The Moon and the Stars by Constance O'Banyon

fell behind Mr. Renault, and he guided them to a well-worn path that had been hidden by undergrowth.
    The sun was making its last splash across the westernhorizon, and it was not yet full dark when they rode out of a craggy limestone canyon that stretched out to a grassy plateau. Renault held up his hand for her to halt.
    â€œWe will camp here for the night,” he said, dismounting.
    Caroline waited while he unlocked the handcuff from the saddle horn and clasped it around her other hand. She gritted her teeth as he lifted her from the saddle and set her on her feet.
    The first step she took was jarring. She could hardly walk without pain shooting through her thighs and legs. But she would sooner die than let him know how sore she was.
    â€œWhere are you taking me?” she demanded, dropping to her knees, completely exhausted.
    â€œI thought you knew,” he said, leading the horses forward. “To Charleston, of course.”
    â€œI mean, are we going to travel all the way on horseback?”
    He studied her for a moment before he answered. “Of course not. I will make other arrangements once we get to San Antonio.”
    She stood, slowly suppressing a groan of pain. She moved to the edge of a hillside, staring at the buttercups that were intermingled with sage bushes and cactus. The wilderness seemed so far-reaching it appeared to go on forever, and it felt as if she and Mr. Renault were the only people on earth.
    Too weary to stand any longer, she once more dropped to her knees. She could not remember ever being as tired as she was at that moment.
    As she sat there dazed, she watched Mr. Renault unsaddleand hobble his horse. She assessed him for the first time as a man and not an adversary. He did not wear the clothing she would have expected a bounty hunter to wear. She watched the way his green shirt molded to his shoulder muscles when he lifted the saddle from her horse and settled it on the ground. He carelessly tossed his hat on the saddle as he bent to hobble her horse. She liked the way his dark hair fell neatly across his broad brow. He wore black trousers and black boots, but not the Western boots that everyone in Texas seemed to prefer—his were English riding boots—and of course there was the gun belt slung low over his hips.
    His golden eyes were dangerous for any woman who became trapped by their intensity. She leaned back on her elbows, trying to imagine what his life might be like. But she had no notion of what a bounty hunter did when he wasn’t out hunting someone.
    She studied his profile and was once again struck by how handsome he was, though not in the traditional sense. His features were too ruggedly chiseled for classic male beauty. He turned to her and found her assessing him, and there was a questioning expression on his face. A woman would feel safe under his protection. Not her, of course, he would probably be the death of her. For all she knew, he might have a wife; no one knew much about his life, and he was not forthcoming with details.
    He walked toward her with long strides, his voice deepening several tones when he said, “If I take the cuffs off, you must give your word that you will make no attempt to escape.”
    She could not think straight, so she merely nodded her head.
    â€œAnd,” he stipulated, as he bent down and unlocked the cuffs, “I will leave them off tonight if you will promise not to try anything.”
    She glared at him. “I promise not to run away right now—I’m too tired to get very far anyway. But I already told you that I will most certainly escape if I get the chance.”
    He seemed not to hear her, but instead stared at the angry redness where the cuffs had cut into her skin—the one wrist was raw and nearly bleeding. “Why did you not tell me that the padding had fallen off?” He raised his gaze to hers.
    â€œWhy should I? You have no pity for anyone or anything, and I would never lower