But until the yondering urge comes, there’s nothing to keep me from enjoying the sunrise I have right here.

Accompanied only by his thoughts and a restless wind, Whip cast for sign in the long, raking light of late afternoon, He saw tracks of elk and deer and mountain lion. He heard the high, fluting cry of an eagle calling to its mate. But he neither heard men nor saw signs of anyone moving over the land.

There were no new mule tracks where Holler Creek’s racing white water joined with Avalanche Creek’s eastern fork. The tracks of four mules were still there, blurred somewhat by a light rain but unmistakable.

The Culpeppers had ridden to the fork in the trail that led to Shannon’s cabin. Three of them had stayed there for a time, sitting on their mules and drinking while the fourth Culpepper scouted the east fork of avalanche Creek.

Whip had been on the rise behind Shannon’s cabin when he saw Darcy sneaking through the woods. Whip had pulled his carbine out of the saddle scabbard, sighted, and send rock splinters peppering over Darcy’s chest. Darcy had run back to his mule and set off at a hard pace.

Whip had backtracked him to where the others sat their mules and awaited their brother’s return. The Culpeppers didn’t hang around for whoever had taken a shot at Darcy. They threw two empty whiskey bottles onto the rocks and put spurs to heir racing mules.

When Whip got there, all that was left were telltale tracks and shards of glass glittering in the sun.

Days ago, Whip thought, looking around the valley where the two creeks joined. The Culpeppers haven’t been back since.

But they’ll get around to it. Soon as they work up the nerve.

For a long time Whip sat on his horse, thinking about the Culpeppers and Silent John and the frightened girl with a walk like honey. Nothing Whip had found as he searched the Avalanche Creek watershed made him believe that Silent John was still alive, much less working any of his claims.

I suppose he could be out man-hunting on the other side of the Great Divide.

The thought made Whip frown.

But if I had to lay money on it, I’d say Silent John was dead. No man as canny as he’s supposed to be would leave Shannon alone for six weeks when coyotes like the Culpeppers are sniffing around.

But if Silent John were dead, Shannon was left to fend for herself without a husband’s help. She was a young girl in a woman-hungry land, a silky lamb among snarling coyotes. No matter how big and savage Prettyface was, no matter how careful Shannon was, sooner or later the Culpeppers would catch her off guard.

Sooner, probably.

Whip didn’t like to think about what would happen when the Culpeppers got their hands on Shannon.

Silent John or no Silent John, it’s time for me to close in on my beautiful, almost-tamed mustang.

5

The next day Shannon awoke not to the sound of Whip’s flute calling up the sun, but to the rhythmic sounds of a man splitting wood.

It was a sound she hand’t heard for years.

Instantly Shannon looked toward Prettyface. The dog was lying with his head on his massive paws and his ears cocked in the direction of the noise. He was growling slightly, but with no real menace.

Shannon left the bed in a rush and ran to one of the cabin’s two windows. Neither window had glass. Instead, they were covered with shutters that were solid but for a gun slit plugged by a rag. Despite the plug, cold air came through the slit in a ceaseless, invisible flow.

Removing the rag, Shannon eased the shutters apart just a bit and peeked out.

Whip was standing just fifteen feet away. Despite the cold, sleet-streaked dawn, he had taken off his thick jacket. The red of his wool shirt burned like wildfire in the gray light and heat lifted from his big body in tongues of mist.

Legs braced slightly apart, sleet lashing across his body, Whip lifted the heavy maul and brought it swiftly down on a round of fir. The wood split cleanly into half circles. He bent, set one of the halves on end, and brought the maul down again, splitting the wood once more.

The grace and power of Whip’s movements sent an add, glittering sensation from Shannon’s breastbone to her thighs. For a long time she stood motionless, watching the measured, masculine dance of maul and wood, strength and balance.

Finally a stray piece of sleet stung Shannon’s nose, breaking her trance. Shivering, stiff from not moving, she stepped back and eased the shutter closed, sealing out the icy dawn.

But there was no way Shannon could seal out the memory of Whip’s male beauty, the elegance and easy power of his body, and the heat rising like smoke from him s he warmed to the work.

Feeling almost light-headed, Shannon went about her morning tasks. Because she wouldn’t have to spend hours gathering downed wood in the forest to replace whatever she burned, she decided to make a hot breakfast.

