“He must be.”
The dry note made him laugh. She had an amusing way with her, this flower girl. A bit small and dumpy, but the sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks gave her face character. He liked that. Too many females he’d known seemed to wish to look like alabaster statues. Impossible in the sun. He concentrated on guiding Tiger through the trees, his ears tuned to the slightest sound of pursuit. Had those fellows gone to ground? The man Barney had been anxious for food.
“If we’re lucky,” he said aloud, “they’ve gone off to find sustenance.”
Delia looked round again, anxiety in her eyes. “Not Sam. He was determined to find you.”
He eyed her with renewed interest. “You listened well.”
“I did and I’ve got a lot of questions.”
His mind closed. He was not going to embroil her in his tangled affairs if he could help it. “Not now.”
The frown descended and the freckles shifted as she wrinkled her nose. “Why not now? I can’t hear them, can you?”
“No, but I’ve got to stay alert. I don’t need you distracting me with badgering questions.”
He felt her stiffen and turn her head pointedly to look forward again. Giff had an impulse to retract, but he was not going to give in to it. The less she knew the better. They were in enough trouble as it was.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, his ears caught the betraying sound of a creaking branch. He looked in that direction and the familiar surge rose up in his blood.
“Hell and the devil!”
His pursuers were only yards away, half concealed in a thicket. Not such fools as he had thought. They were mounted and Giff saw a gleam of metal in the leader’s hand.
“He’s got a pistol! Now we’re for it! Hold tight!”
Urging Tiger to quicken his pace, he took a swerving path between two trees, aiming to present a moving target. He heard a frightened gasp from Delia, but there was no time to reassure her. Besides, the danger was acute. He had no notion if he could get them out of this.
Obedient to his will, Tiger tore through the trees. Giff ducked down, the girl going down with him willy-nilly.
“Stay low, Delia!”
He could hear the riders start up behind. The reckless exultance for the chase he knew too well threatened to take over. He struggled to suppress it. It was not only his own life at stake now. But he could try one throw at least. He whistled the signal to give Tiger his head and the horse took control, weaving as he’d learned to do in years gone by in the Indian forests.
Leaning over Delia to protect her as best he could, Giff took the reins in his left hand and reached the right to the holster on his saddlebag. The strap lifted and he grasped the butt of his pistol. It was primed and ready.
“Dear heaven, you’re going to shoot?”
“If I can get a clear shot.” He’d not reckoned on Delia noticing his actions. An observant wench. Too damned observant at this moment, if truth be told. He’d answered without thinking.
“Shall I take the reins?”
Surprised, he risked a glance. Delia’s face was turned to his, despite her crouched position. He could not withhold a grin. “Plucky wench, aren’t you?”
“No! I just don’t want to fall off if you’re busy shooting that thing.”
He laughed. “Tiger knows what to do. Hold onto his mane.”
He saw her fingers weave into the long dark hair and clutch tight. Satisfied, he risked rising in the saddle to look back.
He knew they were still on his heels, for they’d abandoned the attempt to stay quiet the minute he spurred his horse. The crashing and bumping followed as they tried to keep up, emulating his weaving progress. With luck, the fellow Sam wouldn’t attempt a shot under these conditions.
“Don’t screech now! I’m going to fire.”
Twisting around, he levelled the pistol, aiming above the heads of the riders. He wanted no corpses on his hands. The explosion elicited a muffled whimper from Delia. At least she’d managed not to scream. He nudged her with his arm.
“Good girl!”