Tall, Dark, and Determined (37 page)

Well, Lacey had stayed quiet long enough! “Mr. Dunstan?”

“Sssh,” he hissed, not even looking over his shoulder. The man kept walking as though he knew exactly where he was going. Maybe he did, but he hadn't bothered to tell Lacey about it.

She put the tips of her fingers in her mouth and produced a gratifyingly shrill whistle. For the first time in hours, her guide stopped to look at her. Decoy came bounding back to sit atop her foot, and Lacey remembered the last time she'd been in the woods with his master. Then it had been Dunstan to whistle.

“What do you think you're doing?” He spoke so low it became a rumble of words more than actual speech. “I told you—”

“To be quiet,” Lacey whispered back. “Yes, I know. It's the only thing you've said all morning! After following nothing but you and your dog around for the past four hours, it's safe to say I've learned nothing at all about how to track an animal!”

“You should have.” He approached her. “Learning to be quiet is the first lesson, and it's one you're far from mastering.”

“I haven't spoken a word in over two hours!” she protested. Forest scenery may be beautiful, but it didn't exactly hold her attention when there wasn't anything in particular to see. A little conversation—even instructions on the sort of thing she should be noticing—would've made things a lot more interesting.

“Talking”—he returned to a more normal tone of voice—”is the most obvious part of silence. The way you walk comes next. Every move should make as little noise as possible.” Dunstan's glance swept down her skirts toward her boots. “First off, you need sensible heels to minimize the sound of your steps.”

“I'll order some,” she told him. “There's nothing I can do about my footwear for today. I hoped to learn something more …”
Interesting!
She paused and finished, “Immediately applicable.”

“Fine,” he ground out. “The most important tool a hunter uses is patience. Move slowly and surely, take time to notice the signs around you. Know that you might fail to best the beast you track, but don't abandon your task unless necessary. The largest portion of hunting lies in waiting, Miss Lyman.”

I waited a couple hours to hear you tell me that?
Lacey kept the thought to herself. Provoking him wouldn't make Mr. Dunstan become a better teacher. Maybe questions would.

“Is there a way to muffle my footsteps? Wrap my heels with cotton or some such?” She tried to think of a way and failed.

Dunstan looked at her a long time, as though measuring whether or not she truly wanted to learn. Heartbeats passed before he decided to speak. “Don't assume the problem lies with the shoes, though in your case they need to be changed. Start with controlling the way you walk. Step on soft ground wherever possible—not mud, but solid earth. Do a better job of avoiding rocks and twigs, which do nothing but broadcast your presence. If you need to push aside a low-lying branch, don't shove it back to rebound and smack against the tree. Dry grasses rustle when your skirts brush by; the same for low bushes.”

That makes sense—but it's a lot to remember when I typically set one foot in front of the other without thinking. I'd try going on tiptoe, but we're walking too fast and far!

“All right. You said we're hunting partridge. What signs have we been following for so long?” She peered at the ground, already knowing she wouldn't spot any tracks. Not surprising, since birds flew more often than hopped up a mountain. What did Chase Dunstan know that he hadn't bothered to share with her?

“We aren't. I know a spot where they've roosted for years.”

“You've been shushing me all day for
nothing
?” Lacey sucked in a sharp breath as disappointment stabbed her.
Are there any lengths he won't go to in order to avoid talking with me?

He shrugged at her outrage. “You still needed to practice being quiet, and there won't be time once things get underway.”

“I can hold my tongue!”
When I have to. If I bite it, at least
. For now, Lacey didn't feel inclined to prove it.

“No way of knowing that.” He arched a brow. “Last time I saw you walking in the forest, you didn't stop talking even when you thought there'd be no one around to join the conversation.”

She felt the blush coming but couldn't stop it. “This is an entirely different situation!”
I know you can hear me, so I'd be more careful with what I said, for one thing
. “You're supposed to be teaching me, showing me things I didn't know.”

“Told you to get different shoes and stop tromping around without looking where you're stepping.” Somehow his summary of the advice sounded far worse than when he'd first mentioned it.

“You could've done that much sooner,” she argued. “If you mentioned the finer points earlier, I might've been practicing something
useful
all the way up here! Now I have a late start.”

“Do your best. This is poor terrain for stealth. Your shoes will ring against the rocks.” As he mentioned it, Lacey realized they stood at the mouth of a canyon. Rocky outcrops shadowed patches of the healthy stream winding its way down the mountain.

“I thought birds liked trees.” Lacey eyed the beautiful landscape and realized they'd be leaving the forest behind.

He smiled, and it transformed his face. No longer stern, disapproving, or smug as he'd looked in turn throughout the morning, it gave Lacey a sense that he'd been a mischievous boy. “Partridges aren't good fliers unless they're heading downhill.”

“Heading downhill?” Lacey pictured a bird hopping atop the rock faces, only to trip on a rock and drop down into the stream because it didn't fly well. “You mean falling?”
Do birds fall?

“Nah.” Dunstan looked like he was thinking of a way to explain it better. “More the equivalent of a running start. They run pell-mell up a cliff or mountain or what have you—and these birds run faster than you or I could ever manage—then jump over the edge. Quick way to hit the air and drop out of range. They land just fine when they get to the bottom. You'll see.”

The birds in her imagination began to look like plump chickens trundling as fast as their legs could carry them. Trouble was, chickens didn't move very quickly. Lacey tilted her head and looked at Dunstan.
Was he trying to trick her?

