Apache Summer

Apache summer

by

Author unknown

Chapter One.

Western Texas, 1870 ~ ~ Look, Lieutenant! Fire, rising high to our

left!" Jamie Slater reined in his roan stallion. With penetrating

silver-gray eyes he stared east, where Sergeant Monahah was pointing.

Across the sand and the sagebrush and the dry dunes, smoke could indeed

be seen, billowing up in black and gray bursts. Tendrils of flame, like

undulating red ribbons, waved through the growing wall of smoke.

"Injuns!" Monahan breathed.

To Jamie's fight, Jon Red Feather stiffened. Jamie turned toward him.

The half-breed Blackfoot was a long way from home, but he was still one

of the best Indian scouts around. He was a tall, striking man with

green-gold eyes and strong, arresting features. Thanks to a wealthy

white grandfather, Jon Red Feather had received a remarkable education,

going as far as Oxford in England.

Jamie knew that Jon resented the ready assumption that trouble meant

Indians, even though he admitted readily to Jamie that trouble was

coming, big trouble. The Apache hated the white man, the Comanche

despised him, and Jamie was convinced that the great Sioux Nation was

destined to fight in a big way for all the land that had been grabbed by

the hungry settlers.

Through Jon, Jamie had come to know the Comanche well. He didn't make

the mistake of considering the Comanche to be docile, but, on the other

hand, he'd never known a Comanche to lie or to give him any double-talk.

"Let's see what's going on," Jamie said quietly. He rose high in his

saddle and looked over the line of forty-two men presently under his

command.

"Forward, Sergeant. We ride east. And by the look of things, we'd best

hurry."

Sergeant Monahah repeated his order, calling out harshly and demanding

haste.

Jamie flicked his reins against the roan's shoulders, and the animal

took flight with grace and ease. His name was Lucifer, and it fitted the

animal well. He was wild--and remarkable.

That was one thing about the U. S. Cavalry, Jamie reckoned as they raced

toward the slope of the dune that led to the rise of smoke. They offered

a man good horses. He hadn't had that pleasure in the Confederate

cavalry.

When the Confederacy had been slowly beaten into her grave, there hadn't

been many mounts left. But the war had been over for almost five years

now.

Jamie was wearing a blue uniform, the same type he'd spent years of his

life shooting at. No one, least of all his brothers, had believed he

would last a day in the U. S. Cavalry, not after the war.

But they had been wrong. Many of the men he was serving with hadn't even

been in the war, and frankly, he understood soldiers a whole lot better

than he did politicians and carpetbaggers.

And he had liked the life in the saddle on the plains, dealing with the

Indians, far better than he had liked to see what had become of the

South.

This was western Texas, and the reprisals from the war weren't what they

were in the eastern Deep South. Everywhere in the cities and towns were

the men in tattered gray, many missing limbs, hobbling along on

crutches. Homeless and beaten, they had been forced to surrender on the

fields, then they had been forced to surrender to things that they

hadn't even understood.

Taxes forced upon them. Yankee puppets in place where local sheriffs had

ruled. The war was horrible--even after it was over.

There were good Yanks, and Jamie had always known it. He didn't blame

good men for the things that were happening in the South--he blamed the

riffraff, the carpetbag- gets. He liked his job because he honestly

liked a number of the Comanche and the other Indians he dealt with--they

still behaved with some sense of honor. He couldn't say that for the

carpetbaggers.

Still, he never deceived himself. The Indians were savage fighters; in

their attacks, they were often merc'fless.

But as Jamie felt the power of the handsome roan surge beneath him as he

raced the animal toward the rise of fire and smoke, he knew that his

days with the cavalry were nearing an end. For a while, he had needed

the time to get over the war. Maybe he'd needed to keep fighting for a

while just to learn how not to fight. But he'd been a rancher before the

war had begun.

And he was beginning to feel the need for land again. Good land, rich

land.

A place where a man could raise cattle in wide open spaces, where he

could ride his own property for acres and acres and not see any fences.

He imagined a house, a two-story house, with a great big parlor and a

good-sized kitchen with huge fireplaces in each to warm away the

winter's chill. Maybe it was just time for his wandering days to be

over.

"Sweet Jesus!" Sergeant Monahah gasped, reining in beside Jamie as they

came to the top of the rise of land.

Jamie silently echoed the thought as he looked down upon the carnage.

The remnants of a wagon train remained below them. Men had attempted to

pull the wagons into a defensive circle, but apparently the attack had

come too swiftly. Bodies lay strewn around on the ground. The canvas and

wood of the wagons still smoldered and smoked, and where the canvas

covers had not burned, several leathered arrows still mmained.

Comanche, Jamie thought. He'd heard that things were heating up.

Seemed like little disputes would eventually cause a whole-scale war.

Monahah had told him he'd heard a rumor about some whites tearing up a

small Indian village.

Maybe this was done in revenge. "Damnation!" Sergeant Monahah breathed.

"Let's go," Jamie said.

He started down the cliff and rocks toward the plain on which the wagon

train had been attacked. It was dry as tinder, sagebrush blowing around,

an occasional cactus protruding from the dirt. He hoped there was no

powder or ammunition in the wagons to explode, then he wondered what it

would matter once he and his men looked for survivors.

The Indians had struck sure and fast, then disappeared somewhere into

the plain, up the cliffs and rock. L'like the fog wisping away, they had

disappeared, and they had left the death and bloodshed behind them.

"Cimle carefully!" he advised his men.

"A half-dead Comanche is a mean one, remember?"

Riding behind him, Jon Red Feather was silent. Their horses snorted and

heaved as they slowly came down the last of the slope, trying to dig in

for solid footing. Then they hit the plain, and Jamie spurred his horse

to race around and encircle the wagons. There were only five of them.

Poor bastards never had a chance, he thought. He reckoned that someone

had been bringing some cattle north, since there was at least a score of

dead calves lying glass-eyed and bloody along with the human corpses.

There was definitely no one around. And there was not a single Indian

left behind, not a dead one, or a half-dead one, or any other kind of a

one.

He dismounted before the corpse of an old man. There was an arrow shaft

protruding from his back.

Jamie touched the man's shoulder, turning him over. He swallowed hard.

The man had been scalped, and a sloppy job had been done of it. Blood

poured down his forehead, still sticky, still warm.

It hadn't happened more than a half hour ago. If they had headed back

just a lousy thirty minutes earlier, they might have stopped this

carnage.

His men had dismounted too, he realized. At a command from Sergeant

Monahan, they were doing the same as he, searching through the downed

men for any survivors. Jamie shook his head, standing. Hell. He had just

been to see the local Comanche chief. Running River was the peace chief,

not the war chief, of the village, but the white men and Running River's

people had been doing just fine together for years now.

Jamie liked Running River. And though he had never kidded himself that

any Comanche couldn't be warlike when provoked, he couldn't begin to

imagine what in hell would have provoked an attack like this one. If the

Indians were hungry, they would have stolen the calves, not slaughtered

them.

Jon Red Feather was next to him, investigating the body. "No Comanche

did this," he said.

Jamie frowned at him.

"Then what do you think? A band of Cheyenne?

Maybe a wandering tribe of Minutes. We're too far south for it to be the

Sioux"--" I promise you, Lieutenant, no self-respecting Sioux would ever

do such a careless job. And the Comanche are warriors, too. They learn

from an early age how to lift the hair."

"Then what?" Jamie demanded impatiently. His blood run cold as he

realized that Jon was insinuating that it hadn't been Indians who had

made this heinous attack. It wasn't possible, he told himself. No white

man could have killed and mutilated his own kind so savagely.

"Hey, Lieutenant!" Charlie Forbes called to him. Jamie swung around.

Forbes was on the ground beside one of the dead men, an old-timer with

silver-gray whiskers. "What is it, Charlie?"

"Looks like this one was hit by an arrow, tried to rise and got shot

with a bullet, right in the heart."

He could feel Jon standing behind him. Jamie adjusted his plumed hat and

twisted his jaw.

"Don't try to tell me the Comanche don't have rifles."

"Hell, I'm not going to tell you that. They get them from the

Comancberos--the Comancheros will sell rifles to anyone.

Of course, you've got to bear in mind that the Comancheros do buy them

from your people."

Jamie didn't say anything. He stepped past Jon and stared at the one

wagon that seemed to have had little damage done to it. He thought he

heard something.

He had to be imagining things. The job here had been very thorough.

Still, he watched the wagon as he straightened his back, trying to get

out all the little cricks and pains. He felt queasy about this thing.

And he hadn't felt queasy about anything in quite some time.

He'd grown up on bloodshed. Before he had been twenty, his sister-in-law

had been slain by Kansas jay hawkers Then war had been declared, and

though he had fought in a decent regiment under the command of John Hunt

Morgan, he had never been able to escape the horror of the border war.

From his brother Cole he had learned that the Missouri bushwhackers

could behave every bit as monstrously as the jay hawkers

And a Southern boy called Little Archie Clements had gone around doing a

fair bit of scalping in his day. He and his men had stripped down men in

blue and shot them without thought, and when they'd finished with the

killing they'd gone on to scalping.

He had no right to think that the Indians were any more vicious than the

white men. No right at all.

He exhaled slowly. Knowing that the Southern bushwhackers had been every

bit as bad as the Northern jay hawkers was one of the reasons he was

able to wear this uniform now. A blue cavalry uniform, decorated in blue

trim, with a cavalry officer's sword at his side. He didn't carry a

military-issue rifle, though. Through four years of civil conflict he

had worn his Colts, and he wore them to this day.

His eyes narrowed suddenly. He could have sworn that something in the

wagon had moved.

He glanced over his shoulder. Jon was behind him. Jon nodded, aware

instantly of Jamie's suspicions. He circled around while Jamie headed

straight for the opening at the rear.

He looked in. For a second he could see only shadows in the dim light.

Then things took form. There were two bunks in the wagon. Ironically,

they were neat and all made up-- with the sheets tucked in, the blankets

folded back at an inviting angle and the pillows plumped up. Beyond the

bunks were trunks and boxes. ~Everything seemed to be in perfect order.

But it wasn't. He felt just a flicker of movement again. He didn't know

if he really saw it or if he felt it, but all his senses were on edge.

He hadn't worked in Indian country and spent all this time with Jon Red

Feather not to have learned something of his senses. There was someone

near. He could feel it in his gut, and he could feel it at the nape of

his neck, and he could feel it all the way down his spine. Someone was

very near.

"Come on out of there," he said softly.

"Come on, now. We don't want to hurt anyone here, we just want you to

come on ont."

The movement had ceased.

Jon was moving up toward the front of the wagon. The horses, still

smelling smoke, whinnied and nickered nervously.

Jamie leaped to the floor of the wagon.

His eyes flickered to the left bunk. There was a long, soft white gown

lain out by the side. It was sleeveless, lowbodiced and lacy, a woman's

nightgown, he thought. And a pretty piece for the dustiness of the road.

It did belong with the perfectly made and inviting beds, but it didn't

really belong on a wagon train. Was she alive? Had she been some young

man's bride? He hadn't seen a woman's corpse, not yet, but then his men

were still moving among the bodies.

"Is anyone in here?" he said, moving past the bunks. There were boxes

and trunks everywhere. There was a coffeepot, cast down as if someone

had been about to use it. There was a frying pan in the middle of the

floor, too. He paused, crouching on the balls of his feet, looking at

the floor.

Coffee was spilled everywhere.

"Come on out now," he said softly.

"It's all right, come on out."

He kept moving inward. The shadows in the wagon made it difficult to

see.

There seemed to be a swirl of soft mauve taffeta, fringed in black lace,

set in a heap before him. He reached down carefully, hoping he hadn't

come upon another corpse.

He touched a body. He touched warmth. He moved his hand, and it was

filled with fullness and living warmth.

Instinctively his fingers curled over the full, firm ripeness of a

woman's breast. He could feel the shape and weight and the tautness of

the nipple with his palm right through the taffeta.

She was warm, but very still. Sweet Jesus, let her be alive, he thought,

still stunned by the contact his fingers had made.

She was alive. Beyond a doubt, she was alive. She burst from her hiding

place with a wicked scream of terror and fury. Startled, he moved back.

He had been prepared for danger, for a wounded Comanche, but when he had

touched the softness and striking femininity of her form, he had relaxed

his guard.

Foolish move.

He backed away, but she screamed again, high and shrill and desperate, a

sound like that of a wounded animal. He started to reach for his Colt,

but his hand fell quickly as he reminded himself that it was just a

woman. A small, delicate woman.

"Ma'am" -- She cast herself upon him with a vengeance, pitting her body

against his with a startling ferocity and strength.

"Hey" -- he began, but she didn't heed him. She slammed her foot against

his leg and brought a fist flailing down upon his shoulder, trying to

throw him off balance. He braced himself as she slammed against him, but

still she brought them both down~ upon the floor.

"Hey! Damn, stop!" he yelled, aware of her fragile size, her wild mane

of honey-colored hair. Nor could he forget the full feel of her breast

within his hand. She was exquisite. He had to be gentle.

Her foot slammed against his shin again. She thrashed with the fury of

ten Comanche. Her flailing fist caught his jaw so hard that his teeth

rattled.

Gentle. hell!

She was a monster. There was no way in hell a man could possibly be

gentle and survive. Gritting his teeth harshly he caught her wrists,

trying not to hold them in a painful vise. She screamed again

incoherently, freeing her hands to grope on the bunk. He should have

held her in a vise! There was just no being nice here. She was like

wildfire atop him, raging out of control. He saw a smile of triumph

light her features as her fingers curved around something, and she

lifted it high.

"Whoa, wait a minute, ma'am" -- he began, seeing that she held a

long-bladed and lethally sharp bowie knife.

Damn! She was going from fists to steel.

"Lady, I'm warning you, stop?"

She didn't pay the least bit of attention to him. Rather, she fought on

with desperation, drawing up her arm again, preparing to slash the blade

across his throat. Jamie swung out, catching her by the middle, his

hands resting beneath the swell of her breasts. He cast her far away

from him and struggled to his feet.

"I'm the cavalry!" he snapped out.

"Damn it, I'm the good guy."

She didn't seem to hear him, or really even see him. Her huge,

violet-blue eyes were glazed, he saw, and she barely blinked at his

words. She certainly didn't seem to understand them.

She screamed again and flew at him. The blade slashed the air

uncomfortably close to his windpipe. He clamped down grimly on his jaw

and caught her arm with a stunning blow, sending the blade flying out of

the wagon. She gasped, but when he lunged for her, she was ready to

fight again, her nails gouging for his eyes. He swore again, capturing

her wrists and falling down hard with her upon the floor of the wagon.

Struggling to hold her still, he looked up to see that Jon Red Feather

was looking in from the driver's seat of the wagon.

"I could have used some help here, you know!" he thundered.

Red Feather grinned.

"You--against one little honey- haired girl?

Honestly, Lieutenant."

She was no little girl. Lying atop her, Jamie was very aware of that.

She was small and slight, but the sweet, provocative fullness of her

breasts was now crushed lushly against his cavalry jacket, reminding him

that it had been some time since he'd last been to Maybelle's House of

Gentlemanly Leisure Pursuits. She fought him still, writhing like a

wildcat, and with every twist and turn of her body, he realized more

fully just how grown up the woman was, how evocatively mature. She

stared at him with death- defying hatred, and as he gazed at her, she

lunged against him again, trying to bite his shoulder.

"For the love of God!" he snapped, rolling with her to retain his hold

without bringing bodily injury to her or losing a hunk of flesh himself.

She freed one wrist from his grasp and began tearing at him again. Their

momentum was taking them closer and closer to the rear of the wagon, and

then suddenly they were outside it, plunging down to the dirt together.

She shrieked, and he realized then that she was fighting to free herself

from his hold rather than fighting to harm him. But he wasn't about to

let her go. She was too unpredictable.

Their limbs entangled, and her petticoats rode around them. He could

feel the slender length of her legs, warm and alive, scantily clad in

pantalets, against his own.

She reached up to strike him again, and he caught her hand with a

serious fury as his patience snapped.

"Enough!"

He drew her hands high over her head and straddled her hips, pinning her

down at last. Her hair lay spread out over the dirt in a majestic fan

while the Texas sand smudged her beautiful features. She gasped

desperately for breath, her breasts rising and falling with her effort.

She was down, subdued at last. He released her wrists, remaining

straddled upon her, careful to maintain his own weight. "It's all right"

-- he tried to tell her, but to no avail. She tried to twist, lashing

out, clawing for his face.

She caught his chin and drew blood.

"Woman, no morel" he shouted. His hand raised high and with

determination, and he caught himself fight before he could slap her in

return. He saw her eyes close tightly in expectation of the blow, but it

did not fall. He held her tight, trying to check his temper, staring at

her hard. Then he caught her arms and dragged them high above her head,

leaning close and hard against her. His anger faded at. last as he saw

her eyes go damp with tears she fought to control.

She was hysterical, he realized, and yet she had really come at him with

an attempt to kill.

She shuddered and gasped, and a trembling rippled through the entire

length of her body. Still, he could not trust her to release her.

"We're the damned cavalry!" he repeated.

"Listen to me! No one is going to hurt you. The Indians are gone. We're

the cavalry. We want to help you. You do speak English, don't you?"

"Yes!" she snapped furiously, and the trembling ceased. "Yes, yes, I

understand you!" Her eyes beheld him, then glazed over again.

"Bastard!" she hissed to him, "Murdering, despicable bastard."

"Murdering bastard? I'm trying to help you."

"I don't believe you!"

Startled by her words, Jamie fell silent. Her eyes remained locked with

his, the tears she would not shed highlighting the deep blue color. Her

hair fell in tangled streams around them both, like a pool of sunlight

just before twilight fell. Watching her, he nearly forgot why he

straddled her.

She didn't believe him. He had come to rescue her from the Comanche, and

she didn't believe him.

"Listen, now, lady, I am with the cavalry--these men, all of us, we're

with the United States Cavalry" -- "Your uniform doesn't mean anything!"

"Lady, you are crazy!" That was it, she had lost her mind. She had

watched the savage attack and she had retreated into some fantasy world

of fear.

"You're all right now, or you will be if you quit trying to hurt me."

"Hurt you! Oh!"

"The Indians are gone" -- "There never were any Indians!"

"No Indians?"

"They dressed like Indians, but they weren't Indians. And you were

probably in on it! The law is corrupt, why not the cavalry?"

"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Lieutenant Slater out

of Fort Vickers, and we've just stumbled upon your present difficulty."

She blinked, and her gaze went guarded. He still held her locked beneath

him. His men were coming near, alerted by the commotion.

She gazed around her, past his head, and it seemed that she slowly

realized that they really were a cavalry company.

Everyone was staring at her with silence, with sympathy. She looked at

Jamie, and a slow flush spread into her features. They were now both

painfully aware of the way their bodies came together. Her legs and hips

burned against his, bare beneath the thin cotton shield of her

pantalets.

She wore no corset, he knew that very well, and her breasts seemed to

swell, as if with realization of their intimate contact against his

chest. She touched her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and even

that seemed an intimate gesture. She squirmed beneath him, but he wasn't

about to give her any quarter. He had tried to be as gentle as possible

and he was bleeding as if he had been gouged by a mountain cat because

of it. A drop of blood from his chin fell upon her bodice even as he

thought that he should show her some mercy.

"Lieutenant, let me" -- "What's your name?"

"If you would just" -- "What's your name?"

