Dark Stranger

Dark Stranger by Heather Graham

(Slater Bros #1)

PART 1

The Stranger

CHAPTER ONE

Summer,

The Kansas /Missouri border

The hoofbeats were the warning. The relentless, pounding hoofbeats. The sound of them sparked a sense of primal fear deep inside Kristin. Strangely, before she'd first felt the staccato rhythm through the ground, she hadn't contemplated such a danger. The day had been too ordinary, and perhaps she had been too naive. She had expected a storm, but not of the magnitude that was to come.

It began with the stillness in the air. As she came along the path through the orchards from the river, Kristin paused. The breeze had dropped. The day had gone dead still. The sudden calm gave her a strange feeling, and she searched the sky. Overhead, she saw blue, a beautiful blue. No clouds marred that endless blue.

It was the calm before the storm, she thought. Here, on the Missouri side of the Kansas-Missouri border, storms were frequent and vicious. Blue skies turned to smoke, and vicious twisters whirled out of nowhere.

Then she heard the hoofbeats.

She looked out across the plain that stretched away from the house. A tumbleweed caught by a sudden gust of wind blew across a patch of parched earth.

Bushwhackers.

The word came unbidden to her mind, and raw fear swept through her, fear and denial. Please, God, no…

Pa! Matthew, Shannon…

Kristin began to run. Her heart began to race, thundering along with the sound of the hoofbeats.

Pa was already dead, she reminded herself. They'd already come to kill him. They'd come, on a cloudless day, and they'd dragged him out in front of the house. He had drowned in a pool of his own blood while she had stood there screaming. There had been nothing, nothing she could do.

Matthew was safe. He'd gone off to join up with the Union Army near the Mississippi. He had said she would be safe. After all, they'd already killed Pa in his own front yard, killed him and left him bleeding.

Bleeding. They called it "bleeding Kansas," and though they were on the Missouri side of the border here, the blood ran thick and deep. The War Between the States had boiled down to a barbarian savagery here. Men did not just fall in battle here, they were cruelly, viciously executed — seized, judged and murdered. Kristin had few illusions; one side was almost as bad as the other. The dream of freedom, the dream of endless land and a life of dignity and bounty had drowned in rivers of blood. The dream was dead, and yet it seemed that was all she had left to fight for. Her father had died for it, and they thought she would flee, but she wouldn't. She couldn't. She had to fight. There was nothing else to do.

Shannon.

Cold dread caught in her throat. Shannon was up at the house. Young, frightened, vulnerable.

Her feet slapped against the dry earth as the hoofbeats came closer. How many of them were there? Maybe twenty, like the day they had come to kill Pa? Maybe not so many. Maybe they knew that Matthew had gone off to fight in the war and that no one remained behind but the girls, the foreman, a maid and a few young hands. She almost felt like laughing. They'd tried to take Samson and Delilah the last time they had come. They didn't understand that the two were free, able to make their decisions. Pa wasn't a fanatical abolitionist; he had just liked Samson, plain and simple, so he had freed them on the occasion of their marriage. Little Daniel had been born free, and they'd all come here together in search of the dream…

Kristin stumbled and fell, gasping for breath. The riders were just behind the trees to her left. She heard screams and shouts, and she knew they were slaughtering whatever cattle they could lay their hands on. This wasn't war.

This was carnage.

She staggered to her feet, smoothing back stray tendrils of hair still damp from her early-morning swim in the river.

They could hold the attackers off. She would be prepared this time. She wouldn't assume that some of these men would be old friends and acquaintances. She wouldn't assume that they were human, that they knew anything about morals or ethics or simple decency. She didn't think she would ever trust in such things again.

Suddenly, while Kristin was still several hundred yards from the house, the horsemen burst through the trees.

"Samson!" she screamed. "Samson! Get me Pa's six-shooter. Samson!"

Samson, a tall, dignified black man, burst through the front door. He glanced at Kristin, then at the horsemen racing through the corn, trampling the tender green stalks.

"Run, Miz Kristin, run!"

She could hardly breathe, could hardly speak. "Pa's Colt, get me the Colt! Tell Shannon to get to the cellar!"

"Samson, what is it?"

Samson turned to see Shannon standing behind him in the hallway.

"Bushwhackers," he said grimly. "Where's Delilah?"

"Out back, feeding the chickens."

She was in the barn. His wife was in the barn. God, he prayed silently, give her the good sense to stay there!

"Shannon," he told her, "you get yourself in the cellar."

She turned away, and Samson hurried back to the hallway, then paused. He thought he'd heard something around back. When the sound wasn't repeated, he looked out the front door again. He could see the riders, and he could see Kristin running.

There were about twenty men, Samson reckoned. Just an offshoot of a bigger raiding party, probably. Some of Quantrill's raiders.

Quantrill himself was a damned butcher. He sanctioned the horror, and the death. Once upon a time he'd been friends with Gabriel McCahy, Kristin and Shannon's father, but one of his henchmen, a man named Zeke Moreau, had wanted Kristin. She hadn't wanted anything to do with him, though. She was in love with Adam Smith. But Adam was dead now, too. Dead like her pa, dead like hundreds of men.

Now Zeke Moreau was coming back. He was coming for Kristin. Samson was sure of it.

"Samson!"

Her eyes met his, desperate, pleading.

Those might be God-fearing gentlemen out there, but if they captured a black man after he had leveled a Colt at them, even in his own defense, they would skin him alive.

It didn't matter. Gabriel McCahy had been the most decent man Samson had ever met. He would lose his skin over old Gabe's daughter if he had to.

He swung around, ready to rush into the house and get the guns. Then he paused, his eyes going wide and his throat closing up, hot and dry.

Zeke Moreau was already in the house. He was standing in the hallway, on the polished oak floor, and he had a double-barreled shotgun leveled right at Samson.

A slight sound caught Samson's attention. He turned swiftly to see that another man was holding Delilah, one arm around her waist, a hand tight against her mouth.

"Watch it, Samson," Zeke said. "Be quiet now, or I'll hang you, boy. Hang you 'til you're dead. Then I'll see that your woman and your kid wind up on the auction block down Savannah way."

Zeke Moreau smiled slowly. He was dark-haired, with a dark, curling mustache, and Samson thought he would look more at home on a riverboat with a deck of cards than he did now, standing there in chaps and a vest, holding a shotgun. He was a good-looking man, except for his eyes. Cold, pale eyes, just like Kristin had always said.

Samson smiled back. "You murdered Gabriel, didn't you?"

Zeke rested his shotgun against his thigh. Samson was a big man, a good six-foot-six, and he was all muscle. But Zeke knew Samson wasn't going to move. Not while Delilah was being held.

"Now, Zeke, Gabe was my friend. He had some bad acquaintances, and he shot off his mouth too much, but I was mighty sorry to hear what happened to him. And it hurt me, hurt me bad, to hear about young Matthew running off to join up with them Yanks."

"Samson!"

He spun around at the sound of Kristin's voice. Just as she reached the steps, her voice rose in a sudden scream.