“I'm going to be outrun by a bird who can't fly well but hurtles itself over mountainsides?” She wanted to be sure.

“Don't be silly.” He took a swig from his canteen. “You're not going to chase them. It's better strategy to have Decoy flush 'em out. Easier to shoot them when they hit the air.”

“What do they look like?” They couldn't be small like sparrows or huge like turkeys if one could feed a man.

“Bit longer than a foot. Brown and white with black markings. Red legs longer than a chicken's but shorter than a snipe. Close to quail-sized but look more like pheasants.”

This amalgam of comparisons made Lacey envision a long-legged chicken with the head of a pheasant. Either Dunstan's descriptions needed work, or her imagination was rusty.
We'll see when we get there … but I think it's the description
.

“This partridge sounds like a very strange bird.”

“It is. Harder to hunt than most, so it'll be enough of a treat for your picnic.” He swirled the top back on his canteen.

Lacey's stomach grumbled at his mention of the picnic. She'd been too excited to eat much that morning, and all the exertion left her famished. The sun shone straight overhead, and she didn't need her watch to tell her they'd hit midday. “Should we enjoy our lunch before heading farther?” The rocks ahead wouldn't provide shade, and a short rest sounded heavenly.

“There's a little pool a few hundred yards ahead.” Dunstan started walking again, but Lacey took his words to mean they'd be stopping soon. Men didn't usually argue against lunch.

She followed after him, noting they were still moving upward. It seemed to Lacey they'd gone uphill all morning, and her legs protested the hard work. When she slowed, Dunstan moved out of sight around a thick copse of trees. The soft gurgle of gently running water enticed her to follow a bit farther.

When she turned the trees, Lacey smiled in delight. An exclamation tickled her lips, but she remembered to whisper.

“How beautiful!”

“Beautiful” didn't do the view justice. Chase brought her as a reward—he hadn't expected her not to say anything for more than two hours, but she'd surprised him again. She deserved a short rest in one of his favorite shady spots. It'd been a while since he'd come here, and Miss Lyman's wonder made him look anew.

Half forest, half grotto, the forest came right up against the back of the rock face overlooking the river. A small overrun, too small to count as a waterfall, trickled down the rock into a small pool beneath. By late August the offshoot would dry up, but for now the gentle burbling of water over rock played like soft music. Trees, long sustained by the pool's spring-and-summer appearance, dappled the sunshine with cool shade.

Its beauty gladdened the eye, and Miss Lyman made a fitting addition to its charms. She sank to the ground without another word, obviously enchanted with the place. After a few moments of silence, she scooted forward to dip her hand in the water.

“Ooh!” A breath of an exclamation told Dunstan the water remained every bit as cold as he remembered. She hastily drew her hand back and shook free several drops of sparkling water.

Decoy showed no such compunction. Hunkering on the bank, he bent his head and began lapping water with great enthusiasm and much slopping of water on his paws. When he quenched his thirst, the dog moseyed on over beside Chase and collapsed with all the grace of a train car. After bolting down the eight strips of jerky Chase laid out for him, the dog stretched into a nice nap.

For his part, Chase wouldn't have minded doing the same. This little nook, tucked into a rocky crag, made good cover. Nothing—and no one—could creep up from behind or either side. Unfortunately, his pretty little concomitant precluded napping.

Not because Miss Lyman wouldn't appreciate the rest—Chase read fatigue in the way she didn't just lean against the rock behind her. The woman practically sank into the boulder, letting it prop her up while her eyes drifted shut for a moment then snapped back open. Ladies didn't routinely go for half-day treks up mountains, so it didn't surprise him if she looked tuckered.

What did still surprise him was how good she looked, even when worn to the bone. Lacey Lyman might be tired, but restless energy still coated her from head to toe. She looked happy.
The woman
, Chase decided,
is a bona fide, beribboned adventuress
.

“Would you be so kind as to pass me a clanger?”

“A what?” Chase searched his memory and couldn't remember her mentioning anything by that name when detailing the contents of her pack. Which, by default, meant she referred to lunch.

“Have you never tried one?” Her blue eyes grew brilliant. “Then you're in for a treat. Evie made a small batch before we left Charleston, and we tried them on the train. She's always trying new recipes and thought this one would sell well in her diner. It's portable enough for passengers to pick up when the train begins to bring more people through Hope Falls.” All those words, and she still didn't manage to answer his question.

Chase opened the bag and drew out something wrapped in a clean kitchen towel. He tossed her the first one and kept the second for himself. When he unwrapped his bundle to find two apples and a nice wedge of cheese, disappointment descended.

Did she really say
this
is one of her favorite meals?

“Why would you call this a clanger?” Chase tried not to sound accusing. It sounded so promising before he saw it.

“Bedfordshire clangers,” she supplied. “I think part of the reason I like them so much—besides the delicious way they taste and how there's dessert included—is because the story goes that milliners invented them. They made an easy, hearty lunch to leave for their husbands before they went off to work. It shows how women can be good wives and still do something more.”

“You call apples and cheese a hearty lunch?”
She must count the apples as the “dessert
.” He stopped polishing the first apple with his shirttail to cast her a doubtful look. Then he froze.

“Apples and cheese?” She paused in the act of raising a large golden-brown, delicious-looking pastry to her lips.

“What is that?” Chase's mouth watered, and he began to hope. “Is
that
a clanger?” He didn't wait for her answer, but dove into the bag for the last towel-wrapped bundle loitering in its depths. Pulling aside the fabric, he uncovered a second pastry.