Her eyes flashed with a silver-blue annoyance as she realized that he

was going to hold her until he chose to let her go.

"Tess," she snapped.

"It's Tess."

"Tess what?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Tess Stuart."

"Where were you going and where were you headed f~om?"

"Wiltshire. We were bringing some cattle and a printing press. We were

heading home from a small town called Dunedin, nearly a ghost town now.

That's why we bought the printing press. They didn't need it anymore."

"You said we. Who were you riding with?"

"My" -- She hesitated just a moment, her lashes rising and falling

swiftly.

Tears burned behind her eyelids. She must know that everyone was dead.

She wasn't going to shed those tears. Not in front of him. "My uncle and

I. We were heading home to Wiltshire."

He eased himself up a little. He saw her swallow as his thighs tightened

against her hip, then she lifted her chin, determined to ignore him,

determined to be as cool as if they were discussing the matter over tea

in a handsome parlor.

She had inestimable courage. No matter how she was beaten, she would

never surrender but would fight it out until the very end. It was there

in her eyes. All the silver-blue fire a man could imagine. She was

either a complete fool or one of the most extraordinary women he had

ever met.

Despite her warm honey spill of hair, her large, luminous eyes and her

perfect fragile features, she had a spine of steel.

Courage could kill out here in the West. That, he told himself, was why

he held to her so tightly. She needed to learn that she could be beaten.

"You're lucky as hell that the Indians didn't see you, you know," he

told her hoarsely.

She lifted her chin.

"I told you--they weren't Indians."

"Who were they?"

"Von Heusen's men."

"And who the hell is yon Heusen?" He was startled when he heard a

curious rumble in someone's throat behind him.

Still holding her, he whirled around. He looked at the faces of the

young men in his company.

"Well? Does someone want to answer me?"

It was Jon Red Feather who drawled out a reply. "Richard von Heusen.

Calls himself a rancher sometimes, an entrepreneur at others. You never

heard of him, Lieutenant?"

"No, I never heard of him."

"You spend all your time on Indian affairs, Lieutenant," Jon said.

"You've been missing out on the shape of things down here."

It was true, Jamie thought. He hadn't wanted to know a lot about the

ranchers. He didn't want to se~ the carpetbaggers, or talk to them.

"You're telling me a guy named von Heusen did this?" he said to Jon.

Jon shrugged.

"I can't tell you that."

"I can tell you that he owns a hell of a lot of Texas," Monaban said

softly.

"It's a good thing it's a big state, else he might own a good half of

it."

Jamie looked curiously at the girl. Tess. Her eyes were upon him as she

watched him in silence, scathingly. Then she hissed with all the venom

of a snake.

"He's a carpet- bag get Yank. You ever heard tell about the

carpetbaggers down here? They're vultures. They came down upon a

defeated and struggling South, and they just kicked the hell out of us.

Bought up land the Southern boys couldn't pay their taxes on 'cause the

Union didn't want any Confederate currency. Well, Lieutenant, von Heusen

bought up Wiltshire."

"You're trying to tell me that a Yankee named von Heusen came out here

and shot your wagon train full of arrows?

In broad daylight, just like that?"

" No, not just like that," she retorted.

"And I doubt that he came out here himself. He had his men all greased

down and painted up like Comanche, just in case someone didn't die."

"So you did see Comanche attack the wagon."

"No. That's not what I'm telling you at all. I'm no fool, Lieutenant.

I was born and bred out here and I know a Comanche when I see one. And I

know a fraud when I see it, too."

"You're saying a group of white men came out here and did this to theft

own kind?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, how wonderfully perceptive of you. Why, you must have

studied at West Point! That's exactly what I'm telling you." Her lashes

flicked again.

"Von Heusen masterminded this whole thing. You need to arrest him,

Lieutenant. Arrest him for murder." "You said yourself, yon Heusen

himself probably wasn't even here."

Her eyes widened, her fury seemed to deepen, but she kept her voice low

and controlled.

"You're not going to arrest him?"

"I'm not a sheriff to begin with, Miss. Stuart. And if I were, I'd have

to have some kind of proof."

"I'm your proof!"

"It would be your word against his!"

"He wanted our land!"

"Lots of men try to buy land. It doesn't make them murderers I ' She

looked as if she wanted to scream, or at least gouge out another pound

of his flesh.

"You're a fool!"

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," he retorted.

She gritted her teeth. Tears stung her eyes again.

"Get the hell off me."

He realized he was still lying against her, still holding her down.

She wasn't trying to kill him anymore. She just looked as if she wanted

to escape him, the touch of him, the sight of him.

"I can't go bringing in a man for something without some kind of proof!"

he told her furiously.

"And not at the word of a half-crazed girl."

"Oh!" She raked out at him again. He caught her hand, then he rose to

his feet, dragging her up with him. His jaw twisted hard against the

loathing he saw in her eyes. "Lady" -- "Lieutenant!" Charlie called to

him, walking around from the field of corpses.

"Shall I start a burial detail?"

She was staring past Charlie, staring at the white-haired man who had

been hit by the arrow then shot through the heart.

"Oh, God!" she gasped. She stumbled forward, trying to reach the corpse.

The blood fled from her face, and her beautiful features became as ashen

as the smoke-charred sky. She paused suddenly, unable to go any farther.

"Oh, no, oh, God. Uncle Joe," she whispered, reaching out a hand.

She did not take another step. Even as she reached out, she was falling.

Her lashes fluttered over her beautiful eyes, and she began to sink

toward the ground. Instinctively, Jamie rushed forward. He caught her as

she fell, sweeping her into his arms. She was as cold as death itself,

and remained every bit as pale as he stared down at her.

There was silence all around him. His men looked on. "Charlie, yes!

For God's sake, yes! Get a damned burial detail going, and get it going

quickly!" The men turned around, hustling into action.

And Jamie stared at the girl, wondering just what in hell he was going

to do with her. He needed to set her down, to let her lie somewhere. She

was a slight burden, weighing practically nothing, or so it seemed.

Yet she was a burden. A definite burden.

He hurried toward her wagon, maneuvered up to the floor of it and laid

her on the bed. He meant to turn around and leave her and call for the

company surgeon, but for some reason he paused and found himself

smoothing out her sun and-honey hair and brushing her cheek with his

knuckles. He felt a sensation down his back and looked up quickly.

Jon Red Feather was just below him, looking into the wagon.

"She's still out cold."

I'll call Captain Peters. He doesn't have much hope, but he's still

checking to see if there is any breath remaining in any of the bodies."

"Maybe she's better off being out for a while anyway," Jamie said

softly.

"Yeah, maybe." Jon hesitated.

"What are we going to do with her?"

"Take her back to the fort. Then someone can escort her on home."

Jon nodded. He smiled suddenly.

"Someone, fight?"

"Yeah, that's fight. Someone."

"She's your responsibility," Jon said.

"Your burden-- she fell into your arms."

"What? She's a burden I've just set down, Jon." Jon shook his head.

"I don't think so. I don't think so at all. I think that you've taken

something upon yourself, Jamie, and I don't think that you can ever

really let it go."

Jamie arched a brow.

"Yeah? Well, I don't believe you, Jon, and I don't believe her. This yon

Heusen may be a carpetbagging monster, but I don't believe he can be

guilty of this."

"You're just going to have to find out, aren't you?"

"That's not my job, Jon."

"That's not going to matter, is it?

"Cause you see, if the girl is right, then she's in danger. You're going

to have out the truth--or you'll be signing her death warrant."

"That's ridiculous, Jon."

"No, it's not. You really can't let her go."

"The hell I can't."

"Oh?" Jon arched a raven-dark brow.

"Is that so?" He inclined his head toward Jamie.

"Your fingers are still all tied up in her hair, Lieutenant. All tied

up.

Silken webs maybe, but seems to me that you're all tied up."

Jamie gazed at his hand. His fingers were still hovering over her hair.

It was truly the color of honey just kissed by the sun. Much deeper than

blond.

Too touched by light to be brunette.

Golden red.

He pulled his hand away and turned toward Jori with a denial. But Jon,

smiling serenely, had already turned away.

"Doe Peters should be free by now," he said quietly, then he was gone.

Jamie stared at the girl. Silken webs. He clenched down hard on his jaw

because Jori was right about one thing. Someone would have to discover

the truth about her accusations. He didn't believe them. He couldn't

believe them.

And yet. If they were true, to leave her alone in the town of Wiltshire

might very well be to sign her death warrant.

He swore softly and leaped from the wagon. His leg still hurt from where

she had kicked him, and his chin still ached. He could feel it bleeding.

Damn her. She was as quick as a sidewinder, as ornery as a mean bear. He

could still remember her fury. He paused, for he could remember more.

The alluring fullness of her breast beneath his fingers, the softness of

her hair, the warmth of her legs entangled with his. He clenched his

fists at his sides and unclenched them, knowing Jon was right, that he

was going to have to somehow stick beside her until he could find the

truth. She was a hostile little witch. And he already wanted her. Craved

her. Ached to touch her, feel more of her.

He swore softly, determined to behave like an officer and a Southern

gentleman and solve this dilemma with no more thought for his unwilling

companion.

Then he heard her. weeping, crying very, very softly as if she were

muffling the sound in her pillow. She had come back to consciousness,

and it seemed to be a bitter awakening. She cried and cried. He felt her

agony, felt it rip and tear into him, and it was terrible. The horror

of, it reached inside him and touched his heart as it had not been

touched in years.

He had thought his emotions were stripped away by war.

The girl's wrenching sobs brought them back. He started to turn, to go

to her. He stopped himself.

No. She would not want him.

He stiffened his shoulders and walked on.

Chapter Two.

By dusk, all the graves had been dug. By the light of lanterns and camp

fires, Reverend Thorne Dryer of Company B read services over the graves.

Tess Stuart stood near the reverend'. Her eyes were dry now, and she was

silent. Something about her very quietness touched Jamie deeply; she was

small, but so very straight, her shoulders square, her lustrous hair

hidden beneath a black hat and sweeping V 'll, her fornl encompassed in

a handsome black dress with gray pearl buttons on the sleeves and at the

throat. Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes. The reverend

called on God to claim His own, to show mercy upon their souls, to give

solace to those who remained behind.

Tess stepped forward to drop a single flower on her cle's grave. She was

still silent, and not a tear marred the perfect and tragic beauty of her

face.

Then she swung around and headed for her wagon. Jamie didn't mean to

follow her, he just discovered that he was doing so. She sensed him just

before she reached the wagon and swung around.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Lieutenant, miss. Lieutenant Slater." "Whatever," she said coolly.

"What do you want?"

Hostile! he thought. More hostile than any full tribe of Indians he had

come across. She made him itch to set a hard hand against her behind,

but she had experienced great pain today. He was a fool to have followed

her.

He should let her be. He didn't want her as a burden, and she didn't

want him as her protector. If she needed a protector. "Miss. Stuart, I

just came by to offer my condolences. To see if you were all right, if

you might need anything for the night."

"I'm just fine, Lieutenant." She hesitated.

"Thank you." She whirled around in her black skirt, then crawled into

the wagon. Jamie clenched his hands tight at his sides and returned to

the group. The funeral was just about over. Jon and Monahen and a few of

the others were stamping down the last of the dirt and erecting wooden

crosses over the graves.

The crosses wouldn't stay long. The wind would take them, the dust would

wear them away, and in time animals then men would tramp upon them. The

West was like that. A man lived and died, and little but bones could be

left behind.

Bones and dreams.

"I ordered the men to set up camp, Lieutenant, just like you said,"

Monahan told him.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"Is that all, Lieutenant?"

"No. Split them even, Monahan. Half can sleep while the second half stay

on guard. Just in cas~."

"In case the Injuns come back," Monahah said. "In case of anything.

This is the cavalry, Sergeant!"

"Yes, sir!"

Monahan saluted sharply. He shouted orders, his voice loud in the night.

The men at the graves hurried after Monahan as he started toward the

fires where the others were already setting up camp. As Jamie watched,

he saw his men melt into the rocks and crevices around them. They were a

crack troop.

They had campaigned through the most rugged Indian territory in the West

and they had all learned 27 their lessons well. They could walk as

silently as any brave, shoot with the same deadly accuracy and engage in

lethal knife play with ease.

It hadn't been easy for Jamie, not at first. Some of the men had

resented the Rebel who had won his promotions so easily. Some hadn't

thought a Reb ought to be given a gun, and many had had their doubts

about Jamie in Indian country. He had been forced to prove his way at

every step, in battle or in negotiations. They'd met up with a tribe of

warring Apache once near the border, and he had shown them something of

his mettle with his Colts as the battle had begun. Later he found out

there had been some whispering about all the Slater brothers, and how

deadly he and Cole and Malachi had been during the war. Overnight, it

seemed, his reputation had become legendary.

He smiled in the darkness. It had been worth it. He had gained a loyal

following, and good men. Nothing would come slipping through his lines

tonight. He could rest with If he could rest at all.

Despite himself he felt his eyes drawn toward the wagon that stood just

outside the circle of small cavalry-issue Aframe tents.

"What a burden," Jon said quietly from behind. Jamie swung around,

arching a brow. Jori wasn't the usual subordinate, nor did Jamie expect

him to be.

"Why don't you quit making the comments and start telling me something

about this von Heusen fellow."

"You really interested?" Jon asked.

"Try me. Come on. We'll get some coffee and take a walk up by the

ridge."

Monahan gave them coffee from a tin pot at the fire, then the two men

wandered up the ridge. Jamie found a seat on a flat rock and rested his

boots on another. Jon stood, watching the expanse of the prairie. By the

soft light of the moon, it was a beautiful place, the mountains rising

like shadows in the distance, the sage rolling in ghostly fashion and

the camp fires and stars just lighting up the darkness around them.

"She's telling the truth," Jon said.

"How can you know?" Jamie demanded.

Jon shrugged, scuffed his boots against the earth and turned to hunker

down near Jamie.

"I know because I've heard of this man before. He wanted land further

north during the war. He was a cattle baron up there then, and he was

ordered by the government to provide members of the Oglala Sioux on

reservation land with meat. He gave them maggot-fiddled beef that he

wouldn't have fed to his own sows. The Indians formed a delegation to

speak with the man. He called it an Indian uprising and soon every

rancher in the area was at war with the Sioux. Hundreds, red and white,

died. Uselessly, senselessly. And von Heusen was never punished."

Jamie was quiet for a moment. He stared toward the remnants of the wagon

train.

"So he's got property now in Wiltshire. And he wants more. And he likes

to rile up the Indians. I still can't do anything, Jon. Even if I

believed Miss. Stuart, there wouldn't be anything I could do."

"Because you can't prove anything."

"Exactly. And no sane white man is going to believe it."

"That's too bad," Jori said after a moment.

"That's really too bad. I don't think Miss. Stuart can survive very

long."

"Come on, Jon, stop it! No matter how powerful this von Heusen is, he

can't just out-and-out murder the woman!

The whole town would be up in arms. He can't own the whole damned town!"

Jon shrugged.

"He owns the sheriff. And we both know that he doesn't have to

out-and-out murder the girl. There are ways."

"Damn!" Jamie stood up, dusting the dirt off the rump of his breeches

with his hat.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I told you. We're riding back to the fort" -- "And then?"

"Let's get there, eh?"

Jon stood.

"I just wanted you to know, Jamie, that if you decide to take some of

that time the government owes you, I'll go with you."

"I'm not taking any time."

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say, Slater." Jamie paused, grinning.

"Thanks, Red Feather. I appreciate it. But believe me, I'm sure I'm not

the escort Miss. Stuart has in mind."

Jon pulled his hat low over his eyes, grinning.

"Well, Jamie, me lad, we don't always know just exactly what it is that

we need, now, do we? Good night." Without waiting for a reply he walked

down the ridge.

Jamie stayed on the ridge a while longer, looking at the camp fires.

He'd stay up with the first group on watch; Monahan would stay up with

the second.

But even when he saw the guard change and the sergeant take his place

silently upon a high ridge, he discovered he couldn't sleep. The cot

didn't bother him--he had slept on much less comfortable beds--nor did

the night sounds, or even the nightmare memories of the day.

She bothered him. Knowing that she slept not far away. Or lay awake as

he did. Perhaps, in private, the tears streamed down her face.

Or perhaps she was silent still, done with the past, determined to think

of the future. She believed what she was saying to him. She believed

that the wagon train had been attacked by white men dressed up like

Indians. She wouldn't let it rest.

He groaned and pulled his pillow over his head. It wasn't exactly as if

she was asking for his help. She'd made it clear she didn't even want to

hear his voice. He owed her nothing, he owed the situation nothing.

Yes, he did.

He owed the people who had died here today, and he owed the Comanche,

who were going to be blamed for this.

And he owed all the people who would die in the bloody wars to follow if

something wasn't proven one way or the other.

Still, he didn't sleep. He lay awake and he wondered about the woman

with the sun-honey hair who lay not a hundred yards away in the

canvas-covered wagon.

Sometime during the night Tess slept, but long before dawn she was wide

awake again, reliving every moment of what had happened. Her grief and

rage were so deep that she wanted to scream aloud, but screaming again

would do no good, and she had already cried until she felt that her

tears were a river that had run as dry as the plain with its sagebrush

and dust.

She cast her feet to the floor and stared across the darkened wagon to

the bunk where her Uncle Joseph should have been sleeping, where he

would sleep no more. Joe would lie out here in the plain for eternity,

and his body would become bone, and in the decades to come, no one would

really know that a brave and courageous man had died here fighting, even

if he'd barely had a chance to raise a weapon. Joe had never given in,

not once. He couldn't be intimidated. He had printed the truth in the

Wiltshire Sun, and he had held fast to everything that was his.

And he had died for it.

Tess pulled on her shoes and laced them high up her ankles, then

silently slipped from the wagon. The cavalry camp fires were burning

very low. Dawn couldn't be far away. Soldiers were sleeping in the

A-frame tents, she knew, and more soldiers were awake, on guard, one

with the rocks and cliffs that rose around the edge of the plain.

They were on guard--against Indians!

She clenched her jaw hard, glad of the anger, for it helped to temper

the grief. What kind of a fool did they think she was? Not they--him!

That Yank lieutenant with the deep, soft drawl.

The one she'd like to see staked out for the ants. Walking silently

through the night, she came upon the graves at last. She closed her eyes

and she meant to pray, but it wasn't prayers that came to her lips.

Goodbye, Joe, I loved you! I loved you so very much! I won't be able to

come back here, I'm sure, but you're the one who taught me how special

the soul was, and how little it had to do with the body.

Uncle Joe, you were really beautiful. For all that grizzled face of

yours and your broken nose, you were the most beautiful person I ever

knew. I won't let you have died for nothing, I swear it. I won't lose.

I'll keep the paper going, and I'll hold onto the land. I don't know how

I'll do it, but I will, I swear it, I promise. I promise, with all my

heart. Her thoughts trailed off and she turned around, uncannily aware

that she wasn't alone.

She wasn't.

The tall lieutenant with the wicked force to his arms was standing not

far behind her, silent in the night. In the haze of the coming morning,

he seemed to be a towering, implacable form. He wasn't a heavy man, but

she had discovered in her wild fight with him that his shoulders were

broad, that his arms and chest were well and tautly muscled, that he was

as lean and sleek and powerful as a puma, agile and quick. His eyes were

a most interesting shade of gray, remote, enigmatic, and yet she felt

their acuteness each time they fell upon her. She realized, in the late

shadows of night, that he was an arresting man. Handsome. but not

because of perfect features or any gentleness about him. His face was

ruggedly hewn, but with clean, strong lines. His jaw was firm and

square, his cheekbones were high, his eyes done, but he hadn't promised

her a lick of help in righting things. He didn't care.