The horsemen had reached the steps, too, and Kristin was trapped. She was choking in a cloud of dust as they circled her, chasing her back into the center of their trap every time she tried to elude them.

As Samson watched, she cried out and ran again. An Appaloosa ridden by a yellow-toothed scavenger in a railroad man's frock coat cut her off completely. She turned again, and the man rode closer, reaching down to sweep her up. She clawed at him, and Samson saw the blood run down the man's cheek. Kristin cursed and swore, fighting like a tigress. The Appaloosa reared and shrieked as its rider wrenched hard on the reins. The man struck out with a whip, and Kristin fell. As Samson watched, the Appaloosa reared again and again, its hooves just missing Kristin's face.

She didn't move, didn't flinch. She just stared up at the man, hatred in her eyes.

Samson charged toward the door, but Zeke stepped up behind him, slamming his head hard with the butt of his shotgun.

Kristin cried out as she saw him fall through the doorway, blood trickling down his forehead.

Then she saw Zeke. He stepped over Samson's body and onto the porch. A man came from behind, holding Delilah. She screamed, and the man laughed, then threw her down on top of Samson. Sobbing, she held her husband.

The horses around Kristin went still, and the men fell silent.

Kristin got to her feet and stared at the man. She even managed a semblance of a smile.

"Why, Mr. Moreau, what a pleasure." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Zeke Moreau let out a long sigh. "Dear, dear Kristin. It just never seems to cross that little mind of yours that you're in deep trouble, girl."

"Trouble, Zeke? I'm not in any trouble. Trouble is something that's hard to handle. You're just a fly to be swatted away, nothing more."

"Look around, Kristin. You know, you've always been a real sassy piece of baggage. The boys and me, we think it's about time you paid for that. You are in trouble, honey. Deep trouble." He started walking toward her.

Kristin held her ground. She'd never known what it was like to hate before. Not the way she hated Zeke. Her hatred for him was fierce and intense and desperate. She stared at him and suddenly she knew why he had come, knew why he was moving slowly, why he was smiling. This was vengeance, and he meant to savor it.

She didn't give a damn. She wasn't even really frightened. She knew that she would scratch and claw and fight just as long as she was still breathing, as long as her heart was still beating. He couldn't understand that she had already won. She had won because she hated him so much that he couldn't really touch her.

Zeke kept walking toward her, his smile still in place. "Fight me, Kristin," he said softly. "I like it that way."

"You disgust me," she hissed. She didn't tell him that he would pay, didn't threaten revenge. There was no law to make him pay, and whatever revenge she dealt out would have to be now.

"You know, once upon a time, I wanted to marry you. Yeah, I wanted to head out to the wild, wild west and make you my wife. I wanted to hit the gold fields out in California, and then I wanted to build you a fine house on a hill and make you into a real lady."

"I am a real lady, Zeke. But you're just dirt — and no amount of gold could make you anything but."

She raised her chin slightly. There was a hard core of fear inside her, she realized. This man didn't want her to die. He wanted her to pay. He wanted her to cry out in fear, wanted her to beg for mercy, and she was afraid that he could make her do it.

Zeke would never, never be prosecuted. No matter what he did to her.

He smiled and lunged toward her, and his men hooted and called from the backs of their mounts.

Kristin screamed. Then she grabbed a handful of the loose Missouri dirt, cast it into Zeke's eyes and turned to run.

The Appaloosa came at her again, with its dead-eyed rider. She tried to escape, but the animal reared, and she had to fall and roll to avoid its hooves.

She heard Zeke swearing and turned to see that he was almost upon her again. The dirt clung to his face, clumps of it caught in his mustache.

She leaped up and spun toward him. The catcalls and whistles from the mounted men were growing louder and more raucous.

Escape was impossible. Zeke caught hold of her arms. She slammed her fists against his chest and managed to free herself. In a frenzy, she brought up her knee with a vengeance. Zeke let out a shrill cry of pain; his hold on her eased, and she broke free.

Someone laughed and before Kristin could gain her breath the back of Zeke's hand caught her. Her head swam, and she felt his hands on her again. Wildly, she scratched and kicked and screamed. Sounds rose all around her, laughter and catcalls and cheers. Her nails connected with flesh, and she clawed deeply. Zeke swore and slapped her again, so hard that she lost her balance and she fell.

He was quick. He straddled her while her head was still spinning. The hoots and encouraging cheers were growing louder and louder.

She gathered her strength and twisted and fought anew. Zeke used his weight against her while he tried to pin her wrists to the ground. Gasping for breath, she saw that while she might be losing, Zeke's handsome face was white, except for the scratches she had left on his cheek. He was in a cold, lethal rage, and he deliberately released his hold on her to slap her again with a strength that sent her mind reeling.

She couldn't respond at first. She was only dimly aware that he had begun to tear at her clothing, that her bodice was ripped and that he was shoving up her skirt. Her mind cleared, and she screamed, then began to fight again.

Zeke looked at her grimly. Then he smiled again. "Bitch," he told her softly. He leaned against her, trying to pin her mouth in a savage kiss while his hands roamed over her.

Kristin twisted her head, tears stinging her eyes. She could probably live through the rape. What she couldn't bear was the thought that he was trying to kiss her.

She managed to bite his lower lip.

He exploded into a sound of pure rage and jerked away, a thin line of blood trickling down his chin.

"You want it violent, honey?" he snarled. "That's the way you're going to get it then. Got that, Miss High-and-Mighty?"

He hitched up her skirt and touched her bare thigh, and she braced herself for the brutality of his attack, her eyes shut tight.

Just then the world seemed to explode. Dirt spewed all around her; she tasted it on her tongue.

Her eyes flew open, and she saw that though Zeke was still posed above her he seemed as disoriented as she was.

Even the men on horseback were silent.

A hundred yards away, stood a single horseman.

He wore a railroad man's frock coat, and his hat sat low over his forehead, a plumed feather extending from it.

He carried a pair of six-shooters, holding them with seeming nonchalance. Yet one had apparently just been fired. It had caused the noise that had sounded like an explosion in the earth. Along with the six-shooters, there was a rifle shoved into his saddle pack.

His horse, a huge sleek black animal, began to move closer in a smooth walk. Finally he paused, only a few feet away. Stunned, Kristin stared at him. Beneath the railroad coat he wore jeans and a cotton shirt and he had a scarf around his throat. He wasn't wearing the uniform of either army; he looked like a cattleman, a rancher, nothing more.

Or a gunfighter, Kristin thought, bewildered.

His face was chiseled, strong. His hair was dark, lightly dusted with gray. His mustache and beard were also silvered, and his eyes, beneath jet-black brows, were silver-gray, the color of steel.

"Get away from her, boy," the stranger commanded Zeke. His voice was deep, rich. He spoke softly, but the sound carried. It was the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

"Who's gonna make me?" Zeke snarled.

It was a valid question. After all, he was surrounded by his men, and the stranger was alone.

The man tipped his hat back from his forehead. "I'm telling you one more time, boy. Get off the lady. She doesn't seem to want the attention."

