard that I won’t hunt a winter’s worth of game for her before I leave? Is that why she’s walking around in worn-out boots and clothing that’s fit only to be made into a rag rug?
The answer lay in the tracks showing starkly against the gleaming silver snow. Shannon obviously believed she had to hunt for her own winter supplies.
A harsh wind keened down from the peaks, stirred up by the rising sun. Whip shivered and swore and pulled the collar of his jacket higher against the icy fingers of wind.
She must be cold.
The thought only increased Whip’s anger.
Why didn’t she wait for me to hunt for her? I’m not so much a bastard that I wouldn’t help her out. She must know that by now.
