Fearless Warrior: Isaacson Trilogy Book Two

1

Wyoming Territory, October 1880

His middle name should have been Danger. Esmund Danger Isaacson...he paused for a moment and silently ran the words over his tongue once more, unable to stop a lopsided grin from bending his lips. In truth, he didn't have a middle name, but such a trivial detail had little bearing on what was happening.

They—meaning Esmund, Ulric, and Elsie—were in a dangerous position. Yet the moment was sadly lacking in anything except their thunderous heartbeats to reveal it as more than three grown adults slinking about through the woods in the dead of night, trying to be sneaky.

What they needed was background music. Dark, heavy music to magnify the suspenseful situation, express the jeopardy they had willingly placed themselves in, and hint at the hopeful certainty they would succeed in saving Piper Jackson.

Shaking his head at his foolishness, he continued forward on soundless feet and searched for the only woman among the sleeping men on the ground. Suddenly, a tune floated within his mind. The song wasn't a beautiful piece of music capable of bringing a hardened warrior to tears, but it would have to do. After all, he was short of an orchestra, let alone the talent and skill needed to compose a more fitting piece of music to do the situation justice. If only he had been born a Mozart, or for this instance, perhaps Beethoven would be better.

Ulric nudged Esmund's shoulder, jolting him rather violently back to the present as he hissed in his ear, "You're humming that damn tune again."

"It adds to the moment, don't you think?"

Due to a thin scar from the right corner of his lips up to his right earlobe, Ulric's mouth appeared to be in a permanent smirk, forever at odds with his annoyed tone. "I'll add you to the moment if you don't quit it. They will hear you, and our plan will be ruined."

Esmund stopped humming, "But, you must admit it made you feel just a trifle more daring than before."

Ulric quirked a brow, "I don't have to admit anything." He crouched low and crept over to a thick stand of trees, taking up his position near the McCreedy's camp.

Esmund glanced around once more, still surprised there wasn't a scout keeping guard over the group while they slept. Either the outlaws were idiots or confident they were out of harm's way, in which case they were idiots squared.

Darkness surrounded them in a thick cloak, not even allowing the moonlight to pierce through the tree branches overhead, but because he was a Berserker, he could see in shades of gray as clearly as though it were daylight.

If he had to make a list of all the attributes he loved about being a Berserker, night vision would be at the top—among possessing the strength of twelve men, phenomenal hearing, and being impervious to bullets, sharp objects, or fire, of course.

To be honest, he loved everything about what he was and couldn't imagine being any other way. The only thing missing was a loving woman to go home to at the end of the day, but dreams would have to suffice for now.

The snap of a twig to his right sounded as loud as a gunshot through the quiet night air, bringing adrenaline rushing through his veins at a breathtaking speed. He kept an eye on the slumbering group of men and waited for the cause of the noise to step into view. Despite being a Berserker, Esmund didn't think of himself as a violent man, but he did enjoy a good fight when it pertained to doing his job.

Disappointment filled him the second Elsie stepped from the darker shadows, and the rush of excitement receded. She gasped when she met his gaze and shrank away, sliding once more behind the nearest tree and out of view.

To anyone who didn't know any better, she appeared to be nothing more than an ordinary, unspectacular, if not a rather dull woman who fancied the color brown. Her dress was the same unusual brown as her hair, and due to her eyes appearing too large for her face, it was easy to see they also matched the awful brown of her dress.