The forest swallowed them up. The way was slow. Scrub brush to slip past. Downed trees tangled up in vines and standing trees. Tumbled stones cropping up randomly. The leaves still fluttered down, but they were nearly done. All that plus leaves left piled and rotted from the beginning of time turned the forest floor into a nearly impassable tangle.

Falcon was used to that. A glance back showed his wife keeping up with no trouble. Where had that shot come from? Falcon had seen movement. Late, far too late, but he’d thrown himself off the horse and sprinted for Cheyenne even as the gun fired. And he had one moment to fear the most important person in the world to him might have died.

Then he had her, alive and unhurt. And Rachel hit the ground, bleeding. Now he sorted through all those rapid-fire thoughts and knew right where he’d go to find this evil dry-gulcher.

Forging on, each step chosen carefully, his eyes never resting, Falcon kept trees between him and any gunman who might be coming or waiting.

He reached a point where he thought the gunman, should he still be in place, might be visible. Falcon doubted the killer was still there. It was the way of people who fired from cover to run after the deed was done. But he might think the trail was covered from where he sat. He might be content to watch and wait and kill again given a chance.

Reaching from behind, Cheyenne’s hand came into his. He looked back and tipped his head toward the massive oak tree right in front of him.

Cheyenne nodded and stayed still. Falcon eased forward, considered. Saw himself peeking around the trunk of this tree and getting his head blown off. Nothing to like in this situation. Instead, he looked overhead and saw a heavy branch within grabbing distance. He had to launch himself upward, but that was no problem.

Catching hold, he swung himself up, hooked his knees around the branch, then swung around to sit. He climbed to his feet. The branches were thicker, closer together up here, and stout enough they didn’t shake under a man’s weight. Hopefully, even if the shooter was still out there, he wouldn’t be looking for trouble coming from the treetop. Falcon fetched his rifle around and, with his hand on the trigger, pointed it up so the muzzle wouldn’t be visible, then leaned enough to get one eye around the tree.

Studying the area with eyes as strong as a flock of hawks, he searched back and forth, up and down.

There! Maybe fifty paces up the mountain slope.

Falcon fought down the surge of triumph and rage. Calm. Steady. He didn’t want this man dead. There were too many questions. But he wanted him stopped, and stopped hard.