Joseph didn’t trust her. He confessed to being in love with her, but he didn’t trust her. Did he think if she’d known that he was a U.S. marshal she would track him down and pursue him once he left? Did he think she’d make demands on him, reminding him that if it weren’t for her he would be dead now? Well, if he thought she would come after him, he couldn’t be further from the truth. She wouldn’t follow him. She’d never subject him to life with a Bolton—even though a Bolton had saved his skin. Little did he know that she would have done the same for anyone—she did it for him, a complete stranger. She helped save his life. The good Lord did the healing. All she’d done was clean him up and force a few herbs and tea down his throat, but her efforts counted. Tears blinded her and she reached up to brush them away. The horse plodded along beside her. “He really doesn’t like you any more than he likes me,” she reminded the animal. The horse shook his mane. “No, it’s the truth.
