“What you’re saying isn’t making any sense.”
“Of course not,” he said. “How could it when you have only half of the story? If you’d ever asked me, I would have told you the rest. But you never asked, did you?”
“That wasn’t up to me,” she replied defensively. “It was Bibi’s project, not mine. I just did the job she told me to do.”
Still, guilt gnawed at her insides. She’d always considered herself a good judge of character, but it seemed she’d been wrong about him. Maybe he wasn’t all he’d presented himself to be, but he also wasn’t quite the phony the film accused him of being. “Did Bibi know the truth?” she asked.
“She knew.”
Her jaw went slack. “I don’t understand. Why would she have purposely—”
He turned back to the pump. “I’ll water the horses. You gather wood.”
*
Still brooding, Keith kept Miranda in his peripheral vision while he tended the horses. There was no question in his mind that Bibi had set out to ruin him, but Miranda wasn’t completely innocent. Maybe under different circumstances he would have enjoyed being alone with her, but he couldn’t forget the part she’d played.
She returned with an armful of dead wood she’d gathered from around the two Joshua trees and dumped it on the ground. “How much more?”
“Two more loads,” he replied refusing to look up.
He turned his attention to unpacking supplies but couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from following every time she turned her back. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t ignore his body’s awareness of her. He hadn’t felt himself inside a woman in a long time. Far too long. He’d had no shortage of opportunities, but he’d steered clear of them. It was all part of the self-inflicted penance he’d undertaken to purify his spirit. It had taken months of prayer, meditation, and time spent in the heat and darkness of the sweat lodge to purge impure thoughts.
He’d finally managed to banish sex almost completely from his mind…until now. He might not like Miranda, but the male part of him still appreciated the female parts of her. As she squatted and gathered up the dead branches, he couldn’t help noticing the long legs encased in tight jeans that also showcased a small but perfectly shaped behind. He briefly fantasized how those long legs would feel wrapped around his waist while his hands cupped that nicely rounded ass.
Her hoarse whisper called him back from the erotic abyss.
“Keith, do you hear that?”
A soft, ominous rattle echoed her words.
“Shit.” He grabbed the hunting knife from his belt scabbard. He hadn’t really expected her to encounter any snakes. They were usually hibernating this time of year. He’d mentioned them simply to torture her, but the danger was real enough now. “Where is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I can’t see over the wood.” Her arms were loaded and her eyes wide with fear. “What should I do?”
“Don’t move until I say so.” He crept toward her, knife in hand, locating it quickly by sound—a Mojave rattler, the deadliest snake in North America. It was coiled and extremely agitated. “It’s on the left about two feet away from you,” he said.
He approached from the opposite side, gaze locked on the snake, knife hand poised.
“Wh-what are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Kill it.” One flick of his wrist released the knife and impaled the blade in the snake’s head.
She gasped, dropping the wood with a clatter, her face as pale as a full moon. “H-how did you learn to throw a knife like that?”
“My grandfather taught me. He believes knife throwing is one of many lost arts.”
“Wait, it’s not dead!” she shrieked.
Although the knife had gone straight through its head, the snake still lurched and writhed.
“Yes it is,” Keith replied matter-of-factly. “It’ll just take a while for him to figure it out.” Taking up a branch, he broke off the ends to form a short fork. “They’re a lot like chickens that way. They can move around for up to an hour after you kill them, and they can still bite, even when the head is severed.”
“They can poison you even after they’re dead?” She shuddered. “One more reason to hate them.”
“You can hate the live ones all you like, but this one is dinner.” Using the forked stick, he immobilized the snake to remove his knife.
She regarded him with brows furrowed. “You’re kidding, right?”
He ignored her question. “I’m going to skin and clean it now. If you’re squeamish, you might want to look away, or better yet, go and start the cooking fire.”
“You’re really planning to eat that thing?”
His lips curved into a smirk. “Waste not, want not, Miz Sutton.”
Chapter 8