The sun slipped behind a cloud. The stranger suddenly seemed no more than a silhouette, an illusion of a man, atop a giant stallion.

Zeke made a sound like a growl, and Kristin realized that he was reaching for his Colt. She inhaled to scream.

She heard a sound of agony rend the air, but it wasn't hers. Blood suddenly streamed onto her chest. In amazement, she realized Zeke had cried out, and it was Zeke whose blood was dripping down on her. The stranger's bullet had struck him in the wrist.

"Fools!" Zeke shouted to his men. "Shoot the bastard."

Kristin did scream then. Twenty men reached for their weapons, but not one of them got off a shot.

The stranger moved quickly. Like double flashes of lightning, his six-shooters spat fire, and men fell.

When the shooting stopped, the stranger dismounted. His guns were back in his gun belt, but he carried a revolver as he walked slowly toward her.

He tipped his hat to Zeke. "I don't like killing, and I do my damnedest not to shoot a man in cold blood. Now, I'm telling you again. Get away from the lady. She doesn't want the attention."

Zeke swore and got to his feet. The two men stared at one another.

"I know you from somewhere," Zeke said.

The stranger reached down and tossed Zeke his discarded Colt. "Maybe you do." He paused for just a moment, arching one dark brow. "I think you've outworn your welcome here, don't you agree?"

Zeke reached down for his hat and dusted it furiously against his thigh, staring at the stranger. "You'll get yours, friend," he promised softly.

The stranger shrugged in silence, but his eyes were eloquent.

Zeke smiled cruelly at Kristin. "You'll get yours, too, sweetheart."

"If I were you," the stranger said softly, "I'd ride out of here now, while I still could."

Furiously, Zeke slammed his hat back on his head, then headed for one of the now riderless horses. He mounted the animal and started to turn away.

"Take your refuse with you." The stranger indicated the dead and wounded bodies on the ground.

Zeke nodded to his men. A number of them tossed the dead, wounded and dying onto the skittish horses.

"You'll pay," Zeke warned the stranger again. Then his mount leaped forward and he was gone. The stranger watched as the horses galloped away. Then he turned to Kristin and she felt color flood her face as she swallowed and clutched her torn clothing. She stumbled to her feet.

"Thank you," she said simply.

He smiled, and she found herself trembling. He didn't look away gallantly. He stared at her, not disguising his bold assessment.

She moistened her lips, willing her heart to cease its erratic beating. She tried to meet his eyes.

But she couldn't, and she flushed again.

The day was still again. The sun was bright, the sky blue.

Was this the calm before the storm?

Or had some strange new storm begun? Kristin could sense something in the air, an elusive crackling, as if lightning were sizzling between them. Something tense and potent, searing into her senses.

And then he touched her, slipping his knuckles beneath her chin.

"Think you might offer a drifter a meal, Miss —"

"McCahy. Kristin McCahy," she offered softly.

"Kristin," he murmured. Then he smiled again. "I could use something to eat."

"Of course."

She couldn't stop staring at him now, searching out his eyes. She hoped fervently that he couldn't feel the way she was trembling.

He smiled again and brushed her fingers with a kiss. Kristin flushed furiously, suddenly aware that her breast was almost bare beneath her torn chemise and gown. She swallowed fiercely and covered herself.

He lowered his eyes, hiding a crooked smile. Then he indicated Samson, who was just coming to in the doorway. "I think we should see to your friend first, Kristin," he said.

Delilah stood up, trying to help Samson. "You come in, mister," she said. "I'll make you the best meal this side of the Mississippi. Miz Kristin, you get in here quick now, too. We'll get you some hot water and wash off the filth of that man."

Kristin nodded, coloring again. "Shannon?" she whispered softly to Delilah.

"Your sister's in the cellar. Things seem to be all right. Oh, yes, bless the heavens, things seem to be all right."

The stranger started toward the steps, and Kristin followed, watching his broad shoulders. But then she paused and shivered suddenly.

He had come out of nowhere, out of the dirt and dust of the plain, and he had saved her from disaster and despair.

But Zeke Moreau had ridden away alive.

And Zeke Moreau would surely ride back, once the stranger had ridden on and she was alone again.

It wasn't over. Zeke had come for her once, and he would come again. He wasn't fighting for Missouri, for the South, for the code of chivalry. He was in this to loot, to murder, to rob — and to rape. He would come back for her. He sought out his enemies when they were weak, and he would know when she was weak again.

They would have to leave, she thought. This was her home, the only home she could remember. This land was a dream, a dream realized by a poor Irish immigrant.

But that immigrant lay dead. Gabriel McCahy lay with his Kathleen in the little cemetery out back. He lay there with young Joe Jenley, who had tried to defend him. The dream was as dead as Pa.

She couldn't just give it up. She had to fight the Zeke Moreaus of the world. She just couldn't let Pa's death be in vain.

But she had fought, and she had lost.

She hadn't lost, not this time. The stranger had come.

Kristin straightened, squared her shoulders and looked after the tall, dark man who was moving up her steps with grace and ease. The man with the set of six-shooters and the shotgun.

The man who had aimed with startling, uncanny precision and speed.

Who was he?

And then she knew it didn't matter, she just didn't care. Her eyes narrowed pensively.

And she followed the curious dark stranger into her house.

CHAPTER TWO

A fire burned warmly against the midmorning chill in the enormous kitchen. Even with her head back and her eyes closed, she could imagine everything Delilah was cooking from the aromas that surrounded her over the rose scent of her bath. Slab bacon sizzled in a frying pan along with hearty scrapple. There would be flapjacks, too, with melted butter and corn syrup. Delilah was also going to cook eggs in her special way, with chunks of ham and aged cheese. They were usually careful about food these days. If Quantrill's raiders didn't come looking to steal horses and cattle — or worse — the Union side would come around needing supplies. Kristin had long ago been stripped of all her illusions about the ethics of either side. There were men on both sides who claimed to be soldiers but were nothing but thieves and murderers. This wasn't a war; it was a melee, a bloody, desperate free-for-all.

It was amazing that the family still had enough to eat. There was the secret cellar, of course. That had saved them many a time. And today it didn't matter. Today, well, today they all deserved a feast.

The stranger deserved a feast.

The kitchen door was pushed open, and Kristin sank deeper into the bubbles that flourished in the elegant brass bathtub, an inheritance from Kristin's mother, who had dragged it all the way over from Bristol, in England.

She needn't have feared. It was only Delilah. "How you doin' there, child?" she demanded. She reached into the cabinet above the water pump and pulled out a bottle of Kristin's father's best Madeira. She set the bottle and a little tray of glasses on the counter and pulled the kettle off the kitchen fire to add more steaming water to Kristin's bath.

Kristin looked into Delilah's dark eyes. "I feel like I'm never going to get clean, Delilah. Never. Not if I wash from here to doomsday."

