He walked back to his horse and untied something from the saddle. Returning, he tossed two rabbits to her.

"See what you can do with those."

She made no effort to catch them, letting them fall at her feet. She ignored the meat, fixing him with a cold stare.

"You killed them. You cook them."

Turning on one heal she stalked off to her wagon.

The men guffawed until Davis's voice broke in, low and steady.

"I don't think she's as impressed with your hunting skills as you are, Bordeaux."

She climbed into her wagon and dropped onto the hard seat. Davis should know such needless defense was embarrassing for her. She chanced a sullen glance back at the group of men. Bordeaux was retrieving the rabbits from the sand. She should have accepted the rabbits. The fresh meat would have been a welcome change, but nobody was going to get away with throwing food at her - least of all an arrogant saddle bum. She noted the worn but relatively new clothes that clung to his lean frame. Maybe he wasn't a saddle bum, but only a greenhorn would think he could live off the barren land that surrounded them.

She shifted her attention to his mount. One thing was obvious about Bordeaux. He was an excellent judge of horseflesh. His bay gelding had the sleek lines of a racehorse and the look of endurance as well.

Pete's gravely voice cut through her thoughts like sand on a frying pan.

"Bordeaux, this is Casey Fritz, Hank Royce, and John Davis."

If Pete had another name, nobody knew it. He was just Pete. At sixty-two, he was as wiry as any of his men, and twice as cagey.

Cassie tapped her boot toe against the footrest and shifted restlessly in the seat while the men exchanged greetings. How did men have the gall to criticize women for being talkative? She cleared her throat.

"If you guys are through socializing, we'd better get moving. The day isn't getting any longer."

Bordeaux chuckled. "Go ahead. I'll catch up after I cook these rabbits and clean up the camp."

Pete nodded complaisantly. "See you later, then."

Apparently Pete wasn't concerned about Bordeaux getting lost. Of course, even a greenhorn could follow the wagon tracks they would leave in the sand. Hopefully he wouldn't wander off and get lost. She had to decline the last trip because it coincided with her monthly cycle - and this trip was cutting the time close. She had come prepared for such an emergency, but any delay might prove embarrassing.

When all the wagons were ready, she snapped the whip over the back of the mules. The wagon groaned into a slow roll. The four freight wagons pulled into a single line behind her. Each day they changed positions in line so that no one ate the dust from all the wagons every day. Today it was her turn to be in front. Being in front carried its responsibilities. She watched for soft areas where a wagon might get stuck. If one wagon got stuck, the rest would have to stop while one of the other teams was unhitched and added to pull the wagon out. Then they would have to hitch them back up again. Since each wagon had three teams of horses, that could become time consuming, and time was their enemy.




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