Yet for all Shannon’s watchfulness and Prettyface’s acute senses, she never caught a glimpse of the man whose presence haunted her as surely as his music haunted the mountain silence.
The next day she followed a game trail, walked between two boulders — and found three grouse neatly dressed out and tied by their feet, dangling from a tree branch.
Frantically Shannon spun around, looking everywhere at once. There was nothing to see but trees and rock, sunshine and pure white clouds. She looked at the ground, but saw no tracks, no disturbance of twigs or leaves or dirt.
Nor had she heard any shots. Yet there the birds were, obviously freshly killed.
He got them with that bullwhip. Lord, that man is fast!
Prettyface circled the ground beneath the grouse, growling almost silently.
«Well, I’m glad you can smell Whip,» Shannon whispered. «I was beginning to think he was a ghost.»
She hesitated, then took down the grouse and stuffed them into her makeshift backpack.
«No point leaving good food for varmints,» she numbled.
Prettyface sniffed the wind several times before he lost interest. His ruff settled and he looked at Shannon, waiting for a signal.
Shannon looked at her hands and realized they were trembling. The knowledge that Whip might be our there just beyond the reach of Prettyface’s senses was unnerving.
At least he’s keeping his distance. He won’t come closer so long as I have Prettyface and a loaded shotgun.
Squaring her shoulders, Shannon set off across the mountainside once more. As she looked for game, she gathered fresh greens and stuffed them into the backpack with the grouse.
When Shannon returned to her cabin, she found a side of bacon hanging from the crossed logs where the buck had been until she had taken it down, sliced off strips and set them to drying.
She looked around quickly.
No one was there. Nor did the nape of her neck prickle with primal awareness of another’s presence.
Yet hours later, as the moon rose to send a rush of silver glory over the land, the husky music of panpipes was breathed through the night.
Shannon sat up with her heart pounding and Prettyface’s throaty growl vibrating just beyond the bed. Then the growling subsided.
Slowly Shannon realized that the keening sound was Whip’s flute talking to the night. She went to the window, opened the shutters a crack, and looked out. She saw nothing but moon shadows and silver light and the massive ebony shawl of the forest flung over the sleeping mountainside.
Prettyface grumbled quietly and flopped down in the corner again. His action told Shannon what she already knew. She was in no danger from the husky, keening notes.
She went back to bed and listened to the sound of loneliness distilled by a man’s breath blowing through a primitive flute.
The next day was much the same for Shannon, the prickling of her nape and the sweet haunting of the flute while she hunted game that eluded her. The only difference was in the gift Whip left waiting for her — three fine trout, still cold from the stream.
That night the flute woke Shannon again, but her heart raced less this time. Prettyface growled, prowled the cabin several times, then curled up and went back to sleep.
Shannon lay awake, listening to the husky lamentations of the flute, yearning toward the unspeakable beauty of something she couldn’t name.
The third day Whip’s gift was onions and potatoes, luxuries Shannon hadn’t tasted in six months.
That night she lay half asleep, waiting for the sound of the flute. When it came she shivered and listened intently. Prettyface awakened, prowled the cabin briefly, and settled back into sleep once more. Finally Shannon slept, too.
The fourth day, Whip’s gift was a plot of jam that was like tasting a sweet summer morning, holding it on her tongue, and licking it from her fingertips.
The sound of the flute came early that night, whistling up the stars, giving them to Shannon like another gift. Prettyface cocked his head and listened, but didn’t bother to get up. The big mongrel no longer associated the sound of the flute with something unknown and, therefore, dangerous.
The fifth day, Shannon returned from hunting to find logs dragged up to the dwindling woodpile. The maul Silent John had used to split wood — and Shannon had broken — was repaired. The ax was sharpened. So was the crosscut saw.
Prettyface sniffed every object suspiciously, his ruff raised and his chest vibrating with a low growl. But nothing came forth to challenge him. Nor did he catch any sense of unease from his mistress.
The big dog’s ruff settled. Slowly he was coming to accept Whip’s scent as something normal.
That night Prettyface barely cocked his ears when the flute’s husky cries wove through the twilight. Shannon paused in the act of draping clothes across the line to dry over the stove. She titled her head back and closed her eyes, letting the beauty of the music caress her tired spirit.
On the sixth day that Shannon came back empty-handed from hunting, Whip’s gift was freshly chopped wood of the exact length to burn in her stove. The wood was neatly piled by the cabin door, close at hand whenever she needed it.
While she looked at the wood, Whip’s flute whispered to Shannon from the surrounding forest, a haunting three-note cry. When she turned, she saw nothing.
Nor did the flute sing again.
On the seventh day, a bouquet of wildflowers waited for her.
Shannon looked at the flowers and bit her lip against an unexpected desire to cry. Letting out a shaky breath, she searched the forest at the edge of the clearing, hungry to see more of Whip than a shadow slipping away at the edge of her vision. Sometime in the past six days, she had stopped worrying about Whip circling around behind her and catching her unawares. She no longer believed he would jump on her like an animal and rut on her whether she wanted it or not.
If that was what Whip wanted from Shannon, he could have taken her more easily than he had taken the grouse or the trout. She knew her vulnerability when she left the cabin as surely as he must have known it.
And the Culpeppers. She feared they knew it as well.
Shannon wondered if Whip, too, had come across the tracks of four saddle mules just two miles below the cabin. Seeing the tracks, Shannon had been relieved to know that Whip was just beyond reach in the forest somewhere, watching out for her.
Protecting her.
The thought made Shannon smile, though the smile quickly turned upside down. She knew Whip’s protection wouldn’t last very long. As soon as he realized that she wasn’t his for the asking, he would ride on until he found a more willing woman.
But until then, Shannon welcomed the knowledge that she wasn’t wholly alone.
Slowly Shannon bent down and picked up the flowers Whip had left for her. It was like holding a handful of butterflies. She looked at the glorious colors, brushed her lips against the smooth petals, and tried to remember when someone had given her anything that wasn’t needed for sheer survival.
She couldn’t think of one time. Even Cherokee’s unexpected gift had been meant to further Shannon’s survival, like a box of shotgun shells or a haunch of venison.
With a ragged sound, Shannon put her face into the soft, fragrant flowers and wept.
When she looked up, she saw Whip silhouetted against the burning blue of the sky. She blinked away tears, trying to see him better.
She saw only empty sky.
WHIP walked down the far side of the rise to the place where his horse was tied. The sight of Shannon crying disturbed him in ways he couldn’t name.
Why would she cry over a handful of flowers?