Chapter 6

Grant woke as the first rays of light turned the eastern sky gray, but someone already knelt by the fire ring, stirring the coals to life. It must have been the dropping of a log that awakened him.

He'd planned to be the first one up, to get things going before Frank arose. The boy was probably tired after their first day out. Grant sure had been weary that first week after leaving St. Louis with the supply wagons. Riding all day in the saddle used muscles a man didn't know he possessed.

Even now, he could feel the effects of the few weeks' rest during the rendezvous. His back was stiff, and his thighs burned as he sat upright and pushed his blankets aside.

His motion must have startled Frank, for the boy twisted to face him. In the half-light, Grant couldn't make out his expression, but the eastern sky behind him outlined the youth's silhouette—revealing a form that wasn't as spindly as he'd thought yesterday.

Maybe that was a trick of the shadows. But it sure did look like Frank had curves. Curves in places boys didn't develop them.

The lad turned back to the fire without speaking, and Grant squeezed his eyes shut, then reopened them. He needed coffee. He must not be awake enough to see straight.

He slid his stockinged feet into boots, then stood and reached for the kettle. "I'll get water," he whispered.

As he returned with a full container, a few others were beginning to rise, including Parson. They'd be hungry, then their leader would likely push to saddle up and get on the trail.

While Grant added coffee grounds to the water, Frank continued to nurse the flame. He'd already placed the pot of remaining soup close enough to heat.

Neither of them spoke until Frank straightened. "Watch this soup, will ya? I'm going to the creek."

Grant nodded as the boy slipped out of camp. He didn't go to the water closest to them, though, but moved downstream a ways, disappearing into the brush beside the bank. As the coffee finished brewing and the soup warmed enough to eat, Grant handed out full plates and cups.

Frank still hadn't returned. He must be taking care of personal matters, but was there something more? Had he been hurt? Or maybe found something he needed help with, but was afraid to call out?

Grant took up his own cup of warm brew and stood, then ambled toward the water next to the camp. He might be able to see the boy downstream.

He dropped to his haunches by the flow, washing the food residue from his fingertips in the cold current. He could just see part of Frank's body near the bend in the creek. He looked to be washing his face maybe. That was good. The boy had looked a bit like a street urchin yesterday with all that dirt on him.

"Time to load up." Parson's call came from behind, and Grant stood, then turned back to the camp. He could load his and Frank's animals while the boy put away the cooking supplies.

When Grant led the saddled horses to camp so they could load the last of the packs, Frank stood and hoisted the satchel that contained the food and cooking pots. He seemed to work hard to lift it.

Grant reached to take the load. "Anything else need doing?"

Frank shook his head as he scanned the camp. "Just tie on our blankets."

The boy's face was still dirty. In fact, it looked like fresh mud. Grant couldn't help but stare as he tried to make sense of things. Had he seen wrong when he'd watched him splash water on his face?

Either Grant was losing his eyesight—or maybe his ability to think through what he was seeing—or something wasn't right with this boy.

He took the roll of bedding Frank handed him and tied it behind his saddle while the youth did the same with his own. The rest of the men had already mounted and were talking through how far they might travel that day. Parson wanted to reach the first possible trapping spot by midday tomorrow, early enough they could set a few traps and see if enough catch still lived there, or if they'd need to move on to a larger lake.

Grant mounted first, then watched from the corner of his eye as Frank swung up into the saddle. His movement was sure and quick, like he'd done the act a hundred times before. He turned the animal toward the others, and Grant did the same. Whatever else was off about the youngest member of their group, he knew how to handle a horse.

The rain the men had been arguing about finally started midmorning. Not a downpour, but enough to soak them. By the look of the thick gray clouds above, they'd stay wet for a few hours at least.

The trail Parson led them on was an animal path through a mountain pass, not overly steep or rocky. Frank rode in front of Grant, with Skeet behind him, mumbling about how he'd told everyone it would be a gully washer. Maybe they'd believe him next time.

By midday, the rain still fell, and Parson led them into a cluster of pines thick enough to provide shelter. "Let's eat a bite here and rest the horses."

The food pack was strapped onto Grant's pack mule, so he dismounted and worked to pull out the smoked meat and cornbread Parson had cooked up before they left the rendezvous. Frank came to his side and took the food Grant handed him.

Something about the younger man standing so close beside him brought a sensation of familiarity. As if they'd stood like this before.

He glanced sideways, but Frank's hat shielded most of his face, since he was shorter than Grant. He could see the man's shirt, though, and again that familiar feeling swept through him—along with an awareness of the way the wet cloth clung to his body.

Revealing definite curves.

His mind struggled to catch up with what he was seeing. To process what it all meant. Then a flash of memory slipped in. Him, standing next to the woman by the waterfall. Showing her the map he kept in his pocket. She'd been wet, drenched from the spray, her dress clinging to her frame. To her curves.