The only people who cared were the citizens of Wiltshire, and there

weren't really all that many left. Even the sheriff was one of von

Hcusen's men, put into office during one of the shadiest elections

imaginable.

It was light, Tess realized. The daylight had come as they had stood

there, staring at one another. Against the pink of the sky, Lieutenant

Slater suddenly seemed a towering menace. A pulse beat at the base of

his throat as he watched her. His jaw seemed cast into a slight twist,

then locked as if it held back his temper. There was a good ten feet

between them, and still she felt his heat, body heat. Her heart was

beating too quickly, and something warm churned deep within her abdomen

while little touches of mercury seemed to dance along her back. She

needed to break away from him.

She despised his attitude; she couldn't help but spise him for the blue

uniform that reminded her so completely of the war.

He wore it well, his dark, plumed hat pulled low over his eyes, his

shoulders broad in the navy blue cavalry shirt, his legs long, his hips

trim. She had to walk past him. She swallowed hard and forced herself to

smile.

"If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant, I'm sure that you're anxious to ride

as quickly as possible." She started to walk. The closer she came to him

the harder her heart beat. She was almost past him.

Then his arm snaked out and he caught her elbow. Her heart slammed

against her chest as she looked into his smok~-gray eyes, s'zzzling into

hers beneath the sun. His eyes were still shadowed by the brim of his

hat.

"I am sorry, Miss. Stuart. I'm very sorry."

She wanted to speak. Her throat was dry. She felt his fingers upon her

as if they burned. She was acutely aware of the warmth and strength of

his body.

She stared at his hand upon her and pulled from his grasp. "Thank you,

Lieutenant," she managed to say, then she forgot her dignity and fled.

In an hour they were ready to start out. Lieutenant Slater ordered the

downed and useless wagons burned. He almost ordered her new printing

press burned, but Tess forgot all about a low-toned and well-modulated

voice and dignified behavior and came bursting from her wagon to demand

that the press be carried into something that was still capable of

rolling.

"What in hell is it?" the lieutenant demanded impatiently.

"A press! A printing press! I need it for the Wiltshire Sun!"

"Your uncle's newspaper? But he's--dead, Miss. Stuart."

"The Wiltshire Sun is not dead, Lieutenant, nor do I intend to let it

die.

I will not take a step without that printing press."

A spark of silver touched his eyes as they narrowed upon her.

"Don't threaten me, Miss. Stuart."

"I'm not threatening! I'm telling you what will and will not happen."

He took a step toward her and spoke very quietly.

"Miss. Stuart, you will move when I say so, ma'am, because I'll set you

upon your pretty little--er--rump within the wagon, and one of my men

will drive."

"You wouldn't dare! I'll tell your superiors" -- "You tell them anything

you want. Want to test me?"

She gritted her teeth and stared into his eyes.

"I need that press, Lieutenant."

He stood still, hard, cold, immobile. "Lieutenant, please! I need that

printing press! It would only take your men a few minutes. Please!"

For a moment he continued to stare at her. Then he turned around,

calling to Sergeant Monahan. The men were ordered to move the press into

one of the wagons that could still roll." Private Harper!" Slater

called.

"Hitch your horse to the rear and drive the extra wagon."

"Yes, sir!"

Tess exhaled slowly. Lieutenant Slater east her a hard glare, then

turned around. He strode away, calling for his men to see to the last of

the fires, then mount up. When he had gone, Tess realized that the

handsome Indian with the striking eyes was silently watching her. He

saluted with a smile, as if she had managed very well. Then he, too,

turned away.

Tess was certain it was a long day for the cavalry. The men were

accustomed. to moving quickly--now they were burdened down by the

wagons. The landscape was beautiful-- and monotonous. The land was a

constant pale, dusty brown, the little bit of color against it the dull

green of sage and cactus.

She was determined not to complain, but the dust soon covered her, and

after endless hours of driving the six mules that pulled her wagon, she

was exhausted. Her arms hurt in places where she hadn't realized she had

muscles. She could have said something, she was certain. The majority of

the young cavalry men were kind and solicitous, riding by her whenever

they could, asking her if she needed anything. But each time a man drove

by, she saw Lieutenant Slater in the distance beyond him, and so she

smiled sweetly and said that she was doing very well.

He had to stop. He had to stop sometime.

He finally called a halt when the sun began to fall into the horizon and

the whole world went pink again. He stayed away from her, but she knew

he was watching her. Was he judging her?

Trying to decide if she was crazy or if she was having female whimsies?

She had to keep a tight lid on her temper. No matter what he did or

said, she had to keep quiet. When she reached his fort she would speak

calmly and rationally with the commander, and she would make him

understand.

"Miss. Stuart!" Sergeant Monahah rode over to her, then dismounted from

his horse.

"Let me help me you down, miss. I'll see to your mules and the wagon."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I can really" -- She broke off, nearly falling as

he helped her from the wagon. He held her steady as her feet touched the

ground, and she smiled for him.

"Thank you again. I guess I do need some help."

"At your service."

She felt she was being watched. She looked over Monahan's shoulder and

there was Slater, still mounted on his huge horse, overseeing his men as

they broke their formation to make camp. He tipped his hat to her, and

she felt something run hot and liquid inside her. He was watching her in

Monahan's arms, and very likely acknowledging a feminine ability to draw

others to handle her own responsibilities.

Her temper started to soar.

Monahah stepped back, and his wide baby blue eyes were full of

gentleness and kindness and maybe just a bit of adoration.

He was a wonderful man, just like a great big shaggy bear. The devil to

Lieutenant Slater. If his men wanted to behave like gentlemen, she had

no intention of stopping them.

"Miss. Stuart, Lieutenant Slater rode this far because we know this

place. If you go just past that ridge yonder, there's the prettiest

little brook. It's mostly surrounded by dry rock, but the water runs

pure and clean. There's an area up there far from where we'll water the

horses. You can take a walk up there and find all the privacy you might

desire." "Thank you again, Sergeant," Tess said.

"I would dearly love a bath.

I'll take you up on your suggestion." She hurried to the back of the

wagon and found clean clothing, a bar of soap and a towel. When she

emerged again, Sergeant Monahah was unharnessing the mules. He pointed

toward the ridge.

She could see that some of the soldiers were headed in the other

direction.

She smiled again and hurried toward the ridge. She was puffing slightly

when she walked over it, but then she gasped with delight.

The brook was surrounded by boulders and high rocks, but there were

little tufts of grass growing between the rocks, and a few wildflowers

had managed to eke out an existence there. The evening was pink and gold

and very beautiful, and she could hear the sound of the water as it ran.

It looked so cool and delicious after the dry dust of the day.

She clambered down the rocks to a broad ledge, dropped her towel and

soap and clothing and sat down, hurriedly untying her shoes. Staring at

the clean, fresh water, she pulled her blouse from her skirt and quickly

shed it, then her skirt and shift and pantalcts and hose. She stepped

down the rock, so entranced by the water that she never once realized

she wasn't alone.

Barefoot and bare-chested, his cavalry trousers rolled above his ankles,

Jamie Slater sat in the shadow of a rock, swearing softly. His own bath

had just gone straight downhill. And he didn't mean to be a voyeur, but

she had stripped so damned quickly, and he'd been so darned surprised

that he had just stayed there.

Watching.

She was like a nymph, an angel cast out from the evils of the heat and

the plain. Her skin was alabaster, her breasts perfect. Her waist was

very trim, her derriere rich and lush and flaring out from that narrow

waist, and her legs were so long and shapely that they suggested the

most decadent dreams, the most sensual imaginings. Angel . vixen . her

hair streamed around her like the sunset, thick and cascading, falling

over her bare shoulders, curling around her breasts, haunting, teasing,

evocative.

He fell back, groaning slightly.

Tess didn't see him. She plunged into the water, amazed that she could

still draw such simple pleasure when the pain of. Joe's loss was still

so strongly with her. But she was still alive, and the water was so cool

and clean after the dust and filth of the plains. It came just to her

ankles at first, and there were little rocks and pebbles beneath her

feet, so she had to be careful walking. Then the water became deeper,

and she sank into it, stretching out, soaking her hair, floating,

shivering, delighted. The sun was still warm, the water almost cold, and

together they were marvelous. She swam around in the shallows, careful

not to hit her arms and legs on the pebbles, then found a smooth shelf

to stand on and scrubbed herself thoroughly with the soap, rising to

form rich suds, sinking beneath the surface again to rinse them away.

She scrubbed her hair, fee ring wonderful as she removed the dirt and

grime from her scalp. Finally she rose from the water. She paused,

ringing out her hair, then hut- fled to where she had left her things.

She picked up her towel and studiously rubbed herself dry, then sat upon

the ledge to dry her hair before donning her clean clothing.

She stretched, elosing her eyes and leaning against the rock, which was

still warm from the sun. The last of the dying rays touched her body,

and she elosed her eyes for a moment.

When she opened them, she nearly screamed, Lieutenant Slater was

standing above her. His shirt hung open over his chest, and he was

barefoot and grim.

She opened her mouth to protest. She was stark naked, and he was staring

down at her without the least apology. But when she opened her mouth, he

suddenly drew his gun and fired off several shots.

She'd never seen a gun move so fast or heard anything like the way the

Colt spit and fired in fury.

She didn't gasp; she didn't scream. She thought he had lost his mind,

but when she twisted to grasp her towel, she paused, stunned, staring at

the carcass of the dead moccasin that had been barely a foot away from

her.

She looked up at the lieutenant, unable to speak, unable to move. He had

saved her life, she realized. She had been completely unaware of the

snake that she had so carelessly disturbed.

He didn't say anything, just looked at her, his gray eyes sliding over

her body, and everywhere they touched her, she felt fire coursing

through her.

She felt her nipples harden, and she was horrified that they did so, but

still she didn't manage to say a word.

He slid his Colt into his hip holster and spoke at last. "You need to be

more careful about the rocks you choose, Miss. Stuart," he said.

She heard running footsteps. He quickly reached for her towel and handed

it to her. She clutched it to her breasts as a young private suddenly

appeared.

"Lieutenant! I heard the shots!"

"It's all right, Hardy. It was me. A snake. Nothing that could shoot

back."

The private was ~taring at them, wide-eyed. "That's all, Hardy."

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant."

The private saluted. Slater saluted in return. Then he tipped his hat to

her and turned around. Tess reddened to a dark crimson and watched as he

picked his way upstream. She saw his socks and boots on a flat boulder,

and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. He had been there all the

time.

She leaped to her feet and hurried into her fresh clean clothing with

shaking fingers. She could barely tie her pink ribboned corset, and she

had to do the buttons on her blouse twice.

She pulled on clean hose and her shoes and looked at the rock.

He was waiting. Waiting for her to leave. He sat on the ledge, his toes

in the water.

He looked up as if he felt her watching him.

"It's almost dark, Miss. Stuart, if you don't mind."

"If I don't mind! You--you sat there through my bath, Lieutenant!"

she sputtered.

"Lucky I did," he replied pleasantly.

She was alive. Maybe she was lucky. But that wasn't the point, and he

knew it.

He shrugged, rising, casting off his shirt.

"It really doesn't matter that much to me, Miss. Stuart. You're welcome

to stay. Maybe you'll even want to join me ... ?" She swung around,

furious.

He was ready to strip down with her standing right there. He'd sat and

stared at her while she had been completely naked, assuming she was

alone.

She'd given him a whole damned show in the water! Swearing softly, she

plodded away, anxious to quit the brook. She hurried to her wagon and

sat on the bunk, hugging her arms to her chest.

Damn him. Just remembering his eyes upon her made her breasts swell

again and her nipples harden to taut peaks.

When she closed her eyes it didn't help. She remembered the way that his

shirt had hung open over his chest, and the sandy dark hair that grew in

rich profusion there, the ripple of tight muscle on his abdomen, the

swell of it at his breast and shoulders.

"Miss. Stuart?" It was Sergeant Monahan. "Yes?" She almost shouted the

word.

He was at the rear of the wagon, smiling.

"Wasn't that just the prettiest little brook you've ever seen?"

"Absolutely beautiful," she said evenly. But it didn't

matter--apparently word of the shots had gotten out.

Another one of the men stepped behind Monahan, nodding respectfully to

her.

"Monahan! Hardy says she almost got it from a moccasin. Luckily the

lieutenant was near and blasted the thing to kingdom come. Ma'am, it is

the prettiest little brook around, but you be careful from here on out,

you hear?

You've become pretty important to all of us."

"Thank you, that's very kind," she murmured, but she knew that she was

blushing again. Everyone knew what had happened.

But they didn't really know. They didn't know what it had felt like when

his eyes had touched her naked flesh. "Rations aren't much, ma'am, but

one of the boys brought in a few trout. May I fix you a plate and bring

you some coffee?" Monaban asked her.

"Please," she agreed.

"That would be very nice." Monaban brought her a plate of food, the

other young man brought her coffee. She thanked them both. Then, as she

ate, it seemed that every man in the company came by to see how she was,

if she would like anything, if she needed anything, anything at all, for

the night.

She thanked them all, and when they left, and the darkness fell, and the

camp became silent, she smiled. They were Yanks, but a good group of

them. Maybe there was hope. She believed again. There were von Heusens

in the world, but there were others, too, good people. She just had to

keep fighting. She had to hold on to the ranch and she had to keep the

Wiltshire newspaper going.

"Miss. Stuart."

She started, feeling every nerve within her body come alive. She knew

the voice. Knew the deep tone, low and husky and somehow capable of

slipping beneath her skin. It was a sensual, sexy voice, and it awakened

things in her she was certain had died beneath the rifle fire of the

last years of the war, She inhaled quickly. If she was silent, he might

just walk away. He might believe that she slept and just walk away.

But he wouldn't. He knew she was awake. She sensed it, and she resented

him for his easy knowledge of her.

"Yes?" she asked crisply.

"I just wanted to make sure that you were all right."

"I'm fine, Lieutenant."

"Is there anything you need?"

"I want you to believe me, Lieutenant. And you're not offering me that."

He was silent. She hoped he would turn away, but she sensed he was

smiling.

"You didn't thank me. For saving your life."

"Ah, yes. Thank you for saving my life." She found herself crawling the

length of the bunk, then defying him over the rear edge of the wagon.

"Lieutenant?"

"yes?"

"Come closer, please."

He took a step nearer. Tess let her hand fly across his cheek. He

instantly caught her wrist, and she was glad of the surprised and

furious fire in his eyes as they caught hers. She kept smiling, even if

his fingers did seem to be a vise around her, even if the air seemed

charged with electricity. Even if she was just a little bit afraid that

he was going to drag her out of the wagon and down beneath him into the

dirt.

"I do thank you for saving my life, Lieutenant. But that was for the

ungentlemanly way in which you did so."

She pulled on her hand. He didn't let go. His eyes glittered silver in

the moonlight.

I'll try to remember, Miss. Stuart, that you are most particular about

the way a man goes about saving your life," he told her.

"You know exactly what I'm saying."

"I never meant to give you offense."

"Never?"

"I do swear so, Miss. Stuart. I kept my presence quiet because you were

as bare as a baby before I realized it. And then, well, I do admit, I

was caught rather speechless."

"You weren't speechless on the rock!"

He smiled slowly.

"No."

"Oh, you ... Yank!"

She tugged on her wrist again. He didn't release her at first, then his

fingers slowly unwound. He was smiling, she realized. And his eyes fell

over her again, and she felt as if he was burning the sight of her into

his memory. A flame shot high within her, and she didn't know if she was

horrified-or fascinated.

"Good night, Miss. Stuart," he said softly. Then he did walk away. She

didn't move, and after a moment he turned back.

"Miss. Stuart?"

"What?"

He hesitated.

"You're a very beautiful woman. Very beautiful."

He didn't wait for an answer. He walked away and disappeared into the

night.

Chapter Three.

Two days later, they reached the fort.

It was, Tess thought, a typical military fort in Indian country. The

walls of the stockade were high, maybe twenty-five feet high, and built

of dark sturdy logs. She heard the sound of a bugle while they were

still some distance from the fort, then the huge wooden gate swung open

to allow their party to enter. Looking up as they went into the

compound, Tess saw armed guards in their cavalry blue lined up on all

the catwalks and staring down at them.

She was grateful to have reached the fort. She was driving her mules,

swearing to them beneath her breath, and wondering if the calluses would

ever leave her fingers. She'd gotten them right through Uncle Joe's

heavy leather gloves.

She was sweaty, salty and sticky, and her hair was coming loose from the

neat braid she'd twisted at her nape. She had said that she could

manage--and Lieutenant Slater had let her do just that.

His men had continued to be very kind, and she had continued to smile

and be as gracious as she could in return. He had kept his distance

since he had left her that night, but she had felt his eyes on her.

Always. his eyes were on her. When she drove the wagon, she would

suddenly feel a warmth, and she would look around to discover that he

was no longer at the head of the column, but had ridden back and was

watching her. And at night, when. one of the men would bring her coffee

or food, he would stare across the distance of the camp fire. And by

night she heard footsteps, and she wondered if he wasn't walking by to

determine if she was sleeping. If she was safe.

Or did he walk by to discover if she might still be awake?

He infuriated her, but she was also glad, and she realized that she felt

safe. Not because she was surrounded by thirty or so cavalry men, but

because he was walking by, because he was near.

But now they had come to the fort. He would turn her over to his

commander and disappear from her life.

Someone would be assigned to see her to Wiltshire, and she need never

see him again. Never feel his eyes again, the touch of smoke gray and

insinuation that warmed everything within her and seemed to caress her

as if he saw her again as he had by the brook.

They were in front of the command post. Tess pulled hard on the reins,

dropped them and started to leap from the driver's seat. She smiled, for

Jon Red Feather was there to help her.

She had grown to like the man very much: his striking, sturdy

appearance, his silence and his carefully chosen words. And she sensed

that he believed her when others might not.

He set her upon the ground. She thanked him then looked at all the

confusion around her. Wives, children and perhaps lovers had spilled

from the various buildings in the compound to greet the returning men.

Monahah had called out an order dismissing them all, and the band was

quickly breaking up.

Lieutenant Slater was striding up the steps to the broad porch that

encircled the command post, saluting the tall, gray-haired man who

awaited him. Jon indicated the steps.

"Miss. Stuart, I believe the colonel will want a statement from you as

soon as possible. I'll see to your accommodations for the evening and

return shortly."

He walked her to the porch. Apparently Slater had already explained

something about her, for the colonel was quick to offer her a hand and

guide her up the steps.

"Miss. Stuart, our most sincere condolences on the loss of your uncle,

but may I say that we are heartily glad that you have survived to be

here today," "Thank you," Tess said. It was strange. It already seemed

like the whole thing had happened in the distant past. Days on the

plains could do that, she decided. And yet, when the colonel spoke so

solicitously of Uncle Joe, all the pain and the loneliness rushed back.

She tried to swallow them down. She needed to impress this man with

intelligence and determination, not a fit of tears. She didn't want to

be patted on the back. She wanted to be believed.

"Miss. Stuart, if you would be so good as to join us inside, the colonel

would like to speak with you," Slater said.

There was a startling light in his eyes as they touched her. Not

amusement, but something else. Almost a challenge. He wanted to see if

she would back down, she thought. Well, she wouldn't.

