Rocky Mountain Maverick

“Those blood samples, for example,” Michael went on. “Nobody knows what they’re for or where they’re sent. You don’t think that’s weird? And Quarrels? Don’t tell me you don’t think there’s plenty strange about him.” No answer. By this time, of course, he wasn’t expecting one. “It makes me wonder what’s really going on here. And since you’ve been here a while…”

He let the sentence trail encouragingly. There was no response.

“Suit yourself,” he said after the silence stretched long and empty.

He pushed off the rock he’d been propped against, intending to admit defeat by going to round up the horses. As he put his left foot on the ground, the damaged knee buckled unexpectedly, throwing him off balance. He put out his hand, grabbing for something solid to keep from falling.

His reaching fingers encountered Nate Beaumont’s shoulder, closing over it like a lifeline. With its support, he managed to right himself. As soon as he had, he loosened his grip on the kid.

Nate jumped to his feet, assuming a fighter’s crouch directly in front of him. In his right hand he held the equestrian knife he’d lent Michael minutes before, its short blade exposed.

Given the speed with which it had appeared, Michael realized belatedly that the boy must have already had the knife out. His hand had rested on the rock near his leg, the blade obviously hidden alongside it. Open and ready.

Michael straightened, leaning away from the weapon. He held up his hands, shoulder high, their palms toward the kid in a classically submissive posture.

“Whoa,” he said softly. “Take it easy.”

The boy’s eyes were feral, his entire body tensed and waiting. “Stay the hell away from me,” he said, his voice as menacing as the knife he held.

“Look, whatever you’re thinking—”

Michael had made the mistake of lowering his hands as he talked. The knife moved, threatening his gut.

“What I think is that you ask too many questions.”

“I thought I could help,” Michael said, his tone quiet and reasoned.

“I don’t need your help. Or your concern.”

“Okay. Whatever you say. Just put the knife down.”

“So we can talk?”

The tone of that mocking question was cynical and distrustful. And more bitter than the situation seemed to warrant.

Maybe he had pushed too hard, Michael acknowledged, but pulling a knife seemed an overreaction that needed some explanation.

“We don’t have to talk. Not if you don’t want to.”

“How’d you find me?”

Confused, Michael shook his head, keeping his eyes on the blade. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about how handy you thought a knife would be. How you ought to get one.”

Again Michael shook his head. “You’ve lost me. First of all, I didn’t find you, because I wasn’t looking for you. And what I said about the knife? That was just making conversation. It didn’t mean a thing.”

Nate laughed, the sound abrupt, lacking any hint of amusement. The blade didn’t waver. Although he was holding the knife properly—blade up, handle down—there was something about his stance that spoke of desperation rather than intimidation.

“Just like before, I guess.”

“Kid, I don’t know what happened to you, or who did what, but I didn’t come here looking for you. I’ve never had any contact with you before yesterday.”