Humming softly, not realizing that she was singing one of the tunes Whip played on his haunting flute, Shannon raked the coals in the wood stove to new life. She added wood and dipped up a bucket of steaming hot spring water, smiling in anticipation of breakfast.

One of Whip’s gifts to Shannon had been coffee beans. It had been two years since she had ground beans and made coffee, but she hadn’t forgotten how.

It wasn’t long before the smell of biscuits, bacon, coffee and a wood fire filled the cabin. When the coffee had brewed, Shannon carefully poured some from the battered kettle into an equally battered tin mug. Then she let herself out of the cabin and walked toward the man whose presence no longer alarmed her.

When Whip bent down to stand another log on end, he saw Shannon standing quietly a few feet from him. Sleet was tangled in her shiny chestnut hair. In her hands was a steaming cup of coffee.

She was holding the cup out to him.

Whip took it, careful not to touch Shannon as he did, even though he was wearing leather work gloves. He didn’t want to do anything to spook his shy mustang.

Not now.

Not when she was so close to eating from his hand.

«Thank you,» Whip said, his voice deep.

Shannon’s breath caught.

«You’re welcome, Whip.»

Her voice was as sweet and husky as Whip had remembered. Smoke and honey combined. Hearing him name on her lips was like being licked by a tender flame.

And looking at Shannon was like breathing pure fire.

Her eyes were sapphire gems gleaming in the midst of the colorless dawn. Her silky chestnut hair had refused to be completely confined by braids. Soft tendrils escaped to brush against her cheeks and curl against her vulnerable neck.

When the breath Shannon exhaled touched Whip in a silver rush, he breathed in deeply, hungry to touch her in even so small a way.

A color that had nothing to do with the cold dawn appeared on Shannon’s cheeks. Belatedly Whip realized he was staring at her. He lifted the tin cup to his mouth, silently cursing himself for acting like a boy who had never seen a pretty girl before.

«Careful!» Shannon said quickly, reaching out to prevent Whip from lifting the cup any farther.

Whip froze, but not because of the warning. Shannon’s fingers had slipped from his glove to rest on bare skin just above his wrist. Her fingers were warm, amazingly delicate, and smelled of spearmint. Her breath was the same.

The realization that Shannon had eaten mint so that she would smell sweet to him made Whip want to pull her into his arms and show her just how much he liked the taste of spearmint.

But he didn’t do it. He had come too far to lose his sweet, silky mustang by startling her into flight.

«The coffee is devilish hot,» Shannon explained.

Whip smiled, revealing teeth as clean and white as her own.

«It’s best that way,» he said slowly. «Hot. Steaming hot. And sweet.»

Shannon’s smile was a little shaky, but then, so was her heartbeat. Whip radiated heat like a big stove, only nicer, because she didn’t have to worry about burning herself.

«I’m sorry,» Shannon said. «I didn’t think to put sugar in your coffee.»

«No need. I like it black.»

«But you just said it was best when it was steaming hot and sweet.»

«Did I?»

Shannon nodded.

Whip smiled slightly. «I must have been thinking of something else.»

He took a sip from the battered metal cup, closed his eyes, and savored the heat and taste of the fragrant brew.

«Now that’s fine. Really fine,» Whip said. «And no sugar on earth could be sweeter than having you bring me coffee.»

Color burned on Shannon’s cheeks, but she almost smiled before she looked shyly away.

«Breakfast will be ready soon,» she said, turning back toward the cabin. «I’ll leave warm water by the door so you can wash up.»

«I’ll eat out here.»

Shannon turned around, surprise clear in her extraordinary eyes. She pushed a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at Whip.

«There’s no need to eat in the cold,» she said. «I may be poor as a church mouse, but I have two chairs for the table.»

«It’s not that. I just don’t want to make you nervous by coming inside.»

Shannon’s glance went to the bullwhip that lay neatly coiled on a log, easily within reach of Whip’s long arm.

«My cabin isn’t as big as Murphy’s mercantile. Once you’re inside, that bullwhip of yours won’t be much use,» she said dryly. «Prettyface is quicker, anyway.»

Whip looked back down at his coffee, not wanting Shannon to see the light of amusement in his eyes. There were more ways to fight than with a bullwhip, as his travels in the Far East had taught him. As for Prettyface, the dog was quick enough — and big enough — to kill a careless man.