She walked past both men and into a large office with file cabinets and

a massive desk and a multitude of crude wooden chairs. Slater pulled out

a chair for her, and she sat down as regally as she could manage,

pulling off her rough leather gloves and letting them fall into her lap.

She felt Slater's eyes, and she looked up then looked quickly away.

He had seen the blisters and calluses on her hands. The colonel took his

seat behind the desk. He was an elderly man, whose gentle blue eyes

seemed to belie his position as a commander of such a post. His voice,

too, was gentle. Tess thought he was genuinely grateful to see her

alive, even if he had never met her before.

"Would you like coffee, Miss. Stuart? I'm afraid I've no tea to offer

you" -- "Coffee will be just fine, thank you," Tess said.

She hadn't realized that there was another man in the room unt'd a

s'dent young corporal stepped forward to bring her a tin mug of black

coffee. She thanked him and an awkward moment followed. Then the colonel

sat forward, folding his hands on the desk.

"Miss. Stuart, Lieutenant Slater informs me that you have claimed that

it was not Indians who set upon your band."

"That's right, sir."

"Then who?"

"White men. Hired guns for a man named yon Heusen. He is trying to take

my uncle's property and" -- "He'd have men attack a whole wagon train to

obtain your uncle's property? Think now, Miss. Stuart, is that logical?"

She gritted her teeth. Slater was watching her politely. She wanted to

kick him.

"It wasn't a large wagon train, Colonel.

We've had good relations with the Comanche in our area, and my uncle

wasn't afraid of the Comanche! We were traveling with a very small

party, a few hired hands, my uncle-"

" Maybe, Miss. Stuart, the Indians weren't Comanche.

Maybe they were a stray band of Apache looking for easy prey, or

Shoshone down from the mountains, or maybe even an offshoot of the

Sioux"--" No Indian attacked that wagon train."

Tess swung around. Jon Red Feather had come into the room. He helped

himself to coffee, then pulled up the chair beside Slater. He grinned at

his friend, then addressed the colonel.

"I'm sure that Miss. Stuart does know a Comanche when she sees one, sir.

And it wasn't Apache. Apache usually only scalp Mexicans--in

retaliation." He turned and smiled at Tess.

"And I can promise you that what was done was not done by the Sioux. A

Sioux would never have left Miss. Stuart behind."

A shiver ran down Tess's spine. She didn't know if Jon meant that the

Sioux would have taken her with them--or that they would have been sure

to kill and scalp her, too. The colonel lifted his hands. Even with Jori

corroborating her story, he didn't seem to believe her. Or if he did

believe her, he had no intention of helping her.

"Miss. Stuart, I have heard of this von Heusen. He has big money, and

big connections, and I understand he owns half the town" -- "Literally,

Colonel.

He owns the judge and the sheriff and the deputies."

"Now, Miss. Stuart, those are frightful charges" -- "They are true

charges."

"But don't you see, Miss. Stuart, you'd have to go into a court of law

against this man. And you'd have to charge him in Wiltshire, and like

you said ..." His voice trailed away. "Why don't you think of heading

back east, Miss. Stuart?"

She was up on her feet instantly.

"Head back east? I have never been east, Colonel. I was born here in

Texas.

My grandparents helped found Wiltshire. And the little bit of town that

yon Heusen doesn't own yeti still do. I have no intention of turning it

over to him! Colonel, there's nothing else that I can tell you. I have

had a rather trying few days. If there's some place where I might rest,

I'll be most grateful to accept your hospitality for a night or two.

Then, sir, I have to get home. I have a ranch and a paper that need my

expertise."

The colonel was on his feet, too, and she sensed that, behind her, Jon

and Slater had also risen. She spun around, feeling Slater's eyes,

certain that he was laughing at her again.

But he wasn't laughing. His eyes were upon her, smoky and gray and

enigmatic. She sensed that she had finally gained a certain admiration

from him. What good it could do her, she didn't know. The colonel had

been her last hope.

Now the battle was hers, and hers alone.

"Miss. Stuart, I'd like to help you if I could"

"Nonsense, Colonel. You don't believe a word I'm saying," Tess told him

sweetly.

"That's your prerogative, sir. I am very fatigued ..."

"Miss. Stuart can take the old Casey place while she's here," Jori said.

"Doily Simmons is there now, with linens and towels."

"I shall be most grateful to the Caseys," Tess said. "No need," Slater

drawled.

"Casey is dead. Caught a Comanche arrow last year. His wife went on hack

east." He was taunting her, and she smiled despite it.

"I have told you all, Lieutenant, I've never been east" -- "Oh, not that

east, Miss. Stuart. Mrs. Casey and the kids went to live in Houston,

that's all."

"Well, I rather like the area I live in," she said sweetly, then she

turned to the colonel.

"If I may, sir ... 7"

"Of course, of course! Jamie, you and Jon will please escort the young

lady to her quarters. And Mis~ Stuart, if it's Wiltshire you're

insisting on reaching, I'll arrange you an escort just as soon as

possible."

"Thank you."

Jon opened the door. Tess sailed through it. Slater followed her.

"It's this way, Tess," Jon told her. He'd never used her first name

before, and certainly not as he did now, intimately, as if they were old

friends.

There was a bright light to his striking green eyes, and she realized

that it was for the benefit of Jamie Slater. Jamie. Silently, she rolled

the name on her tongue.

"Lieutenant" seemed to fit him better.

Not always . Not that day he had looked down at her on the rocks after

shooting the snake. His hair had been ruffled, his shirt had fallen

open, and she had wanted to touch him, to reach out and feel the vital

movement of his flesh, so bronze beneath the setting sun. Then, then the

name Jamie might have fit him just fight. It was an intimate name, ,a

name for friends, or for lovers.

He was behind her still. Jon Red Feather was pointing things out to her.

"That's a general store, and there's our one and only alehouse, we don't

dare call it a saloon. And down there is the coffeehouse for the ladies.

We've a number of women at the fort here. The colonel approves of the

married men having their wives with them, and since the fort is strong

and secure ..." He shrugged.

"Then, of course, we have the stores and the alehouse and the

eoffcehouse, so we've a few young and unattached ladies, which makes it

nice for the soldiers at the dances."

"Dances!"

"Why, Miss. Stuart, we do try to be civilized out here in the

wilderness." "Desert," Jamie Slater said from behind them.

"I think it's really more a desert than a wilderness, don't you, Jon?"

He didn't wait for an answer, but continued, "There's the Casey house

right there." He strode up three steps to a small house that seemed to

share a supporting wall with the structure beside it.

The door burst open suddenly. There was a large buxom woman standing

there.

She had an ageless quality about her, for her features were plump and

clear, her eyes were dark and merry, and it was difficult to see if her

hair was blond or silver.

"You poor dear! You poor, poor dear! Caught up in that awful Indian

attack"

"Miss. Stuart doesn't believe that it was Indians, Dolly," Jamie Slater

said evenly.

Dolly waved a hand in the air.

"Don't matter who it was, does it? It was awful and heinous and cruel

and this poor girl lost her friends and her uncle. It was your uncle,

fight, dear?" "Yes," Tess said softly.

Dolly had a hand upon her shoulders, drawing her into the house. Jon and

Jamie Slater would have followed except that Dolly inserted her grand

frame between them and the doorway.

"Jon, Jamie, get on with you now. I'li see to Miss. Stuart. I'm snre you

were right decent to her on the trail, but she's had a bad time of it

and I'm going to see to it that she has some time to rest, and I'm going

to give her a nice long bath, some homo-cooked food, and then I'm going

to put her to bed for the night. She needs a little tenderness right

now, and I'm not so sure you're the pair to provide it!"

"Right, Dolly," Jon said. Amused, he stepped back. Jamie Slater tipped

his hat to Tess over Dolly's broad shoulder. His lip, too, was curled

with a certain amusement, and Tess felt that, for once, she could too

easily read the message behind his smok~-gray eyes. He thought that she

needed tenderness just about as much as a porcupine did.

"Good evening, Miss. Stuart. I do hope that you'll be feeling better

soon."

"If you're lucky, Jamie Slater, she'll be up and about for the dance

tomorrow night."

"If I'm lucky" -- Jamie started to murmur. "Well, hell, there's no lack

of young men around here, Lieutenant!" Dolly said.

Tess could feel a brilliant crimson flush rising to her cheeks. She

wasn't sure who she wanted to bat the hardest--Dolly for so boldly

putting her into an awkward situation, or Jamie Slater for behaving as

if escorting her to a dance would be a hardship.

"There's absolutely no need for anyone to concern himself," she said

quietly, a note of steel to her voice. There-she'd given Slater his out.

"I consider myself in mourning. A dance would he completely out of the

question."

"Would it?" There was a core of steel to Jamie's voice, too. He managed

to step past Dolly and catch her shoulders, and she thought he was

furious as he gazed into her eyes. She couldn't understand him in the

least.

"I don't think so, Tess. Your uncle was a frontiersman, a fighter. I

don't think he'd want you sitting around crying about what 53 can't be

changed.

He'd know damned well that life out here was hard, and sometimes awfully

darned short and sweet, and he'd want you to live. And that's what

you're good at, isn't it? Fighting--living?"

"Lieutenant Slater, really, I" -- "Maybe it's just the fighting that

you're so good at. Maybe you don't really know how to live at all."

She cast back her head, ignoring the grip of his fingers upon her

shoulders.

She gritted her teeth hard, then challenged him hotly.

"And you think you're the one who could teach me how to live,

Lieutenant?

Why, I'm not sure that you're more than a perfo~t Yankee mannequin

yourself, Lieutenant."

His lip curled. His grip on her shoulders suddenly relaxed.

"Why don't you test me then, Miss. Stuart?"

"Jamie Slater, that young girl is vulnerable right now" -- Dolly started

to warn him, but Jamie and Tess both spun on her.

"As vulnerable as a sharp-toothed cougar," Jamie supplied.

"Never to the likes of him!" Tess promised. Dolly was silent. Soft

laughter sounded, and Tess saw that it was Jon Red Feather laughing, and

that he seemed quite pleased with the situation.

"No wonder white men don't like Indians!" Jamie muttered darkly.

"Sure. Keep the white folks at war with themselves, and half the battle

is solved," Jon said pleasantly.

"Jamie, come on. It's settled. You can pick up Miss. Stuart right after

sunset."

"Nothing is settled" -- Tess began.

"Sunset!" Jamie said. He seemed to growl the word. And he didn't give

her another second to protest, but slammed his way out the door. It

closed with such a bang that even Dolly jumped, but then she smiled

benignly.

"I do just love that man!" Dolly said.

Tess stared at her blankly.

"Why?" she demanded. "Oh, you'll see," young lady. You'll see. And that

Jori! He does like to stir up trouble.

But then, maybe it's not trouble this time. Jon can be plain old silent

as the grave when he wants, too. I think that he's just delighted to put

Miss. Eliza's nose out of joint. She thinks she just about has her claws

into Jamie, and who knows, it is lonely out here. But she isn't right

for him, she just isn't fight at all. You'll see."

"Miss. Simmons" -- "Dolly. We're not very formal out here.

"Ceptin' the men, when they're busy playing soldier, that is."

"Dolly, I have no intention of going to a dance with Lieutenant Slater.

I don't really like him. He's self-righteous and hard as steel and cold

as ice" -- "Hard maybe, cold, no. You'll see," Dolly predicted. "But" --

"Come on, I've got a steaming bath over there in the corner . You just

hop in, and I'll make you some good strong tea, and pretty soon dinner

will be ready, too. And you can tell me all about yourself and what

happened, and I'll tell you more about Lieutenant Slater."

"I don't want to know anything more about Lieutenant Slater," Tess said

firmly. But it was a lie. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted

to know everything about him.

And she did want to go to the dance with him. She wanted to close her

eyes and feel his arms around her, and if she thought about it, she

wanted even more. She wanted to see him again as she had seen him that

morning with his shirt hanging open and his hair tousled and his bare

feet riding the rocks with confidence and invincibility.

"Let me help you out of those dusty travel clothes," Dolly said. She was

quick and competent, and Tess felt immediately at home with her, able to

accept her assistance. In seconds she was out of her dirt-coated

clothing and into a wooden hip tub with a high back that allowed her to

lean in 55 comfort. Dolly tossed her a bar of rose-scented soap and a

sponge, and she blissfully squeezed the hot water over her knees and

shoulders.

"What did you do to your hands, young lady?" Dolly demanded.

Tess looked ruefully at her callused palms.

"Driving. I can do it, of course. It's just Uncle Joe usually did most

of the driving."

She didn't know what it was about saying his name, but suddenly, tears

welled in her eyes.

"You should cry it out," Dolly warned her.

"You should just go right on ahead and cry it out."

Tess shook her head. She couldn't start crying again. She started

talking instead.

"He raised me. My parents died when I was very young, both caught

pneumonia one winter and they just didn't pull through. Joe was Father's

brother.

He sold Father's land and put the money into trust for me, and he took

me to live with him, and he made me love the land and reading and Texas

and the newspaper business, and most of all, he made me love the truth.

And he never gave up on the truth or on fighting. And that's why I have

to keep it up.

He always gave me everything."

Her voice trailed away. So much, always. She remembered learning how to

ride, and how to ink the printing press, and then how to think out a

story, and what good journalism was, and. And what it was like to live

through pain, and stand up tall despite it, and to learn to carry on.

Joe had been there when she had fallen in love with Captain David Tyler

back in '64, when his Confederate infantry corp had been assigned to

Wiltshire. She had been just seventeen, and she'd never known what it

was like to love a man in that mercurial way until she'd met David.

They'd danced, they'd taken long walks and long rides and they'd had

picnics out by the river, and he had kissed her, and she had learned

what it was like to feel her soul catch fire.

They'd known the war Dolly sniffed, apparently uninterested in a woman

running a paper or a ranch.

"There's things a young lady should be doin', and things she shouldn't!

Now you, you need to be married. You need yourself a man."

Tess sank back into the water wearily.

"I need a hired gun, that's what I need."

Dolly was quiet for a moment, then she said enthusiastically, "Well,

then, you really do need Lieutenant Slater."

"What?"

Dolly came around the side of the tub and perched on a stool.

"Why, he was claimed to be an outlaw, him and his brothers! There was a

big showdown, and the three of them shot themselves out of an awful

situation.

Then they surrendered, and all went to trial, and the jury claimed them

innocent as babes!

But those Slater boys--why, it was legendary!

He's as quick as a rattler with his Colt." He was, Tess thought. She

couldn't forget the way he had killed the snake. She might have died,

except that he was so fast with that gun.

She shivered suddenly. Maybe he wasn't what she needed. He was what she

wanted. A man good with a gun. A man with hard eyes and a hard-muscled

chest and hands that were strong and eyes that invaded the body and the

soul.

"Someone's got to escort you to Wiltshire," Dolly said flatly.

"And Jamie, he's got time coming. And he really ain't no fool. I know

there's this big thing going on about whether it was Indians or white

men attacked you, but Jamie, he'll find out the truth." "He didn't

believe a word I said."

"Oh, but he could discover the truth! He knows the Shoshone, the

Comanche, the Cheyenne, the Kiowas and even the Apache better than most

white men--most white men alive, that is! Why, he speaks all their

languages! He can tell you in a split second which tribes are related to

which, and he knows their practices, and how they live.

Sometimes he even knows the Indians better than Jon Red Feather, 'cause

you see, Red Feather is a Blackfoot Sioux, and he thinks that the world

begins and ends with the Sioux!

If you're telling the truth--oh, my dear! I didn't mean that! I know

you're not telling fibs! But if you're right about it being white men,

why, Jamie will find that out. He won't let the Comanche be blamed for

some atrocity they didn't commit!"

Tess was silent. Dolly spoke again, softly.

"If it isn't Lieutenant Slater who takes you, it might be the colonel

himself. His wife was killed by Pawnees before the war, and he ain't

ever forgiven any Indian since. Or else there's Sergeant Givens, and

he's an Indian hater, too. Or Corporal Lorsby, and he's a lad barely

shaving, he won't be too much good to you. Oh, wait just a minute, I've

got some shampoo here, all the way from Boston."

"I don't want to use your good" -- "Come, come, what good does it do to

this old head of mine? Use it!

Your hair will smell just like spring rosebuds, and every bit as sweet

as sunshine."

Tess accepted the shampoo. She disappeared beneath the water to soak her

hair, then she scrubbed and rinsed it. As she rose from the water again,

Dolly was still talking to her.

"Lieutenant Lorsby, he's a good boy. He's just untried.

He's never been in a battle. He came from the east, and I'm sure he's a

bright and wonderful boy, but he don't know a Kiowa from a Chinaman, and

that's a fact. You really need to think about this, you know."

Tess nodded, feeling a chill as the steamy water cooled. Maybe she did

need Lieutenant Slater after all. She smiled at Dolly.

"Could I have the towel, please?"

Dolly held it, and Tess stepped from the bath, wrapped the towel around

her and took a seat before the fire as she started to dry her hair.

"All right, Dolly, so tell me, please, just what is it about this Miss.

Eliza that's so horrible."

"why, I'm not quite sure.

"Ceptin' she seems to think that she's God's gift to the men of the

cavalry.

Jamie's the only one who's never fawned over her, and I think that's

exactly why she's set her cap for him! He ~ms to be amused most of the

time, but the woman does have a wicked fine shape, and a wicked heart

and mind to go along.

You'll see. Now sit back, and I'll bring you your tea, and then some of

the finest Irish stew you'll ever taste. Then I'll see to getting the

rest of your things brought in. I have a nightgown for you, right over

there on the bed. Once you're all ~uched in, I'll see to the rest. You

need to get some sleep." Dolly brought her tea, then the stew, and it

was delicious.

Tess hadn't felt so warmed and cared for since. Since Joe had died.

The thought brought her close to tears again, but she didn't shed them.

She finished eating and put on the nightgown Dolly had provided for her.

She crawled into the bed, more exhausted than she had imagined. As Dolly

started to leave the darkened room, Tess called her back.

"Thank you, Dolly. Thank you, so very much."

"It's nothing, child."

Tess sat up.

"Dolly?"

"yes?"

"I didn't take you from your family, did I?" She smiled.

"Me? No, child. I sit around most of the day and remember Will. My

husband. He was with the cavalry, killed just a few years ago. He made

it home, though. Jamie Slater brought him home to me. He rode through an

ambush to bring Will home. So now I mind the store a few hours a day,

and I try to look after the soldiers that need a little mothering. And

now you.

It's been my pleasure, dear, so you go on and get some sleep."

Dolly was gone then. Tess yawned in the luxurious warm comfort of the

clean bed. She stretched out, thinking that she would sleep. If she

wasn't plagued with memories of Joe.

But it wasn't memories of Joe that kept her from sleeping. Even in the

darkness and the warmth, she felt strange 61 chills snake along her

body. It was Jamie Slateifs face she saw before her in the darkness, the

dry amusement in his gray eyes: Then she remembered the feeling of

wicked, surging heat as his gaze fell over the length of her. He had

stayed away. And he had been drawn back. Almost as if he was feeling the

same thing.

She didn't need a lover, she told herself. She needed a hired gun.

Maybe she would have to barter to gain what she wanted. Barter! she

charged herself.

And in the darkness she admitted that he cola id be as cold and hard and

ruthless as stone, he could care for her not at all, or perhaps even

want her with a curious interest. It didn't matter. She hadn't thought

about any man in over five years.