Delilah poured out the last of the water, warming Kristin's toes. Then she straightened and set the kettle down on the hearth. She walked over to the stove to check the bacon and the scrapple. "It could have been a lot worse," she said softly, staring out the window at the now deceptively peaceful day. "Thank the Lord for small miracles." She looked back at Kristin. "You hurry up there, huh, honey?"

Kristin nodded and even managed a small smile. "Do we have a name on him yet?"

The kitchen door burst open again. Kristin shrank back and Delilah swung around. It was Shannon, looking flushed, pretty and very excited.

"Kristin! You aren't out of there yet?"

Kristin looked at her sister, and she didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved. She was still shaken by the events of the morning, but Shannon had put them all behind her. Of course, Shannon had been down in the cellar. And that was what Kristin had wanted. It seemed that everyone here had lost their innocence. The war didn't let you just stay neutral. Man or woman, a body had to choose a side, and you survived by becoming jaded and hardened. She didn't want that for Shannon. She wanted her sister to retain a certain belief in magic, in fantasy. Shannon had turned seventeen not long ago, and she deserved to be able to believe in innocence. She was so young, so soft, so pretty. Blue-eyed and golden blond, a vision of beauty and purity. Kristin didn't think she'd ever looked like that. When she looked at herself in the mirror she knew that the lines and planes and angles of her face were hard, and that her eyes had taken on an icy edge. She knew she looked much older than eighteen.

She had aged ten years in the last two. Desperation had taught her many lessons, and she knew they showed in her face.

"I'm coming out in just a minute, Shannon," Kristin assured her sister.

"Slater," Delilah said.

"Pardon?" Kristin asked her.

"Slater." Shannon came over to the bathtub, kneeling beside it and resting her elbows on the edge. "His name is Cole Slater."

"Oh," Kristin murmured. Cole Slater. She rolled the name around in her mind. Well, that had been easy enough. Why had she thought it would be so difficult to drag the man's name out of him?

Shannon jumped to her feet. "Kristin's never coming out of this old tub. Shall I get the Madeira, Delilah?"

"Sounds like someone's got an admirer," Kristin murmured.

"I'm trying to be polite," Shannon said indignantly. She arranged the little glasses on a silver serving tray. "Honest, Kristin, he's a right courteous fellow, and he told me I shouldn't rush you, says he understands you might feel you need a long, long wash. But I think you're just plain old rude and mean. And you know what else I think? I think you're afraid of him."

Kristin narrowed her eyes at her sister, tempted to jump from the tub and throttle her. But it was far more serious than that. "I'm not afraid of Zeke Moreau, or even Bill Quantrill and all his raiders, Shannon. I just have a healthy respect for their total lack of justice and morality. I'm not afraid of this drifter, either."

"But you are beholden to him," Delilah reminded her softly.

"I'm sorry," Shannon murmured.

When Kristin looked at her sister, she saw the pain that welled up in her eyes, and she was sorry herself. Shannon had lived through the same horrors she had. She just wasn't the eldest. She wasn't the one with the responsibility.

She smiled at Shannon. "Bring the Madeira on in, will you please? I'll be right out."

Shannon smiled, picked up the tray and went out of the kitchen. Kristin grinned at Delilah. "Pa's Madeira, huh? You must think highly of this drifter."

Delilah sniffed as she fluffed out the clean petticoat she'd brought down from Kristin's room. She sent Kristin a quick glare. "He ain't no ordinary drifter. We both know that. And you bet I think highly of him. Moreau might — just might — have left you alive, but he'd have hanged Samson. Slater kept my husband alive and he kept me from the block at the slave market. You bet I think highly of him."

Kristin grinned. From what she remembered of her lovely and aristocratic mother, she knew Kathleen McCahy would have been shocked by such blunt language. Not Pa, though. Pa had made himself a rancher and a farmer; he'd learned all the rough edges of the frontier. He'd have laughed at the plain truth of her statement. Then he'd have been grateful to have Delilah safe and sound, because she and Samson were part of the family, too.

"Want to hand me a towel, Delilah?" Kristin said, thinking again about the stranger who had arrived among them just in the nick of time. No, he wasn't any ordinary drifter, not judging by the way he handled a weapon. What was he, then? A gunslinger from down Texas way, maybe? Perhaps he'd come from farther west — from California, maybe. Somewhere he'd learned to make an art of the use of his Colts.

He made an art of the simple act of walking, too, she thought. She shivered suddenly, remembering the silence that had followed the sudden burst of gunfire. She remembered the way his eyes had looked as he'd ordered Zeke away from her. Slate-gray eyes, steel eyes, hard and merciless. She remembered the way his frock coat had fallen along the length of his tall body, remembered his broad shoulders, remembered the way he'd looked at her. A heat that didn't come from the water seemed to flutter to life deep inside her.

It hadn't been a romantic look, she reminded herself. She knew about romantic looks. She knew about falling in love. It was easy and gentle. It was slow and beautiful. It was the way she had felt about Adam, and it was the way he had felt about her. When he had looked at her, he had looked into her eyes. He had held her hand, awkwardly at first. He had stuttered sometimes when he had spoken to her, and he had whispered tenderly to her. That was romance. That was love. She had never felt this shameful burning inside when she had been with Adam. She had been content to hold his hand. They had been content to sit and dream. She had never once imagined him… naked.

Appalled by her thoughts, she swallowed hard. She hadn't imagined any man naked, and certainly not this stranger. No, he had not given her any romantic looks. What he had given her was an assessment. It had been just as if he were studying a horse and liked what he saw, good bones and decent teeth. And then he had smiled, if not tenderly, at least with a certain gentility.

Still, the way he had looked at her…

And he had seen her nearly naked.

Color seemed to wash over her body. She rose to reach for her towel, then fell back into the water again, shamed by the way her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened. She prayed that Delilah hadn't noticed.

"You cold?" Delilah asked her.

Delilah had noticed.

Kristin quickly wrapped the big towel around herself. "A little," she lied.

"Get over by the fire. Dry off good and I'll help you get your clothes on."

Kristin nodded, rubbing her pink flesh dry. The fire warmed her, the flames nearly touching her. At least she would have an excuse for being red.

When she was finished she sank into the old rocker by the fire and Delilah brought over her corset, pantalets and stockings. Kristin quickly slid into the knit stockings and pantalets, and Delilah ordered her to hold her breath while she tied up the corset.

Kristin arched a tawny brow when she saw the dress Delilah had brought down for her. It wasn't one of her usual cotton day dresses. It was

muslin, with soft blue flowers and double rows of black-and-white lace edging along the puff sleeves, the bodice and the hem. It was one of her best dresses.

"Delilah —"

"Put it on, child, put it on. We are celebrating here, remember?"

"Oh, yes." Kristin grinned, but then she started to shiver again. She was afraid she was going to burst into tears. They were never going to be done with it. They couldn't ignore it, and they couldn't accept it. Pa had been murdered, and the same — or worse — could have happened today. Today could have been the end of everything.

They had been saved today, but it was only temporary. Zeke would be back.

"Lordy, Lordy," Delilah said. She and Kristin hugged one another, holding tight.

