Catch Me by Lorelie Brown

her face. “In that case, I suppose I can bend enough to call you Dean.”
    “Good.” He pushed to his feet to assist her in rising.
    She put her hands in his and with his help almost leaped to her feet. He held her steady at the shoulders when she swayed, even while he managed to avoid making a production out of the assistance.
    “It’s not often I meet a man who can admit his faults,” she said, intending to get her mind off the swimming in her head. “I sense a woman’s hand in that.”
    His jaw firmed into a blade-sharp line and his lips flattened until they’d nearly disappeared. He dropped her faster than a lit coal. She bobbled again, but this time he didn’t even try to catch her. She stumbled and saved herself.
    “Let’s find those horses,” he said, and abruptly turned to start down the bank.
    “Anyone ever told you being rude was one of those faults?” she called at his rapidly retreating back.
    What kind of cactus patch had she stumbled into? They almost seemed to be getting along for a moment, before he’d shuttered down once more. She turned over her words as she slogged through the high grass after him. Right before he’d gotten that stick back up his arse, she’d said something about a woman’s influence in his life.
    She used her forearm to push wet hair out of her face as she watched him scan the surrounding area for their horses.
    So the man had a weakness when it came to some woman. Maggie smiled.
    She’d nettle the man until she weaseled the truth out of him.
    After all, it wasn’t like she had anything better to do.

Chapter Nine
    Dean wandered about the outer edge of the campsite collecting kindling, careful to keep Maggie within eyesight at all times. As he bent to add another stick to the small armful he already carried, he admitted he was brooding. As much as he hated to admit it, there was really no other word.
    They’d found Jameson and Sandie with little trouble. The problem had come after he’d stripped them of blankets, bags and saddles and inspected the supplies. His ammunition was fine, having been tightly wrapped in oilcloth, and their spare clothing had required only spreading out on low-hanging branches to dry. But the biscuits were soggy, crumbled knots of uselessness. Worse than that, the coffee had been soaked through. The package of jerky and salted pork had simply fucking disappeared.
    It was all his fault. After all, he’d been the one to pack in the morning. He must have failed to buckle Maggie’s saddlebag.
    As soon as they’d laid everything out to dry, he found tracks leading to a herd of deer grazing in another clearing. A six-point buck and three fat does, one of which had wandered near the woods. To add insult to injury, he’d missed the shot and scattered them all. He’d try again around dusk, but until then they’d have to tough it out.
    The nearest town was only a day and a half down the trail, though he’d hoped to avoid it all together. Mason was the last place in the world he’d prefer to resupply. Hell, it was the last place in the world he’d like to even pass within a hundred miles of, but the most direct route to Fresh Springs went right by.
    But even his dread at returning to Mason wasn’t the worst part. He’d nearly gotten Maggie killed with his bullheaded stubbornness.
    He eased behind the shadow of an oak tree and slipped Maggie’s photograph from the pocket of his vest. Though damp at the edges, it had survived the river well enough. The face in the tintype was five times as cheerful as the solemn-eyed waif drying herself by the fire. But he’d finally seen that tip-tilted smile—of all times—when they’d beached themselves on the riverbank. He’d nearly drowned her and she repaid him in grins. She was either a borderline simpleton or the most resilient woman he’d ever known.
    He shoved the picture back in his pocket and bent to pick up another stick before returning to the fire. Resilient or not, incredibly kissable or