But she wanted this one. That he could deal well with a gun was all the

better.

When she finally did sleep that night, it was with the stern reminder

that she ought to be saying her prayers. That she ought to hope that

Jamie Slater wanted nothing more to do with her, that the stoic colonel

would take her to Wiltshire.

She could fight von Heusen, and she would. She just wasn't sure if she

could fight von Heusen and all the decadent and shameful things she felt

for Jamie Slater at the same time.

It was wicked.

It was true. If Joe had taught her anything, it was wisdom. She couldn't

change what she was feeling, even if what she was feeling could only

cause her pain. Exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she slept. Slept, and

dreamed.

Of smoke-gray eyes, of a man with broad shoulders, taking her into his

arms.

Naked, as she had been by the brook.

He was moving into a trap, Jamie thought the next night as he walked

along to the Casey house, where Tess Stuart was. He was definitely

moving into a trap, because he couldn't call Tess a liar. He did know

the Indians well, and he couldn't let a huge war get started because

everyone was unjustly blaming the Comanche. He was going to have to find

out what had happened.

He paused at the door before knocking upon it, swallowing down a

startling, near savage urge to thrust the door open and sweep the

challenging and all too luscious Miss. Stuart into his arms. No matter

how he tried, he could not forget everything that he knew about her. No

matter what gingham or frills or lace or velvet adorned her, he kept

seeing beneath it.

He'd lied to her. She was very much alive. She spoke of passionate life

and living with her every breath, her every word. Her gpirit was ever at

battle, never ceasing. She would stay on in Wiltshire, he was certain,

no matter how stupid it would be for her to do so. She was determined to

fight this von Heusen, and she would fight him even if they met on the

plain and he was carrying a shotgun and she was completely unarmed.

If. if. Was the man really so dangerous?

He didn't want to believe her. He wanted to be a skeptic. But there was

truth in her passion, in her determination.

There was truth in the honesty of her beautiful, sea-shaded eyes, eyes

that entered into his sleep and made him wonder what it would he like if

she looked at him with her hair wound between them and around them in a

web of passion.

Every time he was near her he felt it more. Something like a pounding

beneath the earth, like a rattle of thunder across the sky. Every time.

And if he didn't watch out, the day would come when he would thrust wide

a door and sweep her hard into his arms.

He wouldn't give a damn then about Indians or white men or the time of

day or even if the earth continued to turn. All that would matter would

be the scent of her and the feel of her silken flesh beneath his

fingers. He was going to a dance, he ~-r. afinded himself. And every

officer in the post would be there, and the enlisted men, too.

He gritted his teeth and willed his muscles and his body to cease

tightening with the harsh and ragged desire that seemed to rule his

every thought. He knocked on the door. "Come in, Lieutenant."

He pushed open the door, irritated that he should want her so badly,

determined that he would control himself. She was probably late, women

always were. She was probably trying to pin up her hair, or fix her

skirts or petticoats.

She wasn't. She was standing s'fiently by the small fire that burned in

the hearth. She didn't need to change a thing about her hair--it was

tied back from her face with a blue ribbon, then exploded in a froth of

sun-colored and honey ringlets. The tendrils curled over her shoulders

and fell against the rise of her breasts.

Her gown was soft blue, with a darker colored velvet bodice over a skirt

of swirling froth. The sleeves were puffed, baring much of her arms, and

the velvet bodice was low, but just low enough to show the risc of her

breasts, the beautiful texture of her flesh, the fascinating way the

soft curls of her hair lay upon it. She was even more beautiful than he

had seen her before, her eyes bright and fascinating with the light of

challenge, her smile soft and untouched by tragedy this night.

"You're ready?"

"Yes, of course. You did say sunset, didn't you?" He nodded. She reached

for a blue silk stole and handed it to him. Woodenly he took it from her

fingers and set it around her shoulders. The sweet scent of her hair

rose against his nostrils, and the essence of it seemed to fill him.

Damn.

He'd tried so hard to gain control before entering the house. Now the

scent of her was tearing through his senses, exciting his temper as well

as his passions.

"Shall we go?"

"Yes, of course." Her smile, he decided, was a wan- toh's. Miss. Stuart

was not entirely innocent, but rather a woman completely aware of her

power. She hadn't become a fluttering belle. Her intelligence was

apparent, along with her rock-hard strength, in her steady gaze.

And still . her beauty, her femininity . they were breathtaking. Jon had

seen it even when Jamie hadn't.

"Where is the dance?"

"In the alehouse," he said curtly.

"But then he determined that he knew the game himself; he would play it,

too.

He smiled graciously, capturing her hand and slipping it around his

elbow.

"The rest seems to have done you quite well. You're looking

wonderfully--healthy."

"Why, thank you, Lieutenant. With such flowery compliments a girl could

surely lose her head."

"What a little liar. You wouldn't lose your head if the entire Apache

Nation was staring you down, would you, Miss. Stuart?"

"There you go again, Lieutenant, what a dazzling compliment."

"Do you need compliments?"

"Maybe."

They had reached the open doors to the alehouse. Already music could be

heard, the strains of a lively jig. The notes of the fiddle seemed to be

loudest, and for a moment Jamie thought that Tess's smile wavered. He

was suddenly displeased with the night, and with himself. She had gone

through a harrowing experience, and she had come through it with

tremendous spirit.

No more platitudes for this chit! he warned himself. But her eyes met

his in the dim light spilling from the open doorway. So deep a blue they

were mauve in the darkness, so wide and unwavering upon his. He wished

suddenly that 65 she hadn't been young, that she hadn't been beautiful.

That she hadn't been different from any other woman he'd ever met in his

life.

"Maybe you shouldn't have come tonight," he said sol fly She smiled.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant, truly I am. Shall we go in?"

He nodded and escorted her on into the room. Dancers filled the floor,

soldiers in uniform, officers with epaulets and brightly colored sashes,

women in their sparkling fin- cry. The floor seemed alive with the blue

and gold of the uniforms, and with brilliant reds and greens and soft

pastels, lovely silks and brocades, satins and velvets.

But none compared with the blue gown that Tess Stuart was wearing. No

other garment seemed to so fit a woman, to cling to her shape, to

conceal and enhance, to so artfully combine both purity and sweetly

simmering sensuality.

Like the touch of her fingers upon his arm. Like the scent of roses that

seemed to fill him and make him mindless of what else went on.

Jamie saw Jon Red Feather coming toward them, and he swore softly

beneath his breath. Normally the darned half breed was as silent as the

night. Suddenly these days he was expounding away with his Oxford

eloquence.

"Miss. Stuart! Jamie. Ah, you've made it at last. Miss. Stuart, please

don't think me too bold--Jamie! I dare demand the first dance!"

"Jon" -- he began in protest.

"Jon! Good evening!"

The delight in Tess's voice was so obvious that Jamie wanted to spit.

If the two of them were so damned all-fired eager to be together, Jon

should have escorted her tonight. It wouldn't have made the least bit of

difference to him.

The hell it wouldn't. She was his.

He'd found her, he'd touched her and he'd brought her back here. It

might be a trap, but he was deep within it now, and there was no

crawling out. Still, he had to he civil. Too bad they weren't out on the

plain. He and Jon could go to it like savage kids. They'd done it

before.

He smiled and bowed with the best of the Southern chivalry he could

remember from the days before the war.

"Jori--Miss. Stuart, please. Just return her in one piece, Jon."

"He's trying to pretend that I take scalps. I don't, you know," Jon

informed her gravely.

Tess smiled again--brilliantly. Everything about her lit up. Smiles for

him, and taunts for me! And still, Miss. Stuart, we are irrevocably

bound, aren't we? "Evenin', James," the colonel addressed him.

"Evenin', sir."

"I see that Miss. Stuart has been whisked away." He nodded toward the

dancers.

"Well, she's lovely. A very welcome addition to our little soiree, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ah! Well, you shall't be lonely long. There's Eliza coming to whisk you

away, I dare say."

Eliza was on her way over. She had stopped to chat at the punch table,

but now, with her fan fluttering against the heat of the night, she was

hurrying around the dancers to greet him.

He hadn't seen her since he'd come back with Tess.

But she knew. She knew that he'd come back with a woman, and she knew

that he was with Tess tonight. He could see it in her velvet dark eyes.

She was smiling, but it seemed that the curve of her lip hid a snarl.

She was still something to behold. Her neck was long and swan like her

hair as dark as ebony, and though she was slender and graceful, a man

could g~t lost for hours in her voluptuous breasts. Her skin was ivory

and flawless, her lips red, her face lovely. Jamie knew she'd had her

mind set on tormenting him for some time. He usually enjoyed her company

because she was such a brazen piece of baggage. He'd seen her break half

a dozen hearts before she'd deter67 mined to stomp on his, but he'd

always managed to hold his distance from her. To take care that he never

spoke a word that sounded like commitment.

He hadn't been able to refuse her constant seduction. He hadn't been her

first lover, and he was sure that he wouldn't be her last.

She was especially seductive this evening, her ink-dark hair caught to

one side of her head and plunging in a black cascade over one shoulder,

her bodice so low-cut as to reveal the endless depths of the valley

between her breasts, her kelly-green gown contrasting beautifully with

the darkness of her hair and the perfect ivory of her complexion.

"Jamie, darling'! Well, you have saved the first dance for me. I've

missed you so!"

In full view of the company she slipped her arms around him, rose on

tiptoe and kissed his lips.

He waited for something to stir inside him. He swore inwardly. It was

Tess.

He was obsessed, and any other touch would leave him cold until he had

quenched that newfound fire. "Eliza, nice to see you," he murmured,

catching her arms and unwinding them from around him. She pouted

prettily, but he barely noticed. He was looking past her, toward the

dance floor where Tess smiled and laughed, swirled and dipped and

whirled in his best friend's arms.

They were striking together, the tall half-breed and the exquisite blond

who looked so delicate but had a will of pure steel. "Dance, yes!" he

muttered, and he swept Eliza into his arms and onto the floor.

"I was afraid that you hadn't missed me!" she told him, her eyes growing

dark.

"What? Of course I missed you," he said.

"You didn't come to see me last night."

"No, I had reports to fill out."

"I waited for you. Very late. Into the night."

"I'm sorry."

I'll wait again."

It was promising. Maybe he could close his eyes and imagine that he held

Tess's sun-honey blond hess

No. It wouldn't be fair.

He smiled.

"Eliza, I brought Miss. Stuart to the dance."

"Miss. Stuart?

Oh, yes! I heard about her! The zany woman who thinks white men are

Comanche." She shuddered.

"Honestly, Jamie, I understand how you might feel responsible, but just

walk her home and then come on over."

"Can't, Eliza. Not tonight."

She looked furious for a moment, as if she was about to argue. But she

fell silent, pressing closer to him. The musky scent she was wearing

rose around him. He felt the pressure of her breasts, the flash of a

thigh. She wanted to excite him.

"I'm glad to find you so understanding, Eliza," he said pleasantly.

"Of course. I'm always understanding," she told him gravely, sweetly.

Like hell, he thought. But he smiled. Jon was no longer dancing with

Tess.

She'd already danced with half the men in the regiment, Jamie thought

irritably. She was in the arms of a young sergeant now, a handsome

towhead stripling! A kid who probably hadn't even shaved yet. And he was

gushing all over her.

Just about to trip over his own darned tongue. Jon reclaimed her.

Jamie gritted his teeth, determined to watch his date for the evening no

more. He had no way of knowing that Tess Stuart was watching him every

bit as covertly. Those strange stirrings rose inside her as she watched

the ebony-haired enchantress laughing, pressing against him, heaving her

bovine breasts beneath his nose. She was very anxious to be retrieved by

Jon, and managed to dance her way over to the tall Sioux.

He promptly cut in and swept her around, smiling like the devil's own

disciple.

"Mr. Red Feather?"

"yes?"

"Who is the massive mount of mammary glands?" He laughexl and bent low

to whisper against her ear.

"That, Miss. Stuart, is Eliza."

He lifted his head again and smiled benignly toward Jamie.

"Keep an eye on that one," he warned Tess.

"I certainly intend to," she told him sweetly, then she tossed her hair

and laughed, and the sound of her voice was like a melody on the air.

And every man in the place seemed to turn to her. Including Jamie

Slater.

Chapter Four.

Tess didn't see how or when Jamie extricated himself from Miss. Eliza,

but within a few minutes, he was tapping on Jon's shoulder, claiming her

for a dance. She smiled serenely as they moved to the music. Hemust have

attended many of these little balls. He was as accomplished at dancing

as he was with riding and shooting. She felt suddenly as if she walked

on air herself, as if the room and the people all around them faded, as

if they shared more than a simple touch. Maybe they did. His eyes were

boring into hers.

"Enjoying your conquests, Miss. Stuart?"

She widened her eyes.

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I mean every snot-nosed young trooper here is ready to lie down and die

for you." "Really?" she asked with a sweet note of astonishment. "Well,

how very genteel of the lads, how kind! But tell me, Lieutenant, how am

I doing with the others?" His jaw twisted slightly, but there was still

amusement to his smile.

"The graybeards, Miss. Stuart, are quite willing to dig their own

graves, if need be, for your cause."

"Oh, dear! Ah, well, let's hope that it need not be. But I'm curious,

sir, how am I doing with the men between nineteen and ninety?"

"Would it please you to know that a number of them were probably quite

ready to slit one another's throats for the mere bounty of your smile?"

She didn't know if he was teasing. Not anymore. The smoky quality was in

his eyes again. She lowered her lashes, shivering slightly, wondering if

he was really a man to play with so freely. Then she raised her eyes

with a bold and sweeping challenge.

"Thank goodness, sir, that you would not participate in such a skirmish!

I mean, as one could see how heavily involved you are ..."

"What?" he demanded, scowling.

"The bountiful brunette, Lieutenant. Miss. Eliza."

"Oh, Eliza." He said the name dism~ssively. Too dismissively. He knew

Eliza well, maybe better than he wanted to at the moment.

"Yes, Eliza," she said pleasantly.

"Are you engaged, Lieutenant?"

"Good heavens, no!"

"Ah, was the horror of that statement over the possibility of

engagement, or over Eliza?"

"Miss. Stuart, you are very presumptuous."

"Sir, no one is forcing you to dance with me."

His arms tightened around her. He was smiling, but there was a sizzle to

the smile, and it sent little shock waves rippling all along her system.

Maybe she was playing dangerously. It was delightful. Maybe she risked

igniting his temper to extremes she had yet to know. She realized that

she was willing to do so, that the storm taking place within her own

heart and body was demanding that she do so. "Miss. Stuart, I am your

escort to this dance, remember?" he said bluntly.

"Oh ... yes, well, I suppose that I had forgotten. When I saw the way

your lips became pasted together with Eliza's ..."

"Jealous, Miss. Stuart?"

"Well, how could I be? I have just entered into your life. I couldn't

possibly mean to dissuade you from, er, liaisons you have been

nurturing."

She heard the clenching of his teeth. The scowl that tightened his

handsome features seemed to reach inside her and take her breath away.

She felt his hand upon her waist, warm and powerful, and the fingers of

his other hand so tightly entwined with hers that the pressure nearly

caused pain. She inhaled a clean scent from him that also seemed to

speak of the plain, of the rugged vistas, of the horseman, the marksman.

Everything rugged, and everything striking.

He was a real son of a bitch, a small voice warned her. It didn't

matter.

"Do you always hop so recklessly into the fray, Miss. Stuart?"

"Whatever do you mean? What fray, Lieutenant?"

"You've barbs on your tongue, ma'am."

"Why, Lieutenant! I'm only speaking frankly."

"Um. I still say there are barbs there. Perhaps I should discover if I

am right ..."

He was swift on his feet, agile and sure. In a moment he had danced her

out the door and into the shadows on the porch. He swept her against a

supporting pillar, then his mouth descended upon her, lips parted,

parting hers. She had wanted this. this very thing. She had teased and

goaded him, and now she had him. But the kiss was no casual dance-floor

brush. It was a thing so searingly intimate that she lost all hope of

breathing, all hope of standing upon her own two feet. His mouth

encompassed hers, drawing from her all strength and will. The heat of

his mouth filled and infused her, and his tongue swept by all barriers

to ravage and invade.

And she did nothing to stop him, nothing to fight back, nothing to

protest even the shocking intimacy of the invasion.

He kissed her mouth as if he kissed all of her. His 73 tongue touched

every little crevice and nuance of her mouth and thrust with a rhythm

that entered into her pulse, into her bloodstream. It was far different

from anything she had ever experienced before. Anything. It brought

tremors to her limbs and a swirling tempest within her belly; it singed

her breasts and weakened her knees.

And worst of all, perhaps, she felt no remorse, no shame. She allowed

herself to fall into his arms, to feel his strength support her, the

rippling muscles of his chest and thighs. Then his mouth pulled away

from hers. She inhaled raggedly and lifted her eyes to meet his. It had

been a game; she hadn't been expecting this, and she was suddenly very

afraid that her eyes betrayed the depths of her innocence, of her shock,

of the staggering sensations that had taken place within her. His eyes

were heavily shadowed, and he didn't look at all like a man about to

laugh with the pleasure of an easy conquest, but rather like one

consumed with some blinding fury or emotion. But he didn't speak. She

wanted to reach up and touch the sandy tendrils of his hair, fallen

rakishly over his forehead, but she didn't dare move, she didn't dare

touch him again, for there seemed to be something explosive about him.

"There she is!"

The accusing cry seemed to awaken them both. Jamie stepped back,

surprised, frowning, looking around.

A plump woman was coming out on the porch. She was small and seemed

exceedingly broad. Her hair was snow white and swept up beneath a little

cap, and her dress was old-fashioned, her petticoats as wide as they

might have been during the war, her dark fringed stole from an earlier

period.

She wasn't alone. People were spilling out behind her. "Clara," Jamie

said softly, still frowning.

"Clara, what on earth is wrong?"

Clara seemed not to hear him. She pointed a finger at Tess.

"You!

You--you harlot! You hussy! You whore!

Attacked by Indians, and crying out that white men fell upon you! How

dare you! You should have been killed! God will smite you down with an

arrow for lying! You trash, you white trash!"

"Clara!" Jamie shouted.

Tess, stunned by the violence of the attack, stared in silence.

"Clara, you're overwrought, but you owe this lady an apology, you can't

know"

"No!" Clara shrieked.

"She's the devil's spawn!" Tess realized then that the porch was full of

people.

The young soldiers who had been ready to die for her looked as if they'd

gladly nail her to the wall.

"How many of us have lost our dear loved ones to the bloody savages?

You, Lydia, the Pawnee took your only daughter! Charlie, the Comanche

cost you your arm, and Jimmie, your boy Jim went down in that fight with

the Apache. Heathens, bloody heathens, all of them! And now she's lying

about what happened to her little wagon train.

She won't let the men go after the real culprits, she wants a war with

the white men! She wants us all at one another's throats so the bloody

savages can move right in. She"--" No!" Tess shouted furiously.

"You don't understand, you weren't there, and don't you dare" -- "She

ought to be tarred and leathered and thrown right out of here naked as a

jay. Then she can run to her Indian buddies."

There was a startled moment of silence. Tess felt certain they were all

about to step forward and tear her into little shreds.

"Yes, yes" -- Clara began wildly. But she was interrupted.

The sound of a clinking spur struck loudly and discordantly upon the

floor as Jamie stepped firmly between Tess and Clara.

"That's enough!" Jamie stated flatly.

