Wilder's Mate
“According to Archer’s message, this was the right rendezvous point, only he was nowhere to be found.
And darkness was fast approaching.
“Wilder?” Satira sat her horse more easily today, with the reins firm in her gloved hands. She seemed more relaxed in trousers and a rough jacket, though tension threaded her voice now.
Hiding his emotions and thoughts from her was growing harder with each passing day. “Archer’s late.”
“I take it that’s not like him?”
“No.” Not like any bloodhound to leave a comrade stranded in the desert borderlands with dusk fast approaching.
Wilder’s stomach twisted with a sick sense of foreboding.
Satira stripped off her gloves and tucked them behind her belt, then reached for the gun at her hip.
“Do you think something happened to him?”
“Could be.” If he’d tried to set things up for them, he could have gotten— Really, Harding? You didn’t see it in his eyes? Ignore it when he tried to call you off?
He tightened one hand around his rifle and turned his horse.
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