Page 9 of Cloaked in Beauty

A second man. One whose voice made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

“He ain’t really hurtin’ anything, Parker. Maybe we should just let him be.”

A horse’s head came into view about five trees down from where Letty stood. He tossed his head, his ears pricked. A rider leaned forward to pat his mount’s neck. “You smell him, don’t ya, boy?”

The dark brown horse snorted and took another step forward, revealing his rider. The man was in his shirtsleeves, the cuffs rolled to his elbows over tanned, meaty arms. His suspenders pulled tight over a barrel chest encased in red flannel. The top buttons had been undone at the neck to expose a stained undershirt that might have been white once upon a time. A dark unkept beard hung a few inches from his chin, but it was the rifle draped across his lap that turned Letty’s stomach.

Never again would she spin romantic daydreams about meeting a lumberjack. If this fellow was a typical specimen, she wanted nothing to do with them.

A second horse whickered and stomped a hoof. A tail swished out from behind a tree barely twenty feet from where she stood.

“I don’t like this, Parker. I’ve heard rumors about this ridge. Folks say it’s haunted. Sully swears he’s seen a wraith floatin’ about these parts, wearin’ a long bloody cape.”

Letty’s brows arched as she reached for the edge of her brick-red cape.

“If there’s an angry spirit about, that could be what’s spookin’ the horses. I say we head back to camp. Forget about the wolf.”

Letty sucked in a breath. Wolf?

“Quit your whinin’. Them ghost stories are nothin’ but nonsense. Where’s your spine, man? What’s real is that wolf we spotted. You know as well as I do that the only good wolf’s a dead wolf. They’re vicious creatures. We’re doin’ Cass County a service by curtailin’ the population. Especially with that big alpha. We get rid of him, the pack will scatter. The good Lord gave us dominion over the beasts for a reason. Time to exert our dominance.” He twisted his face and spat on the ground.

Letty tightened her grip on her knife. Mankind had been given care of God’s creatures, not the right to decimate them at will. She’d not let these men hurt Rusty. Even if it meant confronting them herself.

Please, Lord, keep Rusty far from here. Send him back to the cabin, give him a rabbit to chase, anything that will keep him—

Padded footsteps registered a second before a familiar form brushed against her leg.

Rusty crouched at her side and slinked forward, a barely audible growl rumbling in his throat as he bared his teeth.

No!

“He’s a big ’un,” Parker said, a horrible grin splitting his face. “His pelt will bring a pretty penny.”

Letty crouched down and wrapped an arm around Rusty’s neck. “No.” Her whisper carried more plea than authority. “You can’t let them see you. They have guns.”

Her words had little effect on her pet. He strained against her hold. Ready to attack. To protect her. Not realizing that he was the one in danger.

She had to do something . . . protect him somehow . . .

One of the horses neighed again, obviously uneasy. If she could spook them, get them to flee . . .

The flicker of an idea tickled her mind. Dare she?

“He’s close.” Parker dropped his reins and took his rifle in both hands.

Now or never.

She murmured a firm command to stay in Rusty’s ear, then sheathed her knife and grabbed hold of the edges of her cloak.

Letting out the most terrifying shriek she could muster—something between a warring Comanche and a dying chicken—she ran straight for the horses’ heads, unfurling her cape to obtain maximum billows. Flapping and screeching like a demented owl, Letty streaked past the horses. The animals spooked, rearing back on hind legs.

Rusty failed to obey her order to stay out of the fracas. He raced at her side. Too committed to turn back, she accepted his company and prayed Parker would be too busy controlling his horse to take a shot.

Not stopping to watch the mayhem, Letty sped on through the woods, turning southeast to take advantage of the denser forest cover. A rifle shot split the air. Letty flinched, and her feet stuttered as she glanced behind her to ensure Rusty hadn’t been hit. The red wolf never broke stride as he surged forward to take the lead. Relief gave her wings as she loped after him.

Not wanting to risk leading the strangers to her cabin, Letty had set them on a path that followed the creek line through the woods instead of the path that would take them home. Rusty bounded along the water’s edge, his four legs quickly outdistancing Letty’s two. A sharp pain in her side forced her to slow. Halting beside a large pine, she braced an arm against its trunk and struggled to catch her breath. She used to run all over these woods when she was in short skirts, but once she turned sixteen, Grandmother had lengthened her hems to cover her ankles and encouraged more restrained feminine behavior. Apparently brisk hikes were sufficient for maintaining a robust constitution but less than adequate when it came to keeping one prepared to outrun wolf-hunting strangers.

Twisting to peer back into the forest, Letty quieted her breathing as best she could in order to listen for hooves or voices. She heard neither.