Abby propped a hand on her hip beneath her rain slicker. “I don’t want special treatment, Gage. I’m a member of this team. I wouldn’t be here if I thought I couldn’t keep up.”

His jaw tightened. She could tell he was holding on to his temper. Then his shoulders relaxed. “You’re right. You’re obviously in good physical condition. If your pack gets heavy, let me know and we’ll adjust it. We can fit a little more on the mules.”

Pleasure at his words slipped through her. “It is a little heavy,” she conceded. “I’ll go back through it, see what I can do without.”

Their eyes met, and a moment of understanding passed between them. Then Mateo arrived, and right behind him, Kyle stepped into the cave. He slung his backpack against the wall. “Good spot. I’ll have to remember where it is if I come back this way again.”

The cave was really more of a windblown, scooped-out depression in the side of a rock wall, not too deep, with a wide opening in the front. Mateo built a fire, which warmed the cave without being too smoky, and the place was dry enough that they could shed their slickers.

They ate bagels, hard salami, and cheese for a late lunch. Gage went over the maps again and checked his gear, while the rest of them sat back and watched the rain beating down, so heavy at times it was difficult to see outside.

By late afternoon, when the downpour hadn’t lessened, it was obvious they would be spending the night. Kyle went down to check on the mules and bring back more wood, and Mateo volunteered to cook supper. Clearly, he wasn’t fond of freeze-dried beef stroganoff.

As Abby watched him work, she felt Gage’s presence beside her. His Aussie soft-brimmed hat was gone, his thick brown hair still damp from the misty air. She wanted to reach up and run her fingers through it, push it back from his forehead. A little curl of heat slipped through her. She wanted to lean up and press her mouth against his.

“I’ve spread the tarp,” he said, distracting her, thank God. “Where’s your sleeping bag?”

Snared by something Mateo was doing, instead of answering, her gaze swung to the long white coil of meat he was pulling out of a plastic bag.

“Is that . . . ?” Even with the skin off, she knew. “The rattlesnake you killed? Mateo’s cooking it for supper?”

A smile broke over Gage’s face. “It’s supposed to taste like chicken. I think it’s sweeter, more like lobster.”

“Lobster. Right. I don’t think I can convince myself.”

Gage chuckled.