Page 50 of The Lyon Whisperer
She cleared her throat. “You didn’t mean now, did you?”
He shook his head.
“Oh.” She thought a moment and decided to redirect the conversation. “May I ask what it is you intend to do now? I mean that literally. You’ve been up all night. You must be exhausted.”
He heaved a weary sigh. “I am. But I need to peruse the perimeter for any clue as to how this particular fire started. If I delay, I may miss something. I learned long ago to trust my gut. My gut is telling me I have to look now.”
“I see. Then I shall aid you.”
A mulish expression hardened his face in a flash.
She held up one hand, palm out. “Before you order me to return to the inn, consider this. I have a fresh set of eyes.”
“Some of the logs will still carry enough heat to burn right through your pretty gown.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“On no sleep? You all but told me you spent the evening holding vigil.”
He had her there. “True. But I’m still a sight less weary than you. Also, have you considered the person who started the fire may yet lurk about? Do you really think it wise I ride back on my own?”
His eyes narrowed. “Interesting the idea of encountering a villain did not occur to you before now.”
“Yes, quite silly of me, in fact,” she murmured, affecting a bemused expression.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
She bit back a smile.
“Come along, then. Stay close.” He started to turn his horse. “And Amelia?”
“Yes?”
“We will discuss your poor impulse control, later. In detail.”
Amelia held herkerchief over her nose as they picked their way over the dividing line between the fire ravaged wood and that which showed no signs of damage, save for a smattering of ash and debris that had blown in.
Even in the cleared section, the air smelled rancid.
The poor animals and birds. With an effort of will, she banished the thought of how those who made their homes in the wood must have suffered. She could not do anything about what happened, and Chase would not thank her for adding to his troubles.
They’d ridden a good three quarters of an hour with neither Chase nor she noting anything of record. Meanwhile, her strapping, vital husband was showing signs of wear—broad shoulders slumping until he caught himself and forced them back, dark eyes drooping, pace slowing to a crawl as if he half-dozed in his saddle.
She hated to be the one to suggest they turn around, however. She didn’t want him to regret having allowed her to join him any more than he already did.
“What’s this?” He sat up, his manner alert, as if he had not shown all the signs of exhaustion a moment ago. “Stay back.”
He urged his mount into the burned section, careful to avoid brushing against the blackened remains. He approached a cluster of trees which had somehow survived mostly unscathed, though they stood in the section of wood which had burned during the night.
Tamping down her impatience at being ordered to wait, she craned her neck searching for anything out of the ordinary. Finally, she spotted what he had—a pile of twigs and branches braced over what looked to be a mound of rags.
Chase dismounted. He pulled a branch from the pile and used it to unearth a bit of the fabric underneath. He held it to his nose and recoiled. “Rancid. Smells as if it’s been coated in beef tallow.”
He grasped the rags and began shoving them into his saddle bag.
“May I have a look before you do that?” she asked.
He sighed but moved toward her. “Do not touch it.” He extended his hand so she could peer at the cloth.