"What are we going to do?" Delilah said.

"We — we have to convince him to stay around a while," Kristin said softly.

"Think he needs a job, maybe?" Delilah said hopefully.

"Does he look like he needs a job?" Kristin said, smiling shakily as she pulled away. She turned her back to Delilah. "Hook me up, please."

Delilah started with the hooks, sweeping Kristin's bountiful hair out of the way. When she was done she stepped back, swirling Kristin around. She surveyed her broadly, then gave her

a big smile. "Miz Kristin, you're the prettiest little thing I ever did see!"

Kristin flushed. She didn't feel pretty these days. She felt tired and old and worn most of the time.

"Brush your hair now. Your little Chinese slippers are by the door. Slip them on. And go out there and see what else you can find out about that man beyond his name."

"Yes, yes," Kristin murmured. Delilah searched her pockets for a brush. Kristin stood on tiptoes to stare into the small mirror on the kitchen door. She combed out her hair, leaving it thick and free and a little wild. She looked too pale, she thought. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lip. Then she thought about the man beyond the door again and all the color she could have wanted flooded into her face.

"Thanks," she said, handing the brush back to Delilah. Then she pushed the door open and hurried out.

She went through the family dining room first. Ma had always wanted a dining room, not just a table in the middle of everything else, as in so many ranch homes. Dining rooms were very proper, Ma had thought. And it was nice, Kristin decided now. The Chippendale table was covered with a lace cloth and with Ma's best silver, crystal and Royal Doulton plates. The table was set for three. The four young ranch hands they had remaining ate in the bunkhouse and she couldn't let a stranger know that she and

Shannon usually just sat down with Samson and Delilah. Of course, they didn't use the silver or the crystal or the Royal Doulton every day, either.

After the dining room she came to the parlor. There was another big fireplace here, and a braided rug before it, over the hardwood floor. Large windows looked out on the sunshine. Ma had liked things bright, even though there were heavy velvet-and-lace curtains in crimson softened by white that could be closed at sunset to hold in the warmth. The furniture here was elegant, a small settee, a daybed and fine wood chairs, and a spinet that both girls had learned to play. It was a beautiful room, meant more for a lady than for a man. Kristin knew she would find the stranger and her sister in the next room, Pa's office and library. That was a far more comfortable room, with rows of books, a huge oak desk and a pair of deacon's benches that drew up to the double-sided fireplace.

Kristin was right. When she came through the parlor doorway, she saw that the stranger — no, Cole, his name was Cole Slater, and she had to stop thinking of him as the stranger — was indeed in this room. It was a great room. It smelled of pipe tobacco and fine leather, and it would always remind her of her father.

Cole Slater looked good here, as if he fit the place. He'd removed his plumed hat, his spurs and his railroad coat. Kristin paused, annoyed that she was trembling again just at the sight of him. He was a handsome man, she thought, though not in any usual way. He was far from pretty, but his steel-gray eyes were arresting, and what his face lacked in actual beauty it made up in strength. It was fine-boned yet powerful, sensual yet hard. And Kristin thought that she saw still more in his face. Cole Slater was another one who had lost all his illusions. She saw it when their eyes met. She studied him, and it was several long moments before she realized that he was studying her, too.

His knee was up, and his booted foot was resting against one of the footstools that seemed to have been cast haphazardly alongside the rows of books in the study. His boots were high, like cavalry-issue boots. His trousers hugged his long legs, betraying the lean muscles there, the trim line of his hips and the contours of his strong thighs and buttocks. His shoulders were broad, and he was tightly sinewed, and yet, he gave the appearance of being lean. A tuft of dark hair showed where his shirt lay open below his throat, and Kristin thought that his chest must be heavily matted with it.

Then she saw that his gaze was resting on her chest, too, and that just the hint of a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. She almost lowered her lashes. Almost. She kept her eyes level with his and raised her chin a fraction. Then she inclined her head toward the glass of Pa's that he held — the little pony glass seemed ridiculously small contrasted with the size of his bronzed hand and the length of his fingers — and smiled graciously. "I see that Shannon has been taking good care of you."

He grinned at Shannon, who sat on one of the deacon's benches with a happy smile glued to her features. "Your sister is a most courteous and charming hostess."

Shannon colored with pleasure at the compliment. Then she laughed and jumped to her feet with the curious combination of grace and clumsiness that always reminded Kristin of a young colt. "I'm trying, anyway," she said. "And you two haven't been properly introduced. Miss Kristin McCahy, I give you Mr. Cole Slater. Mr. Slater, my sister, Miss Kristin McCahy."

Cole Slater stepped forward. He took Kristin's hand, and his eyes met hers just before his head lowered and his lips touched her hand. "I'm charmed, Miss McCahy. Quite charmed."

"Mr. Slater," she returned. She tried to place his accent, but she couldn't. He didn't sound as if he came from the deep South, and he didn't sound as if he came from any of the New England states. He wasn't a foreigner, but he didn't speak with the twang of the midwesterner, either.

He was still holding her hand. There was a feeling of warmth where his lips had touched her flesh, and the sensation seemed to seep into her, to enter into her bloodstream and head straight for the coil of liquid heat that churned indecently near the very apex of her thighs.

She pulled her hand away.

"We really don't know how to thank you, you know," she said, remaining still and seeking out his eyes again.

"I don't want to be thanked. I stumbled along at the right moment, that's all. And I'm damned hungry, and everything cooking smells damned good. A meal will make us even."

Kristin raised a brow. "You'll forgive me if I find my life, my friends, my sister, my sanity, my—"

"Chastity?" he offered bluntly.

"My person," she returned quietly, "are worth far more than a meal."

"Well, now…" He set his empty glass down, watching her thoughtfully. "I reckon that you are worth much, much more, Miss McCahy. Still, life isn't like a trip to the dry-goods store. I don't sell my services for any price. I was glad to be here when I was needed. If I helped you —"

"You know that you helped me. You saved all of us."

"All right. I helped you. It was my pleasure."

His voice matched his eyes. It wasn't quite a baritone, but it was still deep and full of the same hard, steely confidence. A drifter, a man who knew his guns. He had faced death out there today almost callously. Where did such a man come from?

Kristin stepped back. He was a tall man, more than six feet, and she was no more than five-foot-two. She felt more comfortable when there was a little distance between them.

And distance helped keep her heart from pounding, helped keep her blood from racing. Dismayed, she wondered what it was about him that made her feel this way. She never had before, not even with Adam.

Of course, not even Shannon could be completely innocent here. This was a working ranch, after all. Her father's prize bulls were the most valuable possessions he had left behind, and no matter how many of their cattle were stolen, Kristin knew they could start over with the bulls. But because of them and the other animals on the ranch, none of them could escape the details of the act of procreation.

Of course, watching the bulls made it all seem horribly crude. And nearly falling prey to the likes of Zeke Moreau made the bulls look like gentlemen of quality. She had never — never — imagined that a woman could actually wonder about what it would be like with a man, think about his hands touching her, think of his lips touching places other than her mouth.