Exactly the way this shirt outlined the form of the person standing next to him.

Realization swept through, souring in his gut. This was no boy. Not the brother.

The woman herself.

She must have realized something in him had changed, for she looked up at him, tipping her hat to reveal her wide eyes. Drips of water had run down her cheeks and chin, clearing away the mud she'd plastered there and revealing smooth, tanned skin.

His gaze dropped to her hands, which held a pack of meat. Fingers too small to be a boy's. They weren't delicate and pale like his wife's had been. The nails were short and dirty, the skin darkened from hours in the sun. But definitely a woman's hands.

He took a step back as his mind processed what this meant on the journey. They couldn't allow a woman to travel with all these men. He jerked his gaze to her face again. She could possibly be the nineteen years she'd claimed. When Gloria was that age, he'd just begun courting her. She'd been fashionable and coy and—he found out later—determined to catch him, if only to frustrate her father by setting her sights beneath his plans for her.

This woman was completely opposite of Gloria. But she ignited his protective instincts in a way his wife never had. Gloria had never needed this kind of protection ... at least he'd not thought so.

As pain twisted in his belly, a new determination rose within him. He'd not protected his wife the way he should have. Not at the end. But maybe he could redeem himself now, at least in a small way.

She still stared at him, like a frightened deer. Probably waiting for his reaction. He could start with learning her name. He didn't even know Frank's last name—rather, the last name of the person he'd thought was Frank. But she might have made that up too, if he'd asked.

He kept his voice low. "Who are you?"

Her gaze turned wary. "Frank. Frank Collins."

Grant growled and shook his head. "I mean who are you really? I know you're the one I met at the waterfall. What's your name? And I don't want a lie this time."

She wilted. Nearly melted in front of him as her shoulders sank and her expression collapsed. Her neck flexed as she swallowed. How had he not noticed the thin column of her neck? Certainly no Adam's apple there.

She opened her mouth, and he had to lean in to hear her quiet words. "Faith Collins."

But then she straightened, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "You're not to tell the others."

He raised his brows. "You're in a fine position to make demands."

She blinked, then a corner of her mouth curved. Her face lit, even with only that tiny movement. Her eyes twinkled. "I suppose you have a point."

He tried to hold onto his frustration, but that grin had a way of clearing his mind. He shook his head to bring back his focus. "You can't travel with all these men."

Her smile dimmed a little but didn't fade completely. "That's why they need to think I'm a man."

He scowled. "A boy. Not a day over fifteen."

She wrinkled her nose, but still kept her grin. "Fifteen, then. Will you keep my secret?"

"Ya'll huntin' the game over there too?" Parson's voice broke through their conversation. "Just pull out the meat and pass it around."

Faith—Miss Collins—sent him a final pleading look, then turned and carried the pouch of jerky to the other men.

Grant's mind spun as he pulled out the cornbread and took it to Riggs. "Pass it around."

He moved back to his horse to eat his own fare and think. He couldn't let this woman continue to travel with them. She could be in danger if anyone else realized her disguise. At the very least, her reputation would be in tatters.

But could he send her back alone through this wilderness? Did she even have something to go back to?

He needed to talk to her, find out her situation and why she was desperate enough to find her friend that she would attempt a trick like this—if the story about finding an Indian woman near a waterfall was even true.

She didn't come near him again, though, not while they rested the horses. Maybe she thought avoiding him would keep him from outing her. It would do nothing of the kind. He would find out more about her, then he would make his decision.

When they were back in the saddle, the rain finally began to ease, and the group continued their journey in relative silence. Grant kept his horse a few paces behind Frank—or rather, Faith—as she rode with the other men in the front. He studied her profile as they rode, the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone. She was a beautiful woman, even disguised as a boy. Clearly though, she was far tougher and more adventurous than the kind of women he knew in St. Louis. He couldn't even imagine what Gloria would do in a place like this, riding up the side of this mountain in the midst of a group of grizzled trappers.

They rode in the same order as before, with Skeet bringing up the rear. They'd been climbing the slope of a mountain at an angle, rounding the side of it, and as they began to descend the other side, Skeet moved his horse and packhorse around Grant, trotting up toward the front of the group. He slowed his animals to a walk beside Parson, and the two rode side by side for a few minutes. They must be talking, though their posture never revealed it.

Just ahead of him, Miss Collins glanced back at Grant, her eyes a little wide. Did she think Skeet had realized her secret too? Maybe she thought Grant told him.

Part of him felt a bit of triumph. When a person deceived people, they lived in fear of being found out. But Miss Collins must have a good reason for going to such lengths to find her friend.

As soon as they camped, he would find a way to talk to her, even if it took dragging her away from the others.