"Clara, I don't know what got you going tonight, but you've no right to

judge this girl, none at all. You owe her an apology, and I damned well

mean it." He paused. Tess realized that he was looking across the crowd.

Looking straight at Eliza. And there was something about her eyes that

told all, even if she tried to stare at Jamie with a look of pure

innocence.

She had stirred up the people. Jamie had left her on the dance floor,

and dear Miss. Eliza had made the rounds, talking to those most

vulnerable.

"But what if it is true, Lieutenant? What if Miss. Stuart was seeing

things?

Then the Comanche or some other tribe is on the warpath, and if so,

we've got to start fighting back!" "I'll find out," Jamie said.

"I promise you, I'll find out." There was a gasp from the crowd. The

sound had come from Eliza, Tess realized. Her plan had backfired. Tess

wasn't sure what victory she felt. Whatever move Jamie made, he made

because he had been forced into it, a gentleman caught by circumstance

into defending a lady's honor.

"I'm going to escort Miss. Stuart to her home, and I'll look into things

there. And I will find out the truth."

By then Jon Red Feather had come to stand next to his friend. It was a

casual but defensive gesture. They were shoulder to shoulder. If any

fighting had erupted, the handsome half-breed would have been ready. But

maybe he had come for more than that. He edged forward, taking Clara's

hands.

"Give Jamie time," he told her.

The little woman looked up at Jon.

"Oh, Jon! I didn't mean you."

"I know," he said, grinning.

"I'm only half savage and heathen and barbarian."

She flushed brilliantly.

"Jon ..."

"It's all right, Clara. Heaven help us, if the Sioux Nation went to war

now, I'm not at all sure where I would be at times." He raised his

voice.

"Every single one of you has, at one time or another, seen some savage

injustice done to the Indians!. You've been with commanders who think

nothing of the murder of women and infants! How in hell can you possibly

doubt this story!"

There were murmurs, then the crowd began to clear. Clara started to cry

softly.

"I'll take her home," Jon told Jamie.

Jamie nodded. He and Tess watched as Jon escorted her through the

alehouse.

"Well, damn it, it's just exactly what you wanted, isn't it?"

He was a far different man from the one who had kissed her with such

staggering heat. She stiffened, wishing she could wash the taste of his

lips from her own, trying to wipe the taste away with the back of her

hand.

"What I wanted!

No! I never wanted to be called' any of those things, Lieutenant, and I

certainly never wanted to see an old woman in pain, nor did I ever

particularly want to be threatened with being tarred and feathered!"

"You wanted me to go to war with your von Heusen."

"All right, yes! I wanted someone else to stand up against him."

She was backed against the pillar still. Her hands slipped behind her to

reach for it for support. He turned on her, coming closer, leaning his

hands upon the beam and bringing his face very close to hers. She was

trapped by his arms, by the prison of his body.

"And now," he said softly, "it's my battle."

"You're the damned cavalry, aren't you? You spent time enough telling me

that the day that you dragged me into the dirt!"

"I dragged you into the dirt! Why, you little hellion! You're the one

who came after me like a bat out of hell!"

It was there again, that feeling of something entirely combustible

between them, of static charging the air, of 77 lightning on a still

night. She had to fight back, and quickly and hard, or she would lose

everything.

"I was frightened out of my wits," she retorted, "not that you probably

weren't worthy of everything I did!"

"Oh? Is that a fact? And have you taken to judging me, Miss. Stuart?"

"Why the hell not? You're determined to judge me." They were silent for

a moment, and in that moment, they both heard a throat being cleared.

Jamie swung around again. Sergeant Monahan was standing there,

red-faced.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant."

"What is it, Monahah?"

"The, uh, the colonel wants to see you."

"Right after I escort Miss. Stuart to her house."

"Er, pardon me, sir, but no, sir. The colonel says that I'm to escort

her and that you're to see him immediately. About this business of your

going to Wiltshire." Jamie frowned, started to protest, then sighed. He

cast Tess a warning glare, although she wasn't at all sure of what the

warning was about.

She was still trembling, she realized, still holding hard to the pillar.

Jamie bowed to her.

"Good night, Miss. Stuart. We'll leave as soon as possible."

He walked away with long, angry strides. Tess looked at Monaham Monahan

was watching Jamie go.

"Well, that might be one heck of a confrontation," he muttered. "Why?"

Tess asked.

"what? Oh?" Monahan flushed, as if he had just realized she was there.

"Why, nothing, miss ..."

"Monahah!"

"Well, the colonel may try to stop him from going."

"What do you mean, might try? The colonel outranks him, doesn't he? Or

am I missing something?"

"No, no, but Jamie is up for reenlistment.

Technically, he could have walked away from the cavalry a month ago.

Paperwork gets slow out here sometimes."

"But why would the colonel want to stop him from going?"

"Oh, the colonel probably wouldn't. Not by himself, that " Monahah, you

are near to frustrating me to tears! What are you talking about?"

Now Monahah was a brilliant red. He stuttered, then started again.

"Miss. Eliza is the one who might mind."

"Eliza Worthingham."

"Monahah!"

"Oh, you don't know! Why, miss, Eliza is Colonel Worthingham's

daughter."

"Oh!" Tess cried, startled.

"Tarnation, I didn't mean to upset you none. Don't you worry. The

lieutenant ain't nobody's fool, and he ain't about to have his life run

by a skirt, even if Miss. Eliza is a pretty piece of fluff. Ah, hell,

not that you're not every bit as pretty--prettier!--but you see my

point? He ain't ever gonna have his mind made up by a woman. Not any

woman.

Oh, dear, this ain't getting' no better, not one wit! Come on, Miss.

Stuart, let me do one duty fight and get you home for the night!"

"Ah, yes, thank you, I think that I am quite ready to retire," Tess told

him, He walked her through the now empty alehouse and she thought of how

disastrously the evening had ended. Then she found that her fingers were

fluttering to her lips and that she couldn't forget the way Jamie had

kissed her.

She would never forget the way he had kissed her. Not if she never-saw

him again, not if she lived to be a hundred and two.

He wouldn't ever let himself be run by a woman. That was what Monahah

had said. But if he came with her, he would feel he had been trapped

into doing it. He had been forced to say he would come with her to calm

down Clara.

But if he stayed. Then it might be worse, because if he stayed after he

had stated he would go, it would be because he had been ordered to

stay--because of Eliza.

He's torn between the two of us, Tess thought. And which one of us will

win?

They had come to the Casey house. Monahah opened her door and lit a

lantern for her, then looked around the small building.

"Seems clear," he said.

"Why, Lieutenant, this is a cavalry outpost! What would I be afraid of

here?" "Never can be too careful," Monahah said cheerfully. "We learn

that out here, ma'am."

"Yes, I'm sure you do," she said softly.

"Well, thank you. I do feel quite safe now."

He told her good-night and left. Tess sat down on the foot of the bed

and slipped off her black leather dance slippers.

Then she paused, feeling as if something in the place wasn't quite

fight.

She stood up and looked around. She hadn't had much brought in from the

wagon, but one trunk was shifted away from the wall when she was certain

she had left it against the wall. Her brush, which she had set on the

small vanity, had fallen to the floor.

She picked up the brush and set it on the vanity. Then she walked over

to the trunk and opened it.

It wasn't in wild disarray, but she knew someone had been into it.

She always folded her clothing meticulously and kept it in defined

piles, her flatiron on the bottom of the chest, her heavy skirts next to

it, her light blouses and lingerie on top. Things had been moved.

She sat again. Maybe Monahah was fight. You never could be too careful.

There was no one in the little house now, but there had been. Who?

Eliza. Tess was certain of it. She smiled.

"Eliza," she whispered softly.

"I've been dealing with the likes of yon Heusen. Fighting you is going

to be easy."

She finished undressing, slipped on the borrowed nightgown and crawled

beneath the covers. Her eyes wouldn't close, though. She was ready to

deal with Eliza. But what if she had already lost the battle?

There was no way she could know until morning. It was a horrible night.

She pt feeling Jamie's kiss upon her lips again and again. And no matter

how she fought it, she k~pt imagining that kiss falling against her

throat, her palm. and Other places.

She slept very late. D~pite the bugles and the commotion of a company

heading out for a day's scouting, when Tess finally slept, she did so

deeply and well. It was nearly noon when she imagined she heard a sharp

rapping on the door. She ignored it. Then she shot up as the door burst

open and heavy footsteps fell within the house.

The covers fell away. Her hair was tousled and falling around her

shoulders, her gown dislodged from one shoulder and draping precariously

low over her breast. Startled and disoriented, she gasped when she saw

Jamie Slater in full uniform, his plumed hat low over his eyes, his legs

apart and his gloved hands on his hips as he stared at her.

"You," she muttered.

He swept his hat from his head, bowing very low.

"Yes, do excuse me, Miss. Stuart. I wanted to let you know that we would

be leaving at the break of dawn tomorrow. I realize, of course, that

dawn might be difficult for you, sinee you are still abed this midday,

but I do intend to leave promptly. Are we understood?"

"Tomorrow! You're still--you're still taking me?" His eyes narrowed

sharply.

"I said I was. Why wouldn't I be doing so?"

"No--uh, no reason." She allowed her lashes to fall, shading her eyes.

"I was just worried that maybe ... that maybe you hadn't meant what you

said."

He was silent for a s~ond.

"Miss. Stuart," he said softly, "I always mean what I say."

"I was just worried that you didn't really want to go" -- "Oh, for God's

sake! I'm going. We're going. Tomorrow.

That is, if you get up on time."

She smiled, then forgot her animosity toward him, and just about

everything else for that matter. She threw back the covers and leaped

from the bed and raced toward him, casting herself into his arms. His

hands came around her as he held her uptight, his arms wrapping around

her. "Thank you!" she said earnestly. Then she realized what she had

done and how she was standing.

And that them wasn't much of anything between them. She could feel the

pressure of her breasts against the hardness of his body, and she knew

that the thin cotton gown wasn't hiding anything of herself.

She backed away, swallowing fiercely.

"Thank you," she repeated.

"I

really do appreciate it. Very much. I don't suppose that you could ever

understand, but I do." The gown was falling off her shoulder again. She

tried to retrieve it. Then she realized that she was standing in the

morning sunlight and that every curve and twist of her form, and even

the shadows of her body, would be completely evident to him.

And her body was warming, and she was certain that her breasts were

swelling, and she was breathing far too quickly, and he could probably

see the pounding of her heart.

"Sincerely, thank you." And she was still muttering. A broad grin

stretched across his features. She plunged quickly into the bed beneath

the covers.

"Miss. Stuart?"

"'yes?"

"Do me a favor once we're under way, will you?"

"What's that?"

"Please don't chatter away endlessly like that, huh?" "I never chatter!"

she said indignantly.

"Never?" His brow arched.

She flushed.

"Almost never. Lieutenant, do you realiz~ how very rude you're being?

You've disturbed my sleep, and now you haven't the decency to leave me

alone to dress." His eyes fell upon her. Lingered over her. He was still

smiling.

"Do excuse me then, Miss. Stuart. But count on this--for the next few

days, I'll disturb your sleep often."

He tipped his hat to her and strode from the room. Tess pulled the

covers close around her, then she smiled and sank low into the bed.

It was a busy day for Jamie. Jon Red Feather was going to be

accompanying him, but other than that, they would travel alone. Since he

didn't know quite what he was going to come up against, he spent a fair

amount of time determining what he wanted to pack on the supply horses

and what he might bring in Tess Stuart's wagon.

Dealing with Colonel Worthingham hadn't been hard. Eliza had been behind

the trouble, he had known that.

Worthingham might be blind about his daughter, but he was a good

officer.

Not that Eliza wasn't careful. She had been with Worthingham when Jamie

went to see him. She had spoken of the danger, of how Jamie was needed

at the post, and she had been so sweet no one might ever have suspected

her of having an evil thought.

Worthingham had suggested that another man might do the job; Jamie had

politely reminded him that he wasn't officially in the cavalry anymore,

and that had done the trick. He had three months now, three months on

his own.

And Jon was his own man. He always had been. Jamie was glad Jon was

coming along, even if he was being a thorn in Jamie's side over Tess. As

if the minx needed any champions. The girl did know how to fight her own

battles.

He didn't want to battle, he thought. He closed his eyes, then

remembered the way she had looked that morning, half dressed and

completely seductive, the outline of her delineated by the sunlight

against the soft white cotton.

And she 83 had smiled and thrown herself into his arms. He remembered

the taste and feel and texture of her and had known that he had to get

out of the room before he took a running leap and fell upon her in the

disarray of her gown and covers.

He was a fool. He should be steering as clear of her as he could.

Instead, he had given his word to take her to Wiltshire. And he kept his

word.

There was just so much he wanted from her in return. And she was

desperate enough to give it.

That wasn't the way he wanted her, he told himself. But then he

reflected that he wanted her in any way possible, and he wasn't quite

sure ethics entered into the question. And he had to stop thinking about

her. He clenched his teeth and set to work.

It took most of the day to requisition the weapons and ammunition he

wanted to take. It was dark by the time he was ready to return to his

rooms. He wanted a good dinner and a long, hot bath before he started

out on the trail.

His orderly would have arranged for his bath. When he opened the door to

his office and saw that the lantern had been lit and a steaming hip bath

set in the bedroom, he breathed a sigh of relief. He tossed his hat onto

a chair, unbuckled his scabbard and holster and set his weapons on his

desk. He pulled off his boots and left them where they fell.

By the time he reached the doorway to the bedroom, his shirt was

unbuttoned and he was flinging it on the floor. He was anxious for the

bath.

But then he paused in his trousers, his eyes narrowing. He wasn't alone.

Eliza was in the bedroom. And Eliza had been in his bath. She was curled

up on his bed, her dark hair damp and forming tiny ringlets to frame her

face.

She wasn't exactly naked, but her appearance would have been less

decadent if she had been. She was wearing a lace corset he could almost

see through, and which lifted her cleavage to bold new heights. She wore

some kind of silk and lace pantalets, and nothing else.

"I came to say goodbye," she told him huskily. "Eliza, you're a fool,"

he told her irritably.

"What the devil do you think you're doing in my room?"

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Frankly, no."

She curled up on the bed, watching him like a cat.

"I'm not letting you go off with that little blond slut."

"Eliza, take a look at yourself and think about what you're saying."

"I'm in love with you!" She stood and walked toward him, swaying, her

lips parted and damp.

"I'm in love with you, Jamie, why do you think I've made love with you?

Do you think a secret rendezvous is all right, but you're afraid of me

being here because of my father?"

She had reached him. She started to slip her ams around his neck, but he

caught her hands.

"Eliza, I'm not afraid of your father. You should be. He'd send you back

east in two seconds if he had the least idea about your trysts."

"He'd make you marry me!"

"No one will ever make me marry anyone."

"You owe me!" She pouted.

"Jamie, I've lain with you" -- "Hm. And half of Companies C, D and E,"

he agreed. She freed a hand, ready to slap him. He caught her hand, and

for a moment they were very close. Then he saw her smile. Smile like a

wanton, with tremendous pleasure. She was looking over his shoulder.

Tess was standing in the doorway. Chaste and beautiful with her golden

ringlets piled atop her head, her pure white blouse buttoned to the

throat, her full skirt navy and subdued, her only jewelry a brooch at

her throat.

She stood there, very still.

"I was told by a young officer that you wanted to see me here,

Lieutenant. I wouldn't have been so careless as to en85 ter myself, but

he pushed open the door, and so here I am, to my great embarrassment.

Good evening, Miss. Worthingham.

Lieutenant, did you send for me?"

"I did not!"

"Then I must offer my apologies. Excuse me." She turned.

"Wait a minute?" Jamie thundered.

Tess ignored him.

Eliza was laughing softly. He caught her and shook her hard.

"You did this!"

"Min. You'll never get beneath her skirts now, Jamie!" Eliza said

happily.

Jamie didn't reply. He shoved her from him and walked away. He didn't

give a damn that he was barefoot or bare chested he was just glad he

still had his trousers on. He didn't know why it was so damned important

that he catch Tess, he only knew that it was.

"Tess!"

She was walking away from him, ignoring him. He caught up with her and

took hold of her shoulders, swinging her around.

"Tess!"

"What?" She wrenched herself from his hold. He circled her, determined

to catch her if she moved.

"I

called you! Why the hell didn't you stop?" Tess looked at him, wishing

she could be half as calm or serene as she was pretending.

She hadn't suspected a thing. The young soldier had appeared at her door

just minutes ago, and he had been very proper, and she had imagined his

mission to be a true one. Lieutenant Slater 'had requested her presence

at his office.

She hadn't even known that his office and his bedroom were connected.

And she had thought that the summons sounded just like Jamie. He would

give her some other trivial order about the next morning. Don't

oversleep, don't be late, don't touch anything of mine that I set in

your wagon.

And so she had come without a thought. Without a single thought.

She had never imagined what it would feel like to see him in another

woman's arms. It had been awful seeing the brunette worse than naked,

draped all over him. Her hair curling over his naked flesh. Her breasts

cast against him, his arms locked upon her, the fever between them. She

inhaled and exhaled. She wondered if she had heard the words right

between them. No one can make me marry anyone. That was what he had said

to her. Wasn't it?

They had been lovers. He had all but admitted it. And maybe they would

be again. Maybe he would take Tess to Wiltshire, and he would come back.

Maybe he shouldn't go to Wiltshire. Because if he did, if they were

together, they would become lovers. And maybe he would be just as cool

to her. Maybe making love meant nothing at all to him, when the desire

within her was something that had never happened before. It was special,

unique, precious.

But then again, she couldn't allow the brunette to win the game. Not

this way. She didn't deserve to win anything this way.

"Damn you, Tess, will you listen to me?"

"I don't see what difference it makes, but go ahead." He stared at her

hard.

"That was a setup."

She didn't reply. He caught her shoulders again, pulling her against

him.

"I'm telling you, it was a setup!"

She still didn't reply, and he looked into his eyes and swore suddenly.

"Why the hell am I explaining this to you?

Think what you want, Miss. Stuart. To hell with you." He left her

standing in the street. She heard his angry stride as he started away.

"Lieutenant!" she called. She didn't turn around until she sensed that

he had stopped. Then she turned to meet his eyes.

"I'm very aware that what I just saw was a setup. I'm sorry for Miss.

Worthingham, that she felt it necessary to put 87 on such a show.

Perhaps you might want to provide her with a bit more tenderness or

care."

He swore and walked away.

Tess smiled and started to her room. But then her smile faded. It had

been a setup, but she had sent him right back to the enemy's arms.

When she went to bed that night she lay awake in torture, wondering what

had happened next. She had advised him to offer tenderness.

Had he done so? Had he slept with the bewitching brunette in his arms,

against his heart?

She tossed and turned in wretched anxiety and she very nearly overslept.

If it wasn't for the timely arrival of Dolly Simmons, she would have

done so.

"Up, up, now, Tess, dear! This is the cavalry, you know! Things are done

by the dawn here. Lieutenant Slater will want to be on his way!"

Dolly had brought coffee. She slipped a tin mug into Tess's hands, then,

chatting, picked up things in the room.

"What are you wearing, dear, this nice brown cotton? Perfect choice for

a hot day on the trail. And just one petticoat-no corset, of course.

You'll be much more comfortable that way.

Come on, now, Lieutenant Siitter and Jon Red Feather are already out by

the wagon." Tess gulped down the coffee and was grateful When Dolly

helped her slip into the brown traveling dress she had chosen. Then she

frowned, realizing that Dolly was dressed for travel in a mauve suit

with a huge, wide-brimmed hat on her head.