She wanted to scream. She wondered suddenly if Cole could read her mind, for he was smiling again, and his smile seemed to reach into the heart and soul and heat of her. He knew.

She scowled and spun around, forgetting that he had saved her from a fate worse than death.

"I believe the meal that is worth so much to you is just about on the table, Mr. Slater. Shannon… let's all come along, shall we?"

Cole Slater followed his hostess through the parlor and into the formal dining room, suddenly and keenly aware of the soft scent of roses wafting from her flesh.

Then he noted that the fragrant flesh was as soft and smooth and tempting as cream silk. Her hair, loose around her shoulders, was like spun gold. And her eyes were level and filled with a surprising wisdom.

She was a very beautiful woman.

Outside, not so long ago, he had seen her differently. He had seen the Missouri dirt that had clung to her, and he had seen her spirit, but he had seen someone very young then. A girl, overpowered but fighting madly. Memory had clouded his vision, and he had seen the world through a brilliant red explosion.

He should have killed the bastard. No matter what his own past, no matter his codes when it came to dealing out death, that was one bastard he should have killed. Zeke Moreau. He had recognized Cole. Well, Cole had recognized Zeke, too. Zeke was one of the creatures that had been bred here in this den of blood, creatures that could shoot an unarmed man right between the eyes without blinking.

Zeke wanted this girl bad. No, this woman, he thought, correcting himself. She really wasn't a child. What was she? Twenty, perhaps? Older? Her eyes spoke of age, and so did the grace of her movements, and the confidence with which she spoke.

She was built like a woman.

Longing, hard and desperate, like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky, suddenly twisted and seared into him, straight into his groin, with a red-hot heat that was even painful.

He was glad he was walking behind her and Shannon. And he was glad his button-fly trousers were tight.

He clenched his teeth as another pain sizzled and burned in the area around his heart. This was a decent woman, this girl who had fought a strong man so desperately. Decent and still innocent, he imagined — thanks to his timely arrival.

This was the kind of girl men married.

Exhaling through clenched teeth, Cole wondered if there was a bordello anywhere nearby. He doubted it. There was probably a cold river somewhere, though. He would eat and then head out and hit that river.

Damn her, he thought suddenly, savagely. So she was innocent — maybe. The way she had looked at him had been too naked. He had seen too many things in her eyes. Too much that was sensual and tempting. He could have sworn she had been wondering about things that she shouldn't have been wondering about.

He would eat and then get out. And he would bear in mind that his range of experience far surpassed hers. Did she think she could play cat and mouse with him? She might not know it, but she was the mouse.

Still, when she seated herself at the head of the table, he felt the lightning again. It filled the air when she spoke. It raced through him when she lightly brushed her fingers over his hand as she reached for the butter. It filled him when their knees brushed beneath the table.

"So…" She handed him a plate of flapjacks. "Where do you hail from, Mr. Slater?"

Kristin watched as the stranger helped himself to the flapjacks. He buttered them lavishly, then poured what seemed like a gallon of syrup over them. He shoveled a forkful into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then answered her.

"Oh, here and there."

Here and there. Kristin sat back, dissatisfied.

Delilah came into the room, bringing more coffee. "Mr. Slater," she said, filling his cup again, "can I get you anything else?"

"Thank you, Delilah, no. This is one of the finest meals I've ever had."

Delilah smiled as if someone had just given her the crown jewels. Kristin sent her a glare over Cole's bowed head as he sipped his coffee.

Delilah nudged her firmly. Kristin sighed inwardly, and her eyes answered Delilah's unspoken question. She knew as well as Delilah that they needed Cole Slater.

"Where are you heading, Mr. Slater?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Just drifting at the moment, Miss McCahy."

"Well," Kristin toyed idly with her fork. "You certainly did drift into the right place for us this morning, sir."

He sat back, studying her in a leisurely fashion. "Well, ma'am, like I said, I'm right glad to be of service." She thought that was all he was going to say, but then he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his steel-gray eyes on hers.

"How did you get on the wrong side of this Moreau man?" He paused again, just for a split second. "Isn't he one of Quantrill's boys?"

Kristin nodded.

Shannon explained, "She turned him down, that's what happened. Pa used to know Quantrill. The bastard —"

"Shannon!" Kristin protested.

Shannon ignored her. "They act like he's Jesus Christ come back to life, some places in the South —"

"Shannon! What would Pa say! You're supposed to be a lady!"

Shannon grimaced in exasperation and submitted reluctantly to Kristin's chastisement. "Oh, all right! But Mr. Slater, Quantrill is a bloody traitor, that's all!" she insisted. "He used to be a jayhawker out of Kansas, preying on the Southerners! Then he led a band of abolitionists down here, pretended he was spying out the terrain and turned on his own people! He got out of it by passing out a lie about his older brother being killed by jayhawkers. He didn't have an older brother, but those stupid fools fell for it!"

Kristin looked at her plate. "Quantrill is a murderer," she said softly. "But he usually leaves women alone. He won't let them be murdered."

"But Zeke would," Shannon said. "Zeke would kill anybody. He wants to kill Kristin now, just because she turned him down. She was in love with Adam, you see."

"Adam?"

"Shannon!"

"Adam, Adam Smith. Adam was like Pa. He had no stake in this war. He just wanted to be a rancher. But when the bushwhackers came and killed Pa, Adam went out with a group of jayhawkers to find Zeke's boys. Kristin didn't know about it, not until they sent her back his horse. They killed him down southwest somewhere, and we don't even know where they left his bones. At least Pa is buried out back."

Kristin felt his eyes on her again. She looked up, but that steel-hard gaze was unreadable.

"So this was no random raid here today," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"No," Kristin admitted. She felt as if she were holding her breath. He must realize that once he left they were all at the mercy of Zeke's bushwhackers again.

"You should get out," he told her.

"What?"

"You should get out. Pack your bags, get some kind of an escort and get the hell out."

It was a cold, callous statement. But what could she say in reply? He had stumbled upon

them and he had saved her, but it had happened almost by accident. He didn't owe her a thing. She already owed him.

"I can't get out. My father died for this land. I owe it to him to keep it for him."

"To keep it for what? Your father is dead, and if you stay you'll probably wind up that way, too."

"That's all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say? I can't change this war, and I can't change the truth. Trust me. I would if I could."

For the first time she heard the bitterness in his voice. She wondered briefly about his past, but then she saw that he was rising, and panic filled her. He couldn't be about to ride away.

She stood. "You're not leaving?"

He shook his head. "I saw a few cigars in your father's study. Mind if I take one out back?"

Kristin shook her head, speechless. He wasn't leaving. Not yet.

She heard his footsteps as he walked through the dining room, heard them soften as he walked over the braided rug by the stairs. A moment later she heard the back door open and close.

"Kristin, are you all right?"

Kristin saw that Shannon was watching her, grave concern in her eyes.

"You're all pale," she said.

Kristin smiled, biting her lower lip and shaking her head. She squeezed Shannon's hand. "Help Delilah with the chores, won't you?"

