The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,55
branch. It was a long way to the ground, she noticed. One misstep and she would nosedive to the lawn. She would do Quin no good whatsoever if he became the victim of an ambush and she landed in a broken heap.
Adrianna inhaled a bolstering breath, then sprang forward to grab the limb. Reverting to her hoyden days, she crawled along the branch, then picked her way down to the tree bough. She cursed sourly when she saw Quin trotting the bloodred bay gelding from the barn. If she didn’t quicken her pace, she would be too far behind to follow his trail to the place called Phantom Springs.
She hopped lightly to the ground, then darted from one tree to the next to prevent being seen. She cast an occasional glance toward the window of the room where Quin had imprisoned her, hoping her well-meaning guard had yet to realize she had snuck out. Adrianna couldn’t spare the time to saddle Buckshot. She dashed toward the bunkhouse where two saddle horses—a strawberry roan and a brown gelding with three white stockings—were tied to the hitching post. She borrowed the closest one to her. She’d explain later, she decided as she mounted up and raced off in the darkness.
Quin trotted Cactus through the shadows, headed toward the wooded hillside where the cool springs bubbled from a jumble of rocks to flow across a rapid-filled stream. The creek meandered southeast, eventually providing the water supply for Cahill Crossing.
Anticipation crackled through him as he glanced this way and that, searching the swaying shadows in the trees. Boston’s objections rang in his ears, but the prospect of discovering what happened the evening Ruby and Earl Cahill died overrode the possibility of personal danger. True, there was the dangerous curve that overlooked a rock-filled ravine on the road to Wolf Grove. But if his parents had been chased by thieves and were driving too fast in the overloaded wagon, Quin wanted to know. His father, who had been nursing an injured wrist, could have oversteered the wagon in his attempt to beat the outlaws back to town. The robbery could have caused the disaster.
Damnation, Quin and his family had been through hell after their parents’ sudden deaths. He just had to find out what had happened at the site the locals had named Ghost Canyon after the accident. The incident, Quin hastily corrected. By the time he had returned from Kansas, Marshal Hobbs had investigated the site and removed the bodies. Quin had stood on the cliff at the bend of the road, listening to the Texas wind whisper through the canyon like voices calling from the Great Beyond.
The thought gave him cold chills, especially when he was headed for Phantom Springs where the murmur of water rushing over the rapids created a sound similar to the wind whipping through Ghost Canyon. Quin didn’t want to end up dead during his crusade to discover the truth.
Just to be on the safe side, Quin retrieved one of his six-shooters, then dismounted. He had dealt with plenty of dangerous situations during trail drives and he was accustomed to proceeding with caution. Tonight was no different. There were plenty of trees and boulders in the area to conceal bushwhackers. He did not intend to ride up to the site, making a racket to invite an ambush.
Guided by dappled moonlight, Quin crept forward. A dozen questions chased one another around his mind as he sought out the mysterious informant. Why now? How did you come by this information? Who was involved? How can I contact you later to serve as a witness at a trial?
The sound of twigs snapping in the darkness brought Quin to high alert. He aimed his pistol toward the sound, then tethered Cactus on the lower limb of a nearby tree. As a precaution, he left the money in the saddlebag, in case this was a hoax and he stumbled into a trap, as Boston predicted.
Cautiously, he crept toward the springs. He blinked in surprise when he saw a man lying facedown, his head dangling in the water. There was a bullet hole in his back.
“Damn it,” Quin muttered as he squatted down to grab the man by the shoulder and ease him to his back. The would-be informant—or bushwhacker, Quin wasn’t sure which—had sandy-blond hair, bowed legs and a skinny physique. The dead man was in no condition to convey information.
Quin studied the man’s features closely, then recalled that he had brushed shoulders with