"Dolly?"

"I'm coming with you, my dear."

' "You are?"

"Yes. You don't mind, do you?"

"No, no, I don't mind. It's just that ..." She paused. In the outpost,

it had almost been possible to forget that yon Heusen offered death.

"Dolly, no one wants to believe me, but it could be very dangerous for

you."

"Miss. Stuart!" Dolly drew herself up and looked terribly dignified--and

menacing. It would take a hearty soul to go to battle against Miss.

Simmons.

"I have met danger all my life. I have lived in places that would make

the ordinary woman's skin crawl. I have fought Apache, Comanche,

Shoshone, Cheyenne and Sioux. I think that I will hold my own wherever I

may go." She was quiet for a minute.

"And besides," she added softly.

"I've really nothing left here. I'd like to come with you.. I'm a wicked

good cook, and I can organize any type of household in a matter of

hours."

Tess smiled.

"Dolly, you're welcome," she assured her. She finished dressing quickly

and stuffed the last of her belongings in a portmanteau. She and Dolly

gave the room a last look, then they departed together.

She almost didn't recognize Jamie when they came to the wagon.

Instead of a uniform he wore a blue denim work shirt and pants and his

knee-high boots. His sandy hair fell over his eyes as he cinched the

girth on his huge horse, then cast her a quick stare.

"It's about time."

"It's barely dawn."

He didn't reply, but nodded Dolly's way. He must have known that the

older woman had determined on coming, because he didn't say a word about

her appearance. "Get up--I want to get started. Jon and I will take

turns driving with you--there's no reason for you to completely destroy

your hands again. And for God's sake, keep your gloves on."

"I can manage" -- He caught her arm as she was about to crawl up.

"And don't tell me that anymore. I know you can manage. It's ]nst that

you can manage better if you listen to me. Got it?" She saluted,

gritting her teeth.

"Got it, Lieutenant."

She climbed up and took the reins and Dolly got up beside her. The mules

were harnessed, Jon was mounted and two packhorses were tethered to the

rear of the wagon. All was ready for their departure.

Colonel Worthingham walked up as they were about to leave.

"Goodbye, Miss. Stuart, good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

"Lieutenant, Red Feather, take care. Remember, we're here if you need

us."

"Thank you, sir!" Jamie wasn't in uniform, but he saluted smartly. The

colonel stepped back.

"Jamie! Jamie, take care!" Eliza ran dramatically from the shadow of the

command post. She raced to Jamie's horse and clutched his hands where

they lay casually over the reins.

"Eliza, thank you, I'll be just fine," he said harshly. "Eliza, come

back, dadin'. Lieutenant Slater has ridden out again and again. You know

he always makes it back." The colonel set his hands on his daughter's

shoulders, drawing her back. Eliza didn't even glance at Tess, but Tess

felt the hostility that rose from her.

She wondered again about what had happened after Jamie had left her last

night, and she was infuriated that it should bother her so much, that it

should hurt and dig into the very center of her being.

Maybe he would turn around now. Eliza was stunning this morning, her

hair ebony against a yellow dress, her eyes huge with anguish. Tess held

her breath. Then she realized that Jamie had picked up his reins, that

he was shouting to her, telling her they were going.

She called out to the mules. The wagon rumbled forward.

She didn't look back. She followed Jamie and Jon Red Feather through the

open gates of the compound, and she sighed with a soft sound of relief

as she heard the gates closing behind her. They were really on their

way. Jamie Slater was coming with her. Eliza hadn't been able to

convince him to stay.

About last night. She didn't know. She just didn't know. She needed a

gun, she reminded herself. She needed a gunman.

It didn't matter that she wanted the man. If rumor was right, he was one

of the fastest guns in the west.

Maybe fortune was beginning to smile upon her just a little.

And maybe, just maybe, she was setting herself up for the heartbreak of

a lifetime.

She couldn't think, and she couldn't worry. He was with her, and they

were on their way, and for now, that just had to be enough.

Chapter Five.

Jamie Slater didn't seem to do anything by half measures. When he set

out to move, he moved.

They pushed hard throughout the morning, either Jamie or Jon riding

ahead to scout out the road, the other riding with Dolly and Tess. Jamie

was true to his word--some- where around midmorning he called a halt,

and Jon came up to take over the reins of the wagon. Dolly and Jon were

comfortable together, old friends who knew one another well and

respected what they knew. And both of them seemed genuinely fond of

Tess, which was nice.

Dolly was full of stories. She didn't chatter, but she kept Tess amused

with tales of Texas in times before Tess had been born.

"Why, Will and I came out here long before Texas was a state. Before

there was a Republic of Texas!

And long, long before the Alamo. Why, I remember some of those boys, and

it was a privilege to know them.

Mountain men, they were good men. They were the stuff that Texans were

made of. Will missed being at the Alamo by just a hairbreadth. He'd been

sent out to deal with Cheyenne. By the time he came back, the boys were

dead.

They say that Davey Crockett was killed there, but that ain't true.

The Mexicans took him prisoner, and they tortured him to death, that was

what the boys said. He was a fiery old cuss.

They never broke him. You can't break a mountain man. You can kill him,

but you can't break him. Kind of like a Blackfoot, eh?"

"A Blackfoot--or an Englishwoman, eh, Dolly?" Jon agreed, grinning.

Dolly chuckled gleefully and agreed.

Tess found herself studying Jon's handsome features. There was no

denying that the man had Indian blood, proud blood. His cheekbones were

wide and broad, his flesh was dark bronze.

And his hair, too, was Indian, black as ink and straight as an arrow.

But his eyes were a deep, startling green.

He caught her studying him, and she blushed.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"It's all right. You're welcome to wonder about me. I'll tell you,

because I like you. My father was a Blackfoot chief.

My mother was the daughter of an English baronet."

" A baronet?"

"Urn. Sir Roger Bennington. Actually, he's a very decent old fellow."

He smiled.

"What does that make you?"

Jori laughed softly.

"A half-breed Blackfoot. Sir Roger did not marry his daughter to an

Indian.

She was kidnapped, but she discovered that she was in love with my

father.

She stayed with the Blackfoot until my father was killed. Then she went

back to England. She died there."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. They were both happy while they lived." Tess hesitated.

"Did you go to England with her? Is that where you acquired your

accent?"

"My accent?" he repeated.

"Well, you don't sound like a Texan or an Indian."

"I'm not a Texan, ~xeept by choice for the moment. I was born in the

Black Hills. And my father was still alive when I went to England. My

mother convinced him that a half breed needed every advantage. My mother

knew that the Indian's day was dying. That the buffalo were being 93

slaughtered.

That the white men were going to push west, and push us west, until we

were pushed fight into the sea or given deser/land as our reservations.

Our prisons."

He spoke hard words, but he spoke them softly.

"You don't seem very bitter," Tess commented.

"Bitter? I'm not. Bitterness is a wasted emotion. I ride with Jamie now

because I choose to be with him. Some time this year, I'll go back to my

father's people. And if the whim takes me, I'll go visit my grandfather

in London. I enjoy the theater and opera there, and Grandfather is a

hardy old cuss. I think he's actually damned pleased when people stare

at his Indian grandson. Actually, I wear formal clothing rather well."

He grinned ruefully, but then his grin faded as he studied her.

"I love the west, too. I love horses, and the feel of a good one racing

beneath me. I love my tribe, and I love this harsh, dry land. And I've

stayed with Jamie because he knows people. He's spent most of his life

fighting, but he still knows people. He goes to war with men, but he

never attacks children."

He gazed at her curiously, looking her up and' down, studying her.

"Jamie believes you. He's come into Indian villages and seen what

certain white men are capable of leaving behind. There are many men in

the cavalry who think that an infant Indian is still an Indian, and that

it will grow to put an arrow in someone's back. There was a lieutenant

who liked to order his soldiers to shoot the women, then bash the

infants' heads together to save bullets."

"God, how awful."

"Jamie knows about things like that. God knows, he saw enough of it

during the war."

"There was nothing like that during the war" -- "Jamie came from the

Kansas and Missouri border.

There was all kinds of stuff like that."

"Yes, but the war's over now," Dolly interrupted mat- ter-of-factly.

"We need to put it behind us. Bless us and save us! It's been five

years!

And Mr. Grant is president now" -- "Mr. Grant could use some help out

here in the west," Jon said dryly.

He smiled again at Tess.

"Ever been to London?"

She shook her head.

"I've n~ver be~n out of Texas."

"Now that is a great loss. A girl like you ought to s~ the world." Jamie

was heading toward them.

"Miss. Stuart, you ar~ welcome to travel with me at any time, in fact,

I'd consider it quite an honor."

Jamie was scowling. Tess lowered her lashes, knowing that Jon had said

the words strictly for Jamie's benefit.

Jamie's great roan stallion was prancing around.

"We seem to be clear for quite a while ahead. Jon, want to ride again?

I'll take over the reins for a while."

"Sure thing." Jon pulled in on the reins. He started to hop down while

Jamie dismounted from his horse. Tess looked at Jamie.

"I do appreciate your concern, but I've scarcely taken the reins myself"

-- "Miss. Stuart, I'll drive the wagon for a while now. After all, we

wouldn't want to ruin the hands of a newspaper woman."

Dolly slapped her on the knee.

"You let him drivel" she said, then she yawned.

"I think I'll ride in back for a while."

She smiled at Tess like a self-satisfied cat and crawled into the back

of the wagon. Tess watched her stretch out on Uncle Joe's bunk. Jamie

climbed up beside her and took the reins. Jon had untied his pinto from

the back of the wagon.

"I'll ride on ahead," he said.

Jamie nodded. Tess was left alone beside Jamie, very aware of the heat

of his thigh despite the heat of the day.

They rode in silence, and the silence se~med to stretch on and on.

Finally Jamie drawled out, "You made it on time this morning. Did you

manage to have a good night's sleep?"

"Yes, I did," she lied pleasantly. She turned to him with her eyes

innocently wide.

"What about you, Lieutenant?

Did you manage to have any sleep at all?" He studied her eyes, then

smiled slowly.

"Yes, I slept."

He didn't elaborate and Tess was infuriated. She wanted some kind of an

answer on this subject, and he was determined not to give her one.

"You seem to have been having a darned nice morning," he commented.

"Have I?"

"I've known Jon Red Feather a long time now. I've never known him to

talk so much."

"He's charming."

Jamie grunted. He flashed her a quick gaze and gave his attention to the

road once again.

"And I'm not?"

"No. You're impudent, insolent and a royal pain, Lieutenant Slater."

"Oh, is that so? Then why were you so anxious for my company?"

She inhaled sharply, staring at him.

"Because you can shoot," she said flatly.

"Why, thank you, Miss. Stuart! Thank you kindly. And you threw yourself

right into my arms the other morning, half naked and all, just because I

shoot."

"Right. Wrong! I was not half naked" -- "You felt as if you were."

"Lieutenant, you are a scurvy, low-down, no-good rodent-"

"But a no-good rodent who can shoot, right?"

"Precisely, Lieutenant," she said with a touch of silk. He nodded,

looking ahead.

"You are awfully determined to stay in Wiltshire, Miss. Stuart.

Couldn't you run a newspaper somewhere else?"

"I could. But I wouldn't own the good cattle land that Joe" -- She

paused.

"Well, it's all mine now."

"Is your life worth the land?"

"You don't understand. It's not just the land. Somebody needs to stand

against this man."

"You do want it desperately."

He was watching her curiously, the hint of a curve to his lips. She

frowned, wondering what he was up to.

"Yes. I do want it desperately. He killed Joe. He might not have ridden

with the men, but he killed Joe. And I'm going to bring him down."

"With the help of a scurvy rodent who can shoot."

"With whatever help I can get. And you do believe me about the attack, I

know you do."

He shrugged.

"Maybe. I've still got my reservations, but I do intend to go into

Wiltshire with you."

"And that's all?" she asked, horrified.

He smiled.

"Just what, Miss. Stuart, do you want out of me? Spell it out. We might

need to come to a few terms here."

"But, but" -- she sputtered.

"But you said you'd find out the truth!

You told Clara"--" I told Clara I'd find out the truth. I didn't tell

her that I'd go to war on your behalf."

"Bastard!" Tess spat out the epithet.

"Calm down, Miss. Stuart! Such language from a very proper and genteel

young Southern woman! I told you, say what you want, and we'll take it

from there."

"What I want? Well, I ... I want you to stay! Then when he sends his

guns, I'll have my guns!"

"Jon Red Feather and I against a horde of hired gunmen. Mm. I should

stand tall and let this man pump me full of bullets for the benefit of

having you call me a scurvy rodent?"

Tess caught her breath and tried to control her temper. She lowered her

lashes and counted to ten, then kept going to twenty, then started all

over again because he was laughing at her.

She moved suddenly, and he must have thought that she meant to strike

him because he cast an imprisoning 97 arm around her. She stiffened in

his hold.

"Lieutenant, this is completely unnecessary."

"Is it? I can't help but feel cautious around you, Miss. Stuart."

She swore softly.

He laughed.

"Go ahead! Laugh!" she said angrily.

"And just run like a cur with its tail between its legs-when we get to

Wiltshire."

"A cur? I thought I was a rodent."

"I can't find words for what you are, Lieutenant."

"Pity," he drawled. His eyes were on her, smoke and fire.

His arm was warm and strong around her. The heat of the sun bore down on

them, and she felt as if it touched her and brought a liquid rush

throughout her. She could not draw her eyes from his, nor could she

dispel the sudden, brilliant memory of his lips upon hers.

"We could bargain, Miss. Stuart."

"Bargain?"

"Yes. If I'm going to die, I'd like it to be for a little more than a

smile."

She stared at him. She felt a heat like that of the sun suffuse

throughout her body, bringing a rampant beat to her heart, a flood of

burning red to her cheeks and a tremor deep inside her. He could only

mean one thing, she was certain. If he was going to stay, he wanted her.

She should have been outraged. She should have been able to say that he

could be damned, that her honor was worth far more than her life.

Except that. There was something that washed over the outrage 'like the

deep, rich waves of the ocean. It was the same thing that caused the

pulse to beat ever more fervently in the column of her throat, the thing

that held her speechless. He watched her, that wry smile twisted so

tauntingly into his features. He was horrid. He was awful.

He was exciting, sensual, masculine. The scent of him beguiled her, just

as his arms beckoned and just as his kiss evoked feelings inside that

she would never be able to forget.

She couldn't just stare at him. She moistened her lips and swallowed

quickly, vowing that she would never let him know just how deeply he did

affect her. "Did you bargain with Miss. Eliza, Lieutenant?"

"Is she still on your mind?"

"Is she on yours?"

He cast back his head and laughed.

"The situation is not at all amusing, Lieutenant."

"Oh, but it is, Miss. Stuart, it's very rich. As you might have noticed,

I didn't really need to bargain with Miss. Worthingham.

If that's what you were inferring. And yet, I didn't happen to mention

yet what our bargain should be. Alas, I could see it in those huge,

innocent, violet eyes! He wants to sully my honor, this cavalry man. For

the price of a pair of spitting Colts! Her heart beats, and she

wonders-my cause! This is my cause! Shouldn't I lay down my honor and my

pride, and give all to this wretched rodent-all for my cause?"

"Someone should shoot you," Tess warned him. "Well, you're trying to

make me into a target, aren't you?

Ah, but then maybe, just maybe, I could die with the exquisite Miss.

Stuart's kiss still damp upon my lips."

She squirmed. She did intend to slap him. "Whoa, Miss. Stuart!" He

laughed, and his arm wound even tighter against her. They were sitting

like newlyweds, she thought disgustedly. She was halfway atop his lap

and she could barely move.

"Lieutenant, you're squashing me!"

"I'm trying to save my jaw, Miss. Stuart! Now calm down. You are

desperate, aren't you?" His eyes looked into hers, and a hard note crept

into his voice.

"You would do anything--anything at all that I asked. How very

intriguing."

"Jamie Slater" -- "Jamie!"

A sharp call from Jon caught their attention. Jamie's arm fell from

around her shoulder, and he leaned forward, reining in. Jon was riding

hard toward them. "What is it?" "Company," Jon said.

"Comanche?"

"Yep."

"How many?"

"Fifty at least. They're covering the hill over the next dune."

"Is it a war party?"

"They're out in feathers and paint, but I think it's a show. I'm pretty

sure it's Running River."

Tess watched as Jamie climbed from the wagon. She wondered if she should

be frightened, and she wondered with greater exasperation if he should

be walking away from her without a thought. He disappeared behind the

wagon, then reappeared on his roan.

"Let's go see Running River," he told Jon. "Wait a minute" -- Tess

began.

"You wanted to drive the wagon," Jamie called.

"Pick up the reins.

Drive."

Then he turned, and he and Jon raced forward. Swearing beneath her

breath, Tess picked up the reins and called to the mules. They started

plodding along.

Dolly crawled into the seat, puffing.

"Comanche! Never did trust 'em."

The mules pulled the wagon over the dune. Tess felt as if her heart

stopped, as if it caught in her throat.

The Comanche seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see.

Bare-chested, in buckskin pants, with various types of feathers banded

around their heads, they sat as still as ghosts. Many carried spears and

shields, others wore quivers at their backs and held their bows proudly.

Not one moved.

They just sat on their horses, looking down at the small party that

approached.

Tess wondered dismally if she was about to become the victim of a real

Indian. Her heart thundered, and she dropped the reins. Jon and Jamie

had pulled in before them, and they sat on their horses on the dune,

watching the Comanche.

The sky seemed afire with the morning light. Earth and horizon seemed to

stretch together in shades of dusty coral and crimson and gold. The

quiet was eerie; not even the wind whispered in the sagebrush.

Then Jamie lifted his hand in some kind of greeting. A loud, shrieking

cry sounded from atop the hill.

And then the Comanche were coming.

Tess screamed as the Indians started toward them in a blazing cloud of

dust, their whoops and cries loud. No one could ride like a Comanche.

The men lay braced against their ponies' necks, they swung beneath them,

they righted themselves again. They came closer and closer. Their cries

sounded ever louder.

Ever more deadly.

"My God, we're going to be butchered!" Tess breathed. "No, no, I don't

think so," Dolly told her calmly.

Astonished, Tess stared at the woman.

"Well, it's Running River. He and Jamie are blood brothers."

"Blood brothers," Tess repeated.

"Yes. The Comanche are warlike, of course. But not this tribe.

Running River has been peaceful since Jamie came out here. He always

deals with the lieutenant, and though there have been Comanche attacks,

they've never been perpetrated by Gray Lake Comanche."

Tess was still unconvinced. There had never been a Comanche attack on

Wiltshire--in fact some Comanche even came to town for work now and

then--but she had heard about the things that could happen, and watching

the extraordinary horsemen bear down upon them did nothing to ease her

spirit.

"My God ..." she breathed, sitting very still. The riders were circling

the wagon, shaking their spears and bows in the air. Now that they were

closer, she could see that their faces and chests were painted in

brilliant colors.

She didn't move, although she didn't know if it was courage or pure

terror that kept her still. She e0uld see Jon and Jamie, still mounted,

as they watched the thundering horses and their riders. Neither reached

for a weapon.

It would be suicide, she thought. They were drastically outnumbered.

The Indians raced by them. The whoops and the cries were suddenly

stilled, and there was silence. Only the dust remained to settle.