Shannon nodded. Kristin turned around and followed the path the stranger had taken out of the house.

He was out back, puffing on one of her father's fine Havana cigars, leaning against the corral and watching as a yearling raced along beside its mother.

He heard Kristin and turned his fathomless gray gaze on her as she approached. He waited, his eyes hooded and curious.

Kristin wasn't at all sure how to say what she had to say. She folded her hands behind her back and walked over to him with what she hoped was an easy smile. Once she had thought she had the power to charm the male of the species. Once. She had been able to laugh and tease and flirt, and at any dance she had been breathless and busy, in unending demand.

Those days seemed so long ago now. Now she felt very young, and totally unsure of herself.

She had charmed boys, she realized. This was a man.

Still, she came over to him, leaning against the wooden gate of the corral.

"It's a good ranch," she told him.

He stared at her relentlessly, she thought. He didn't let a woman use her wiles. He didn't let her smile or flirt or tease.

"It's a good ranch," he agreed.

"Did I tell you just how much we appreciate your timely arrival here?"

"Yes, you did." He hiked himself up suddenly and sat on the gate, staring down at her. "Spit it out, Miss McCahy," he demanded, his eyes hard. "You've got something to say. Say it."

"My, my, you are a discerning man," she murmured.

"Cut the simpering belle act, Kristin. It isn't your style."

She flashed him an angry glance and started to turn away.

"Stop, turn around and tell me what you want!" he ordered her. He was a man accustomed to giving commands, she realized. And he was a man accustomed to his commands being obeyed.

Well, she wasn't going to obey him. She had paused, but she straightened her shoulders now and started to walk away.

She heard his boots strike the dirt softly, but she didn't realize he had pursued her until she felt his strong hands on her shoulders, whirling her around to face him. "What do you want, Miss McCahy?" he demanded.

She felt his hands, felt his presence. It was masculine and powerful. He smelled of leather and fine Madeira and her father's fine Havana cigar. He towered over her, and she wanted to turn away, and she wanted to touch the hard planes of his face and open his shirt and see the dark mat of hair that she knew must cover his chest.

"I want you to stay."

He stared at her, his eyes wary, guarded. "I'll stay until you can get some kind of an escort out of here." '

"No." Her mouth had gone very dry. She couldn't speak. She wet her lips. She felt his eyes on her mouth. "I — I want you to stay on until — until I can do something about Zeke."

"Someone needs to kill Zeke."

"Exactly."

There was a long, long pause. He released her shoulders, looking her up and down. "I see," he said. "You want me to go after Zeke and kill him for you."

Kristin didn't say anything.

"I don't kill in cold blood," he told her.

She wanted to lower her eyes. She had to force herself to keep meeting his demanding gaze.

"I — I can't leave this ranch. I can give you a job —"

"I don't want a job."

"I —" She paused, then plunged on desperately. "I can make it worth your while."

He arched a brow. Something brought a smile to his lips, and suddenly his face was arrestingly handsome. He was younger than she had thought at first, too. But then he was talking again.

"You — you're going to make it worth my while."

She nodded, wishing she could hit him, wishing he would quit staring at her so, as if she were an unproved racehorse.

"Come here," he said.

"What?"

"Come here."

"I —I am here."

"Closer."

He touched her. His hands on her shoulders, he dragged her to him. She felt the steely hardness of his body, felt its heat and vibrancy. Through his pants and through all her clothing she felt the male part of him, vital and pulsing, against the juncture of her thighs. She still stared at him, wide-eyed, speechless, her breasts crushed hard against his chest as he held her.

He smiled crudely. Then his lips touched hers.

Curiously, the touch was very, very light. She thought she might pass out from the feel of it, so startling, so appealing. His lips were molded to hers…

Then hunger soared, and his tongue pressed between her teeth, delving deep, filling her mouth. She was engulfed as his mouth moved over hers, his lips taking hers, his tongue an instrument that explored her body boldly and intimately. Her breasts seemed to swell and she felt her nipples harden and peak almost painfully against his chest. He savaged her mouth, moving his tongue as indecently as he might have moved another part of his hard body…

Something inside her exploded deliciously. Heat coursed through her, filling her. She could not meet the power of his kiss, but she had no desire to fight it. It was shameful, maybe more shameful than what had happened to her this morning.

Because she wanted it.

She savored the stream of liquid sensations that thrilled throughout her body. Her knees shook, and the coil deep inside her abdomen that was so much a part of her womanhood seemed to spiral to a peak, higher and higher. She wanted to touch him. To bring her fingers against him, exploring. To touch him as his tongue so insinuatingly invaded all the wet crevices of her mouth…

Then he released her. He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell, and he had to hold her again to steady her.

He stared down at her. Her lips were wet and swollen, and her eyes were glazed. He was furiously angry with himself.

"Worthwhile?" he asked.

Kristin's mind was reeling. What did he mean?

"You don't even know how to kiss," he told her.

"What?" she whispered, too stunned to recognize the anger rising inside her.

"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was softer now.

"Damn you!" Kristin said. "I'll make a bargain with you! If you'll just stay —"

"Stop it!" he said harshly. "I'm sorry. I just don't have the time or the patience for a silly little virgin."

"What?" She stepped back, her hands on her hips, and stared at him. The insolence of him!

She wanted to scream and she wanted to cry.

"I don't want a love affair, Miss McCahy. When I do want something, it's a woman, and it seldom matters who she is, just so long as she's experienced and good at what she does. Understand?"

"Oh yes, I understand. But I need help. I need you. Doesn't that mean anything?"

"I told you, I don't want a virgin —"

"Well then, excuse me for an hour, will you?" Kristin snapped, her eyes blazing. "I'll just run on out and screw the first cowhand — oh!"

She broke off in shock as he wrenched her hard against him. "Shut up! Where the hell did you come up with language like that?" he demanded heatedly.

"Let me go! It's none of your business! It's a rough world here, Slater!" She flailed desperately against him. He didn't feel her fists, and he didn't even realize that she was kicking him.

"Don't ever let me hear you say anything like that again!"

"Who do you think you are, my father?" Kristin demanded. She was very close to bursting into tears, and she was determined not to, not here, not now — not anywhere near this drifter. He had made her feel as young and naive and foolish and lost as Shannon. "Let me go!"

"No, I'm not your father. I'm a total stranger you're trying to drag into bed," he said.

"Forget it. Just release me and —"

"You just stop, Miss McCahy!" He gave her a firm, hard shake, then another. At last Kristin stopped fighting. Her head fell back, her hair trailing like soft gold over his fingers, her eyes twin pools of blue fire as she stared into the iron-gray hardness of his.

"Give me some time," he said to her very softly, in a tone that caused her to tremble all over again. "I'll think about your proposition."

"What?" she whispered warily.

He released her carefully. "I said, Miss McCahy, that I would think about your proposition. I'll stay tonight. I'll take my blanket out to the bunkhouse, and I'll give you an answer in the morning." He inclined his head toward her, turned on his heel and started off toward the house.

