To Protect a Princess

He could never leave Dara there, not with those men around. He’d be condemning another woman to die. Not that they’d kill her outright—although it would be kinder if they did. By the time they finished with her, she wouldn’t want to survive.

And she wouldn’t be the only one at risk. Those men would slaughter anyone in the village who tried to stop them.

The outlaws scoured the trail, searched for tracks. A deep sense of dread tightened his throat, like a steel trap locking him in. He couldn’t go forward, couldn’t take her back.

So what could he do? Take her with him into the hills? Take responsibility for another woman’s life?

No way.

No damned way.

He swore under his breath, turned the dilemma over in his head, tried to come up with another plan. But there was no way out. Unless those outlaws turned around, he’d be stuck.

The men turned back, headed toward him, and his hopes picked up. But they were riding slowly, too slowly, still hunting for tracks. His gut tensed. Sweat trickled down his unshaven jaw.

The men reached the trail directly below them, and the rising wind gusted again. The lead mule stopped and bobbed his head.

The mule’s rider looked up, squinted at the rocks. “?Allа! Up there!” he yelled and raised his gun.

Logan dove, yanking Dara down with him. Shots riddled the boulder above their heads. “Get into the trees,” he ordered, his pulse hammering fast now. He waited a beat, rose, fired off a volley of rounds to pin them down. “Damn it! Run!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her move. He ducked, slapped another magazine in the AK-47, leaped up and shot again. While she fled, he blasted away at the outlaws, giving her time to reach the trees. Then he stopped and raced to his horse.

“Stay in the trees,” he shouted to her as he grabbed the reins. “I’ll get you.” He vaulted into the saddle, spun around, fired toward the boulders to keep down the thugs. Then he urged the horse toward the trees.

But Dara leaped into the open, and his heart kicked. “Get back!” he yelled as he charged toward her. She ignored him, pointed her pistol toward the rocks, and opened fire.

Fear seized his throat. The reckless fool! Did she have a death wish? Outraged, so angry his vision blurred, he spurred the horse to where she stood. She stopped shooting, grabbed his hand, and he yanked her up.

“Are you out of your mind?” he raged as she clutched his shirt. “Why didn’t you stay back?”

“They were climbing the rocks. They would have killed you.”

So she’d put herself in danger instead. Furious, he glanced toward the boulders, ripped off several more rounds, then swung the horse around and galloped off.

Still swearing, he kicked the horse into a flat-out run, racing through the woods toward the river gorge. He’d deal with Dara later, make damned sure she listened to him next time.

If there was a next time. Unless they got to the gorge and crossed that bridge before the renegades did, they’d both be dead.

He nudged the gelding, forcing him to keep to the breakneck speed. But a sense of finality, of relentless inevitability, seeped through the adrenaline like a noose tightening around his neck. Once he crossed that bridge, he couldn’t turn back. It would take him miles out of his way, put an end to his plans to make that silver run.

And he’d be out in these mountains with a woman alone, her safety in his hands.

Again.

The one thing he’d vowed to never do.

Fury mixed with dread, burned through his gut. Then a sharp crack sounded behind him, and he swerved. A gunshot—or maybe it was the sound of fate laughing at him, mocking his plight.

Another woman. Another trek through the wilderness. Another chance to fail.

His worst nightmare come to life.

Chapter 3

Dara clung to Logan’s waist as they zigzagged down the side of a mountain, then hurtled along the cliff above a rocky gorge. Her heart pounded, her blood roaring louder than the river slamming the boulders below.

She braved a quick glance back, squinted in the tearing wind, but couldn’t see the outlaws yet. Logan had raced full out down the steep slope to avoid their gunfire, but they couldn’t be too far behind.

“When we reach the bridge, get off,” Logan shouted over his shoulder. “You cross first. I’ll be behind you with the horse.”

“Can’t we ride across?” she shouted back, but the wind whipped the words from her mouth. Then the bridge came into view, and the shock of it made her breath stall.

It was a dilapidated rope suspension bridge—a sagging mass of woven grass cables stretching two hundred feet over the plunging gorge. The ropes had darkened, loosened with age, unraveling at the bottom and sides, creating gaps wide enough to fall through. The entire structure drooped, forming a dangerous, gap-riddled vee that swung precariously in the wind.

And a hundred feet beneath it, the rapids raged.

Oh, God.

Disbelief gripped her. Anxiety tightened her nerves. Would that bridge hold their weight? Not that they had much choice with the outlaws closing in fast. And Logan wouldn’t cross if it wasn’t safe.

Would he?

He hauled up on the reins, jerked the horse to a stop at the edge of the cliff, and she leaped down. “Run,” he urged her. “I’ll be behind you.”

“Right.” She raced to the bridge, paused at the edge—and took in the sheer, dizzying drop, the water crashing furiously below, the high wind making the long bridge sway. Her head grew light. Panic strangled her throat.

This probably wasn’t a good time to mention that she hated heights.

She swung her backpack over her shoulder, grabbed the thick grass cables that served as handrails on each side. The bridge was narrow, sagging so badly she could hardly squeeze herself through.

Her pulse jittered hard. She struggled to breathe, but it was like trying to pull a wad of cotton through a needle’s eye. She stepped onto the bridge, felt it tremble beneath her feet.

“Go on!” Logan shouted behind her, and she glanced back. He had dismounted, stood holding the reins, and she saw the urgency etched on his face. Could the horse really make it over these ropes? Could she?

There was only one way to find out.

She jerked her gaze back to the bridge, forced her feet to move, trying desperately to ignore the water roaring under the gaps. The ropes felt slick in her sweaty palms, and she tightened her grip on the sides.

She could do this. She had to do this.

Maybe if she just darted across…

She took several fast steps, determined to hurry, but the bridge rippled and swayed underfoot. And then it jolted hard, dipped dangerously, nearly knocking her off her feet. She gasped, glanced back, saw Logan on the bridge with the horse.

“Hurry up,” he shouted. He kept coming towards her, leading the balking horse, but the added weight made the bridge lurch.

Her legs quivering wildly now, feeling as disjointed as a marionette in amateur hands, she tried to balance on the bouncing ropes. She fixed her gaze on the opposite side, headed downhill into the sagging center of the bridge, afraid the river was sucking her in.