The Comanche were motionless again, surrounding the wagon and Jamie and

Jon.

As Tess watched, Jamie lifted his hand again. One of the Indians, his

ink-black hair falling down the length of his naked back, wearing a band

with a single dark feather, urged his mount closer. He walked his horse

straight over to Jamie. Then he reached out his hand, and Jamie clasped

it.

The Indian began to speak. Tess didn't recognize a word, but Jamie and

Jon paid rapt attention.

Then Jamie responded in the Indian's own tongue, easily, effortlessly.

Jon spoke, too, then the Comanche again.

"See," Dolly whispered.

"It was a show. It was a performance. There never was any danger."

Tess exhaled silently. One question had been answered for her. She'd

seen something like this before, but there had been differences. She'd

seen the riders--but with saddled horses, in wigs and feathers and

paint. They hadn't ridden like these Comanche. And they hadn't let out

the terrible eries.

They had been absolutely mute, carrying out their silent executions.

But she had a right to be afraid of this show. "What's going on?" she

asked Dolly.

"How should I know, dear? I don't speak that heathen gibberishl" Tess

stiffened, realizing that Jamie was gesturing to her. The Indian he was

talking to urged his pony toward her, followed closely by Jamie. Reining

to a halt in front of her, the Comanche stared at her. He started to

speak.

Tess swallowed.

He was lean, wiry, menacing in his paint, and yet when he spoke he

smiled, and his teeth were good and strong, and the smile gave some

strange appeal to his face. Tess smiled in return.

"What did he say?" she asked Jamie, between bet teeth.

"He said that he did not kill your uncle."

"Tell him I know that."

Jamie spoke, then the chief broke into a barrage of words again.

Lost, Tess kept nodding and smiling.

"What did he say now?"

"Oh. Well, I told him we were traveling to Wiltshire, and that I was

going to try to prove that the white man had been guilty. If you made it

worth my while, that is. The chief is suggesting that you make it worth

my while. He thinks that you should bargain with me."

"Oh!" Tess gasped furiously. As she frowned, the Comanche chief frowned,

too.

"Oh, my, my!" Dolly murmured beneath her breath. "Smile, Tess!" Jamie

suggested casually.

She smiled. She locked her teeth, and she smiled. The chief spoke again,

quietly.

"What did he say?" Tess demanded.

Jamie didn't answer her.

Jon did.

"He said that you were very beautiful, and that Jamie should take good

care of you."

The chief took Jamie's outstretched hand again, then lifted his spear

high and cast back his head. A loud, startling cry rent the air. Then

the riders were kicking up tremendous clouds of dust again, and racing

across the plain.

Moving like quicksilver, they touched the landscape and were gone. They

disappeared over the hill from which they had come.

Then, slowly, the dust settled again.

Jamie turned to the wagon.

"Come on, ladies. Let's make a little time here, shall we?"

Tess caught hold of the reins, called out to the mules and snapped the

leather in a smart crack. The animals started off with a jolt.

A little while later, Jon rode by the wagon. He smiled to Tess and

Dolly.

"Ladies, are you both all right?"

"Just fine, Jon," Dolly told him.

"Tess?"

She nodded gravely.

"Jon, was Jamie telling the truth?" She flushed slightly.

"Did he tell me the truth about all the chief's words?"

Jon hedged slightly.

"More or less. Running River went a little bit further than Jamie told

you."

"Oh?"

Jon shrugged.

"He said that it might have been Apache that attacked you. The Apache

have refused any treaties, they are constantly warlike, and stray bands

have been known to travel in this area frequently. The Comanche and the

Apache have often been enemies."

"Does Jamie know the Apache as well as he knows this Running River?"

"No. The Apache do not want to be known." Tess shivered, and Jori

quickly amended his statement.

"He does know a few of the warriors and chiefs. They will at least talk

to him. He speaks the Apache language as well as he does the Comanche."

"It's all heathen gibberish to me!" Dolly announced. Jon grinned at

Tess, and Tess felt somewhat better. There was something very reassuring

about Jamie's abilities.

Maybe it could be proven that the Apache were no more guilty of the

attack than the Comanche.

Jon waved and rode on ahead.

"I'll take the reins for a bit now," Dolly told her. "You don't need to"

-- "I'll be bored as tears if I don't put inmy part, dear. Now hand them

over."

Tess grinned and complied.

They rode until sunset, then until the first cooling rays of the night

touched them. Jamie and Jon knew the terrain.

Again, they knew where to find water. Tess climbed from the wagon the

minute they stopped, stretching, trying to ease the discomfort in her

back. Jamie pointed out the path through the trees to the little brook,

and she started out in silence, aware that Dolly followed her. The water

moved over rock and along the earth, barely three inches of it, but she

cupped her hands into it and drank thirstily, then splashed in huge

handfuls over her face and throat, heedless that she soaked her gown.

Beside her, Dolly dipped her handkerchief in the water and soaked her

face and throat and arms with it.

"Ah, the good lord doth deliver!" she said cheerfully.

"Jamie! Come on in, the water's fine, Lieutenant!"

Tess froze, aware only then that Jamie was standing silently behind her.

Dolly her ted up her bulk.

"Guess I'll head back and see if Jon's got a cooking fire started yet."

She stepped by. Jamie knelt in Dolly's place. He doffed his hat and

untied the kerchief from his throat, then soaked it as Dolly had. He

leaned low and plunged in his whole head, then rubbed the kerchief over

his throat and shoulders. Tess stared at him, unaware that she did so.

He smiled, watching her. She jumped slightly when he touched her

cotton-clad shoulder.

"You're soaked," he told her.

"I suppose so."

He grinned, recalling memories of a different brook, a different time.

"I rather like you wet."

"You" -- "Ah, now, please, Miss. Stuart!"

She fell silent, but his smile faded and he sat on his haunches, folding

his hands idly over his knees.

"We've got to talk, Tess."

She didn't intend to blush, but color rose swiftly to her cheeks.

Damn him!

"What?" she said harshly.

"Well, I'm waiting to find out if you're going to bargain with me or

not."

She was silent, feeling her body burn. "Well?"

"You are a bastard."

"Come, come, now, Miss. Stuart, will you bargain?" She leaped to her

feet.

"Yes!" she spat at him.

"Yes-and you were right, you knew damned well that I would do so. I am

desperate. You can have anything. Anything that you want."

She swung around in what she hoped was indignant fury. She was suddenly

blinded. She nearly tripped as she started forward. She reached for a

branch to steady herself. "Miss. Stuart!"

he called to her lightly.

"Oh, for God's sake! What now?" she demanded. "Well, pardon me, but you

didn't wait to hear just what it was that I wanted."

"What?" she gasped.

"I said" -- "But, but ..."

She stared at him. He was still seated so comfortably on the ground,

casual now, idly chewing upon a long blade of grass.

"But, but, but, Miss. Stuart! Where is your mind, dear lady, but deep,

deep down in the gutter?"

He stood. Warily she backed away from him.

"Listen, Lieutenant, I'm not sure that you do shoot well enough for all

this!

What do you want now?"

She backed straight into a tree. He was right in front of her, smiling.

He stroked her cheek lightly with his knuckle and laughed softly as she

indignantly twisted her face to the side.

"Still waters do run deep, eh, Miss. Stuart? You ready to listen?"

"What" -- "Land."

"What?" she repeated, dazed.

"Land. I want some acreage. Some of your prime acreage, and maybe a few

cattle. If I'm going to go out and die for this land, I'd like to have a

bit of it in my own name."

"That's--that's what you want?"

' "That's it ."

"Land?

"Land, Miss. Stuart. I know you've heard the word." She pressed against

the tree, slipping her hands behind her to hold furtively to keep

herself from falling. Then a crimson blush surged to her cheeks again,

and she raged out in a tempest.

"You! You made me think that--oh, God! You are the lowest, most horrid,

most terrible" -- "Disappointed?" he interrupted pleasantly. She

shrieked something unintelligible and swung at him.

He caught her hand before she could strike him, but she continued to pit

herself against him. He pulled her against him, lacing his arms around

her.

"Don't be angry" -- "Angry! I could gouge out your eyes" -- "Ouch! It

would be hard as hell for me to aim at this yon Heusen of yours if you

did that."

"I could shoot off both your knee caps!"

"Then how could I get places to find out the truth?"

"All right! All right! You fight yon Heusen, then I'll gouge out your

eyes and shoot your knee caps. Now let go of me!"

"No, not yet, I'd be risking my eyesight, I'm afraid. Or my--ouch!" he

said as she stamped on his foot. Her feet were dangerous. And her knees.

"Don't even think about it!" be warned her, pressing her so close

against the tree trunk that she could barely breath.

Nor could she kick him--his thigh was pressed close to hers. Her breasts

heaved with agitation; her heart was thundering.

His lips were close. So close to hers. He was going to kiss her again,

she thought. And if he did, she'd probably let him get away with it,

despite all he had done to her. "Did you know that you have a really

beautiful mouth, Miss. Stuart?" he asked, his own nearly touching it.

"Ah! Not nearly so beautiful as my cattle!" she retorted.

He laughed softly again.

"You are disappointed."

"Don't deceive yourself, Lieutenant. I am vastly relieved."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you're an egotist and a scurvy rat."

"Why is it that you just beguile me so, Tess Stuart? Is it that you

taste like wine and smell of roses, even in the most god-awful heat of

the day.

Is it that fall of golden hair, or your eyes, like wild violets? No ...

it must be the tender words you're always whispering so gently to me.

Words like ... scurvy rat."

"Lieutenant, will you please" -- "I do want you."

"What?" she cried.

"Very much. But I don't want to bargain about it. When you decide to be

with me, you'll do so because you want to.

You might have to think it through and weigh all the factors, or you

might just wake up one night and come to re108 aliz~ that it's going to

be, that there's just something there. I feel it when I touch you, when

I'm near you.

"You're a fool!"

"Am I?"

He l~aned closer. H~ was going to ~ h~ aga~. "Don'tv' she cfi~ out.

H~ igno~ the wa~ing, tang h~ lips with his ~n, ~d ou~ sh~ m~bl~ a ~nd

prot, her mouth was al- ~dy pa~g to his. ~d his tongu~ was d~,. d~

within bet, and it touch~ her in pla~ it could not possibly ~ch.

She ~ ~at h~ was right, and she ha~ ~ for it, but she ~ h~ stffi, and

she wan~ h~ stffi. She t~bl~ against th~ swat sava~e~ of his touch, and

she felt the p~u~ of ~s b~y, of h~ t~ aga~st h~, of mo~ than his thigh.

H~ hands we~ in her hair, strong her fa~, rounding over the full ri~ of

her b~st, and sh~ was still bra~ against him, unabl~ to do anything

other than f~l. ~en he ~1~ her. She gas~ ragg~ly and fell back.

His lips ~ghtly bmsh~ fffst her forbid, then her ch~ks. He smile.

"Egotist, eh?"

He w~ off guard. She sl~m~ her ~ aga~st h~. She didn't qui~ hit home,

but she must have given h~ a good bm~ in the thigh. He groan~ at ~e pa~,

gritting h~ ~th, flash~g her a lethal glad.

"~ Stua~, if I didn't have ~me vague memo~ of ~- ~g a gentleman" -- "If

you have any memo~ at all, sir, it must ~ vague~"

"Miss. S~art, I should tan" -- "Do ex~ me, Lieut~ant," she ~id, at~pt~g

to s~ past h~.

"It's not that you have~'t got d~nt lips, it's just that it's ~possible

to know wh~e they've ~n befog."

"~nt lips]"

"~nt, y~," she said sw~tly, still walking. He caught h~ a~ and pull~ her

into his a~s.

"I ~uld just" -- be ~gan, but then he laughs.

"Impo~ible to 109 know where they've been before! Why, honest to God! I

do believe that you're jealous!"

"Not on your life, Lieutenant!" she protested. But he touched his lips

to hers again, sweeping her swiftly into realms she was just beginning

to discover, then righting her just as quickly and dropping his arms. He

cast his arm out, indicating the trail.

"After you, Miss. Stuart. I will always wait."

"You'll wait until you're old and gray!" she snapped. She was jealous,

she thought. Anguished. It was painful to care like this, so deeply and

so quickly.

He smiled serenely.

"Will I?"

She managed to return the smile.

"Not all women are like Miss. Eliza, Lieutenant."

"No? I had rather thought that they were--at heart."

"You're mistaken."

"Maybe you're mistaken. Maybe most women are hypocrites."

"Oh, you are impossiblev' Tess cried. She swung around and began to

stride angrily toward the wagon.

But before she could reach the break in the bushes, he had pulled her

back.

She started to snap something to him, but the words caught in her throat

when his smoky gaze fell upon her.

"Tess, you are different."

"Different from what?"

He smiled.

"From any other woman I have met," he said softly.

Then he stepped past her and preceded her to the camp fire Jori had

burning with a welcoming warmth and light.

Chapter Six.

The delicious aroma of cooking was already filling the air as Tess

stepped toward the fire. She inhaled deeply as she tried to dispel her

immediate memories of Lieutenant Slater. The fire had been set in the

center of the clearing. A small animal roasted on a spit atop it. Jon,

on his haunches, turned the spit. On a bed of hot rocks surrounding the

fire sat a coffeepot.

Dolly was coming from the wagon with tin plates, and with mugs for the

coffee. She smiled at Tess.

"Rabbit! A nice, plump brown rabbit. Jon caught and skinned that thing

in minutes flat. I do declare, he's a fine provider!"

"Yes, he is," Tess said, smiling at Jon. She strode past him and

daintily swept her skirts beneath her to sink upon the ground. Jamie was

coming across the clearing toward them, too. He sat beside her.

"You caught a big one," Jamie acknowledged.

"Good."

"We need some water for this coffeepot," Dolly said.

"I'll get it," Jamie and Tess volunteered simultaneously. "Fine, you get

it," Tess said.

"No, you can go."

"But, Lieutenant" -- "Jori, give me the damned pot, will you?" Jamie

said.

He started toward the brook, then paused, looking back.

"How's our supply in the barrels?" "Good," Jon said.

"Later we can fill the canteens." Jamie nodded and started toward the

water.

Tess hesitated a minute, then started after him. "Tess!" Dolly called.

"I'll be right back!" "We'll never have coffee!" Dolly said dolefully.

Tess ignored her.

She was panting and breathless, and wondering what in hell had made her

rush into the den with the lion.

She caught up with Jamie at the brook. When he wanted to, he could move

quickly.

He stared at her as he filled the coffeepot, arehing one brow.

"You want acreage," she said.

"How much?"

"Well, now, I don't know. I haven't seen the property, have I?"

"Give me an idea."

He shrugged. His eyes were hard as he stared at her. "Half. Half of what

you own."

She gasped, stunned.

"You're insane!"

"I can ride back to the fort."

"But you don't even know what I own!"

"That's right. You're the one pushing the point here."

"A quarter."

"Half."

"Never!"

"Half. And that will be it. I won't ask another thing of you, Miss.

Stuart."

"Not on your life."

"We can ride right back." He stood and walked toward her. He didn't

touch her, but he was smiling still.

"Miss. Stuart, normally I don't barter at all, not without seeing what

it is I'm willing to risk my life for."

"You're in the cavalry. You risk your life daily."

"They pay me. And you" -- "I'll pay you wages."

He shook his head slowly.

"You know what I want."

Tremors swept through her. She did know what he wanted--and he kept

saying it was property. He kept smiling, and his eyes roamed up and down

the length of her. "Like I said, I usually like to see what I'm buying

with my time and my Colt. Since I trust you so, I'm willing to take a

chance in this circumstance."

"A quarter," Tess said firmly.

"Half."

He walked by her quickly. She stumbled to keep up with him, but he moved

too fast. She was still stumbling when he walked into the clearing. She

slammed into him and he turned, lifting her chin.

"Half!" he whispered.

She pulled quickly away from him.

"We'll discuss it later. I think you're insane. I think you're just as

crooked as von Heusen. Just another Yankee carpetbagger."

He stiffened, dropped her chin and turned in harsh, military fashion,

then took the coffeepot to the fire. He sank down across from Jori.

"Well, the coffee will taste much better once we've eaten that sizzlin'

sweet rabbit all up!" Dolly said cheerfully.

"It's cooked enough for me," Jon said, leaning over and ripping off a

leg.

He winced as the meat burned his fingers, then he smiled.

"Dig in!"

They all ate hungrily, and in silence. Jamie rose and brought a loaf of

hard bread from the supply pack. It didn't matter that it was hard--it

was delicious. And when they were finished eating, the coffee was done.

It did taste wonderful after all the food, just as Dolly had so

cheerfully suggested.

It grew dark as they sipped it. Velvet dark. The moon was a bare sliver

in the sky, but there were hundreds of stars out, dotting the heavens.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Dolly said.

"Very nice," Tess agreed. She yawned.

"We should take the dishes to the water and wash them now."

"Don't be absurd. It's dark as Hades," Jamie said harshly. His eyes were

smoke when they touched her. He was furious, she realized. And it wasn't

their arguing over the payment in acreage, it couldn't be. He liked to

taunt her and anger her, the silver light of challenge was always in his

eyes then.

But he wasn't feeling fondly toward her at all at the moment, she was

certain. Her heart beat too-hard as his eyes touched her, and she

thought she saw something lethal in him, something that made her shiver,

something that made her think she did not want him to be her enemy. He

was coming to fight her battle, she reminded herself.

But then why did he look as if he wanted to strangle her? "I--I can

bring a lantern," she heard herself saying.

"Dammit, you can just wait until morning!" Jamie said irritably. He

stood, tossing the last of his coffee into a bush.

Then he strode away, disappearing into the darkness. Tess cast a quick

glance toward Jori.

"What's the matter with him?"

Jon shrugged.

"I don't know. You'll have to find out yourself." He stood and

stretched.

"Ladies, I suggest an early night."

"He's gone off on his own!" Tess said indignantly. "He's taking first

guard," Jon said softly.

"I'm going to bed," Dolly announced.

"Tess, now you come, too."

Jori was dragging his saddle and blanket to the fire. He stretched out

and closed his eyes, setting his hat over his face. Dolly headed for the

wagon.

Tess hesitated, then decided to go after Jamie.

She heard Jon rise as she moved into the bushes, and she swore softly,

certain that he would follow her. He did. But before he could reach her,

a hand snaked out for her, catching her arm, swinging her around. She

tossed back her head and met Jamie's angry eyes. She wrenched free from

his grasp.

For safety's sake, she took a step backward.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Looking for you."

"I told you not to run around in the dark!"

"But you" -- "Miss. Stuart, from now on, you're taking orders from me.

And from now on, you listen. And if I hear one more crack out of you

about my being a Yank just like von Heusen, I'll tan your backside until

it's the color of a Comanche. Are we understood?"

"No!" she snapped indignantly.

He took a single step toward her. In the near darkness, his eyes seemed

to glitter with a menacing light.

She decided that she wasn't going to tempt fate any further that

evening.

She didn't think he made idle threats.

She turned and fled.

Jon was standing not far from the camp fire. He had seen her reach

Jamie.

She slowed her pace as she saw him. She smiled pleasantly and wished him

good night. "Good night, Tess," he told her.

She crawled into the wagon. Dolly was already softly snoring. Tess

unhooked her shoes. Closing the cover of the wagon, she stripped down to

her chemise and pantalets. She crawled into her bunk, closed her eyes

and made every effort to sleep. Her heart was still pounding, and she