The Tiger Lily by Shirlee Busbee

enthralled by the varied countryside. The wild, untamed land appealed to
him; the savage joy of the hunt sung in his veins; the green solitude of swamps
and forest insidiously wrapped itself around him, making him more relaxed and
carefree than he had been in years.
     
    Eagerly
Brett embraced the hardships of the trail: the unyielding ground for a bed at
night, the smoky camp fires, the need to secure their own fresh meat, and the
inherent dangers that were ever present along their journey —predatory animals
. . . and men.
     
    The
Sabine River area was gaining a reputation as a haunt for desperate hunted men,
and twice they had been accosted by strangers whose demeanor and manner had
made Brett reach carelessly for the pistols he kept tucked in the wide leather
belt at his waist. And twice those same strangers had taken a long look at
Brett's shoulders, the cool green eyes, and the pistols held so expertly in his
lean hands and had ridden on.
     
    Ironically,
by the time their last night on the trail arrived, Brett very closely resembled
those hard-featured desperadoes they had outfaced. His raven hair was long,
brushing the collar of his shirt; a half-grown black beard partially disguised
his features; and the rough clothing he wore was definitely not that of a man
of wealth. Attired in an open-necked red calico shirt, a wide brown leather
belt, buckskin breeches, and boots, he bore little similarity to the elegant
rakehell who had graced some of the wealthiest homes in Europe. And with his
bearded face and a practical wide-brimmed brown hat pulled low across his
forehead, it wasn't surprising that when Sabrina saw him, she thought she had
fallen into the hands of a desperado.
     
     
     

CHAPTER
FIVE
     
    Sabrina,
unaware of Alejandro's invitation to Brett Dangermond, had found the months
following her seventeenth birthday fiesta uneventful. No, that wasn't quite
true, she admitted with a frown one sunny morning in early April. There were
subtle differences within herself, and she was conscious of a flicker of
dissatisfaction with the easy regularity of her days.
     
    There
was nothing or anyone she could blame for her disquietude—her father was the
same loving man he had always been, her home and the servants were unchanged,
and she was still the darling of the Nacogdoches district. But there was
something missing . . . some unnamed yearning growing inside of her made her
restless and moody, uncertain and expectant at the same time. She wasn't
unhappy, nor was she precisely disenchanted with her usual pursuits, it was
just that . . .
     
    Balefully
she scowled at an unoffending display of vivid pink morning glories that caught
her eyes. She was sprawled comfortably in a patch of spring clover that grew
under the shady branches of a beech tree, her slim body clothed in what was
positively indecent attire for a young lady: a loose-fitting white linen shirt
and a pair of disreputable-looking russet calzoneras. A wide-brimmed sombrero
lay on the ground near her booted and spurred feet, and just a short distance
away, the palomino mare that had been her sixteenth birthday gift from her
father lazily cropped the lush green grass.
     
    This
was a favorite spot of Sabrina's. It was less than a mile from the hacienda,
and she often came here to sit and allow the peacefulness and beauty of the
sheltering beeches, pines, flowering dogwood, and myrtles to sweep over her.
She had spent many a pleasant afternoon lying here daydreaming. Unfortunately,
of late, her daydreams had been vague, shadowy affairs that increased rather
than diminished the growing turmoil within her.
     
    Still
glaring at the morning glories that were attempting to twine themselves around
the base of a towering pine tree, she plucked a stem of clover and idly chewed
it. Maybe it is Carlos, she thought reluctantly. Or maybe it is Father.
     
    Her
soft mouth curved ruefully. No, it wasn't anything her father had done, but she
wished he had never brought up the