Luke's Cut

“So we have time.”

He heard the snap of leather against leather. Zach was impatient. “Not if we wish to avoid others who may be on the move. There is no cover here.”

He knew that. “True enough.”

“So if you could encourage the photographer...”

“I’ll work on it.”

“I have a name,” Josie muttered.

“Tell him that.” Luke waved in Zach’s direction.

“I can’t.”

He raised a brow. “Don’t tell me Mrs. Not-So-Obedient is afraid...”

She shot him a look that spoke volumes.

He grinned. “Not as afraid of him as you are of getting back in that wagon, I bet.”

“Heavens no.”

He smiled again. She did amuse him. He plopped her bonnet on her head. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan for that, too.”

She looked at him and raised her brows. Beneath the misery in her expression, he caught a flicker of hope. “You might just be my hero.”

“Hold on to that thought.”

Tia rolled her eyes and snorted. “I will return to my wagon while you sort this out.”

Josie watched her go. “I don’t think I want to be sorted.”

Luke whistled. “Too late to take a stand on that now. I’m married to the thought of being a hero.”

“You don’t strike me as the marrying kind,” she muttered under her breath, straightening the ugly bonnet.

Chico came strolling around the wagon. Tossing his head, he nickered a greeting. Luke gathered up the reins and drew him up.

“Oh no.” Josie plastered herself back against the wagon and shook her head as comprehension dawned. “I don’t ride.”

“Who said anything about riding?” Riding took effort. He wasn’t planning on her working up to even a deep breath. Mounting, he turned the horse until he was perpendicular to where Josie stood watching with a mixture of horror and fascination. Any color she’d regained faded away as he scooted back behind the saddle. The sunburn stood out in garish streaks on her cheeks. Holding out his hand, he beckoned her closer.

“No.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Chico doesn’t sway like the wagon.”

She pressed against the tailgate. “I don’t like horses.”

An idiot could see that. Tipping his hat back, he asked, “How much do you like Comanche?”

That did the trick. She looked around as if warriors lurked behind every anthill. He mentally shook his head. As if he’d permit any threat to get that close. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to draw her onto the saddle. Her skirts tangled around her legs as she dangled awkwardly.

“Throw your leg over the saddle horn,” he grunted as he strained to hold her high enough and keep Chico from prancing his displeasure with the unbalanced weight.

“We’re too high.”

“Hardly.”

She grabbed the horn as Chico sidestepped. “Says you!”

“A horse is your best friend out here.”