The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,94

you suddenly forget your tracking skills? Damn, that’s going to limit future assignments, if that’s the case.”

Van scowled at his smart-alecky friend. “That’s enough from you.”

“Always glad to be of help,” he replied too cheerily.

Van stood there for the longest time, studying the relieved expressions on his people’s faces. For years he had remained suspended between the Indian and white worlds, unsure who or what he was. Only recently had he accepted what he couldn’t change. His half-white heritage had allowed him precious freedom. Because of it, he had been able to do many things for his people that he couldn’t have done if he lived on the reservation with them.

He couldn’t do as much as Natalie Blair, high and mighty heiress of a shipping fortune, of course.

The thought of her generosity provoked mixed emotions. He could do as Bart suggested and correspond with her Louisiana lawyer or he could—

“Well?” Bart said, breaking into Van’s conflicting thoughts.

“Well what?”

“I asked if you wanted to head home or stay the night here,” Bart prompted.

Home? Back to the suite he had shared with Natalie after they negotiated their marriage and he slept by her side…until she rode out of his life without a proper goodbye. Now his hotel headquarters were filled with the sweet, tormenting memories of her lingering presence that would likely drive him as close to loco as he ever wanted to get.

It was bad enough that he was carrying around the tattered yellow gown she’d left behind, as if it were his security blanket, or some such ridiculous nonsense. No one had considered him a sentimental fool in all his thirty-two years of existence. So why had he tucked the garment in his saddlebag?

Damned if he knew.

“Do what you want,” Bart said impatiently when Van didn’t respond. “I’m going back to Wolf Ridge. I still have a law practice and clients who depend on me. Let me know where you are and I’ll send a telegram with a list of potential assignments and the contact people.”

Bart swung into the saddle. “If by chance you happen to cross paths with Nat, give her my fond regards.” He smiled wryly. “Too bad she didn’t ask me to marry her. I’d have packed up and gone on her grand adventure with her.”

With a playful salute, Bart reined his horse south. And still Van stood there as if he’d grown roots. He watched his best friend disappear from sight and then stared at the village of teepees near the fort. His gaze swung northwest, wondering if his wayward wife had learned enough defensive techniques and survival skills to stay out of trouble.

Or perhaps she had hired a guide to lead her into the mountains she was anxious to explore.

Natalie alone in the wilderness with another man? The distasteful speculation soured his mood in one second flat.

Wheeling around, Van walked off to find Teskee and Chulosa. He damned well needed someone to distract him from his troubled thoughts.

Chapter Eighteen

Two weeks after Natalie left Taloga Springs she halted in the high meadow in the magnificent Rocky Mountains. The afternoon sun splattered over the towering ridges and rugged peaks. Admiring the panoramic view, Natalie dismounted from her newly purchased black gelding with its white stockings and a white blaze down its nose. The horse had been an impulsive buy in Colorado Springs because it reminded her of Durango.

Her new breeches and shirt had been special-made by a talented seamstress in Dodge City. As was the tailored jacket that boasted concealed pockets galore. Her unique style of dress had drawn puzzled glances in each town she entered during her travels, but when she gave her name at hotels, no one seemed surprised that she was a bit eccentric.

“After all,” she had overheard several people remark, “she is married to Donovan Crow and that explains everything.”

Her new oversize saddlebags held another set of clothing, boots and secret compartments where she carried spare bank notes to pay her way across Colorado. She had contacted Wells Fargo to return her family jewels back to New Orleans for her lawyer to place under lock and key. She had acquired a pathetic-looking pack mule in Pueblo because the poor thing needed a friend. The animal was laden down with food supplies to last her for a week, along with a tarp to fend off inclement weather.

A woman on an adventure didn’t bother with tents when tarps, makeshift stakes and tree limbs served her well. She had learned that recently—but she chose not to