This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(70)

“That would work.”

“Then it’s a date?”

“It is.”

I pop the roasted marshmallow in my mouth. As I’m moving back, he pulls me into a kiss. Then he licks his lips and says, “Tastes like marshmallow.”

“Shall I roast you one?”

“Hmmm.” One brow lifts, his eyes glinting. “Tell you what. You roast one. Wherever you put it, I’ll take it off.”

“Oh?” I take another marshmallow from the fire, blow it out, and tear off one crisp corner. Then I put my finger in and pull out a dollop of gooey marshmallow. “So if I put this someplace. . .”

“On you.”

I laugh. “Okay. Well, let’s see.”

I lick the marshmallow off my finger. Then I have him hold my stick while I slip out of my shirt. My jeans follow in a striptease. Bra. Then panties. Then I’m kneeling beside him, naked, his breath coming fast. I reach out for the marshmallow, take another fingerful, and lower it down. Then I slowly draw it up, over my belly, past my breasts, careful not to let it drip.

“Anywhere?” I say.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hmmm, how about . . .” I streak it across my chin. “There?”

He laughs and his arms go around me as he does indeed lick it off, while toppling us onto the blanket behind.





38





We’re sleeping soundly when a scream cuts through the night. Dalton scrambles up with “Casey!” as his hands wildly pat the blankets. I’ve rolled just far enough away that he’s panicking, and before I can say anything, the scream comes again.

“Casey!”

“Here,” I say. “I’m right here.”

I fumble in the darkness and find him as he turns on the flashlight. He’s looking around, eyes still wide, as if getting his bearings. Storm is on his legs, whining.

“Is that a cougar?” I ask.

A moment’s pause. Then he nods. “Could be.”

The night has gone silent again. I replay the sound. I know what a cougar’s scream sounds like only from anecdotal evidence.

“Have you ever heard one?” I ask.

“Once.” Another pause. “I’m not sure that was it.”

“Vixen then?”

I have heard those screams—female foxes at mating time—and they’re chilling, but not quite what I just caught, and Dalton agrees.

“Do you think it’s a trap?” I ask.

“Maybe.”

A woman’s scream to bring us rushing out. Riding to her rescue, worried and still sleepy. Ripe for theft.

“We shouldn’t ignore it,” I say. “Even if it’s a trap, that means those settlers are looking for us. Better to confront them, while we’re prepared.”

“Yeah,” he says, and I can tell he’s relieved. Neither of us wants to be the chump who falls for a trap, but nor can we ignore it.

We dress and then step out carefully, in case the “trap” was just to have us race—weapon-free—from our tent.

The horses are uneasy, Cricket stamping her feet, Blaze casting troubled looks in the direction of the screams. I glance at Storm. She’s gazing about, on alert but calm enough that I know no one is nearby.

We gather our valuables—that’s another potential trap: lure us away and then raid our camp. We leave only the tent and sleeping blankets behind. Then we set out, leading the horses.

There’s been no other noise, and we take it slow. Dalton goes first. He’ll have a better idea of where that scream came from. We follow the path to a spot that has Dalton pausing and looking about. He bends to check something at ground level. A grunt of satisfaction before he leads Blaze off the path, following a trail only he can see.

We’ve only gone about twenty paces before Cricket whinnies. She flattens her ears, her nostrils flaring, eyes rolling. Blaze snorts and shifts uneasily. Storm gives a long drawn-out whine, her gaze fixed on the forest ahead.

Dalton motions for me to tie Cricket to a tree. He leaves Blaze untethered. His horse has been known to wait half a day by a stream. Cricket is too young and temperamental for that.

After I’ve tethered my mare, we proceed. Soon I smell campfire smoke. All is silent, though. We go another twenty paces. Storm stops. Just stops dead, and when I try to nudge her, she digs in and gives me a look, as if begging me not to make her go on.

I hesitate. Dalton takes the leash and sets it on the ground. Then he prods me to keep going. I do, with reluctance, but after a few steps, Storm follows. She may not want to continue, but she wants to be left alone even less. Dalton gathers up the leash, and we move slowly through the trees.

The first thing I see is a hide tent. Small and low, shelter for one person.

Dalton’s arm springs up to hold me back. I survey the campsite, and after a sweep, I spot what he did—someone sitting by the embers of a fire. The figure is perched on a log and leaning back against a tree. A guard for the night. When I peer, I see the light brown beard of the younger man. I can’t tell if he’s resting or fallen asleep.

Storm growls, the sound vibrating through her. I bend to reassure her that all is well, and yes, praise her for the growl, proof that these are the settlers who unnerved her earlier.

I take the leash and tell Storm to sit while Dalton moves closer. As he does, I survey the camp again. One tent. A couple of leather pouches hang from trees, along with the brace of rabbits. That tent is much too small for three people, and I’m wondering where they all are when I make out the shape of sleeping blankets, just barely illuminated by the dying fire.