Canyon Song by Gwyneth Atlee Read Free Book Online Page A

head to look around and for the first time noticed his surroundings . The walls were made of peeling logs with mud and dried grass daubed between the cracks to keep the wind out. Judging from the draft, the effort wasn’t entirely effective. Still, the crude stone chimney drew well, so no smoke hazed his vision.
    Where the hell had Annie gone ? With his luck, she’d be out collecting dung for her demented idea of a treatment.
    Strangely enough, though, his breathing had eased, and he did feel better . Maybe there was something to her ideas after all.
    “Annie!” he called again, though the effort set him coughing . As if in sympathy, the dog stopped licking and lay its head down on its paws.
    Uncomfortable on his belly, Quinn decided to try turning on his side . That was when he noticed someone had undressed him.
    “Shit,” he muttered . That lovesick dog must have taken advantage of him in his sleep.
    Actually, the only possible truth didn’t sit much better . Annie’s hands had touched more than his wounded shoulder; no part of him remained a mystery to her smoky gaze.
    What in God’s name had she done with his clothing ?   Feeling more vulnerable than ever, he hoped she’d merely washed the mud and blood away and they were hanging somewhere close to dry.
    Carefully, he eased himself over to the left, but not quite carefully enough . The movement sent expanding shafts of bright pain into his shoulder and clouded his vision.
    He lay still for a time, willing himself to outwait the discomfort . After a few second, his gaze focused on a pair of battered pans hanging on pegs, then took in the remainder of the room. A thick, woolen serape had been tossed carelessly over a crude table. Nearby, a pair of flimsy-looking stools stood close at hand, and a wooden chest took up the space along one wall. Atop it sat a clay bowl, a small painting that might be the Holy Virgin, and a half-dozen candles, all unlit.
    A ladder pointed toward a narrow loft, more a shelf than a true room . He wondered if Annie slept there, if she might be asleep there now. At least one mystery was solved, though. His shirt and jeans dangled from the overhang, reminding him uncomfortably of a hanging man.
    Hating to do it, he called her name again . His mouth felt bone dry, and this mongrel’s slobber was a poor substitute for a cup of water.
    Above the loft, bunches of brittle-looking twigs and roots hung from the ceiling, making strange shadows in the amber firelight . But aside from his drying clothing, none of the shadows looked remotely human.
    Had she abandoned him?
    He hated the fear that permeated the thought, his overwhelming need for her. Physical needs, for water, sustenance, and someone to tend his wounds. His body did not care that she’d once robbed him and, worse yet, delayed him in Mud Wasp and then Copper Ridge until it was too late. His body only needed what there was no one else to give.
    His sense soon overtook his terror . Of course she hadn’t left. The fire still burned brightly. The dog was by his side. She might just be outside, tending to the needs of nature or bringing in some wood.
    Might be . Must be. Must be.
    *     *     *
    Canyon Sangre de Cristo may have been named for Christ’s blood, but Ned Hamby thought it looked more like the devil’s lair. A mile wide at one end, it snaked for what seemed an eternity, ever-thinner, along the narrow creek that carved it. In some spots, openings honeycombed the rock, doorways to the dwellings from some long-forgotten Indian past.
    Hamby had always hated those caves that seemed to stare like empty sockets, even though he and his boys had holed up in them more than once . The hard, cold rooms, though sheltered from the elements, set him to mind of tombs and all the crawly things that gnawed a body when it lay inside one.
    Astride his stolen horse, Ned gazed down into the canyon . If there really was some white woman down there, she might have a cabin tucked up in the