CHAPTER THREE

When she walked back into the house, Kristin was in a cold fury. She didn't see Cole Slater anywhere, and for the moment she was heartily glad.

He had humiliated her, plain and simple. She'd been willing to sell honor, her pride, her dignity — and he hadn't even been interested in what she'd had to sell. She wished fervently that she wasn't so desperate. She'd have given her eyeteeth to tell the man that he was a filthy gun-slinger, no better than all the others.

Yet even as she thought of what she'd like to be able to say to him, she realized it would be a lie. He'd saved her from Zeke, from the man who had murdered her father. She owed him.

And she'd paid, she thought dryly. With humiliation.

Shannon wasn't around when Kristin reached the dining room. Delilah was there, though, humming a spiritual as she carefully picked up the fine crystal and china on the table. She glanced Kristin's way curiously and kept humming.

"Where's Shannon?" Kristin asked.

"Out feeding the chickens," Delilah said.

Kristin decided to help clear away the remains of the meal, but when her fingers clenched too tightly around a plate, Delilah rescued it from her grip. "Sorry," Kristin muttered.

"Kristin, for the sake of your mama's fine things, you go do something else here this morning, hm?"

Kristin stepped away from the table, folding her hands behind her back.

"You didn't ask where Mr. Slater had gotten himself off to," Delilah said.

"I don't care where Mr. Slater has gotten himself off to," Kristin replied sweetly.

Delilah shot her a quick glance. "The man saved our lives," she said sharply.

Kristin strode furiously across the room to look out the window. "He saved our lives… and he really doesn't give a damn."

"He's riding out?"

Kristin exhaled slowly. She could see Shannon by the barn, tossing feed to the chickens. If she had any sense she would leave. Shannon was precious to her, just as Delilah and Samson were. She should do whatever was necessary to protect them.

But the dream was precious, too. The dream and the land. And where would she go if she did leave? She could never embrace the Southern cause — she had been treated too cruelly by the bushwhackers here for that — nor could she turn against Missouri and move into Yankee territory. She wanted desperately to fight, but she was helpless.

It didn't matter where she went, Richmond, Virginia or Washington, D.C. Nowhere was life as cruel and violent as it was here on the border of "bleeding Kansas." Nowhere else did men murder each other so callously.

"Kristin?" Delilah said.

"Slater…" Kristin murmured. Her pride was wounded, she realized. She had offered up her finest prize — herself— and he had informed her crudely that he wasn't interested.

"Kristin, if you're mad at that man for something, you remember the rest of us here. You understand me, missy?" Delilah came toward her, waving a fork. Kristin tried not to smile, because Delilah was deadly serious. "Quantrill's men get ahold of us and they'll think nothing of a hanging. You saw what they did to your pa. I got a baby boy, Kristin, and —"

"Oh, Delilah, stop! I'm doing my best!" Kristin protested. She tried to smile encouragingly. She couldn't quite admit to Delilah yet that she had offered her all and that it hadn't been enough. She hadn't even tempted the man.

She clenched her teeth together. She'd like to see him desperate, his tongue hanging out. She'd like to see him pining for her and be in the position to put her nose in the air, cast him a disdainful glance and sweep right on by. Better yet, she'd like to laugh in his face. If it hadn't been for this war, she could have done just that. She could have had any rich young rancher in the territory. She could have had —

Adam. She could have had Adam. A numbing chill took hold of her. Adam had loved her so much, and so gently. Tall and blond and beautiful, with green eyes that had followed her everywhere, and an easy, tender smile.

Adam was dead. The war had come, and Adam was dead, and she had few choices. Yes, Slater had humiliated her. But part of it was the fire. Part of it was the feeling that he had embedded in her, the hot, shameful longing for something she didn't know and didn't understand. She had loved Adam, but she had never felt this way when she had been near him. Never. Cole Slater did frighten her. She didn't like the feelings he evoked in her. They shattered her belief in her own strength.

"Cole Slater is staying tonight," she told Delilah.

"Well, glory be!"

"No, no," Kristin said. "He's bunking with the hands for the night. He'll, uh, he'll probably be gone by morning."

"By morning?" Delilah repeated blankly. "Kristin, I don't want to suggest anything that ain't proper, but chil', I'm just sure that if you tried being friendly to the man…"

"Delilah," Kristin murmured, her sense of humor returning at last, "I'm sure I don't remember what proper is anymore. I tried. Honest to God, I tried." She shrugged. "I'm not going to do you any good around here. I'll see you in a bit, huh?"

She hurried toward the stairs, giving Delilah a quick kiss on the cheek as she passed. She felt the older woman's worried gaze follow her, but by the time she reached the landing, she had forgotten about her.

The house felt so empty now.

Delilah and Samson and their baby had the rooms on the third floor. Kristin's and Shannon's were here on the second floor. But Matthew's room was empty now, as was the big master bedroom where her father and mother had slept. The two guest rooms were empty, too. They hadn't entertained guests in a long, long time.

Kristin walked down the hallway, not toward her own room but toward the room that had been her parents'. She opened the door, stood there and smiled slowly. Her mother had been dead for years, but her father had been unable to part with the big Bavarian sleigh bed that his wife had so cherished. After her death he'd slept in it alone. And it was beautiful still. Delilah kept the mahogany polished and the bedding clean, as if she expected Pa to come back anytime.

Kristin walked into the room. There were giant armoires on either side of the window. One still held Pa's clothes, and the other still held her mother's.

We don't take to change easily here, Kristin thought. She smiled. It was the Irish blood, Pa had always told her. They were too sentimental. But that was good. It was good to hold on to the past. It helped keep the dream alive. Someday Pa's grandchildren would have this room. Matthew's children, probably.

If Matthew survived the war. It couldn't be easy for him, a Southern boy fighting in the Yankee army.

Kristin turned away. If Zeke Moreau had his way, none of them would survive the war. And when he was done torturing and killing, he would burn the house to the ground.

She started to close the door. Then she hesitated and turned back. She could suddenly see Cole Slater stretched out on that sleigh bed. It was a big bed, plenty big enough for his height and for the breadth of his shoulders. She could imagine him there, smiling lazily, negligently. Then suddenly, a whirlwind, a tempest of heat and fire…

She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes tightly and swore. She was sick of thinking about Cole Slater, and she was sick of remembering how grateful she had to be to a man who made her feel this way.

She slammed the door to her parents' room and hurried to her own. She threw her good dress on her bed and did likewise with her silk slippers and her corset. She slipped on a chemise, a cotton shirt, a pair of breeches and her high leather boots, and headed straight for the stables. She didn't bother with a saddle, but grabbed a bridle from a hook on the wall for Debutante and slipped into the stall to find her horse.

Debutante was an Arabian mare, a gift to Pa from one of the men he'd done business with in Chicago. She was a chestnut with white stockings, a deep dish in her nose and a tail that rode as high as the sun. Kristin loved her. She was amazed that the horse hadn't been stolen yet, but so far she had managed to have the horse out in the far pasture when the various raiding parties had swept through.

"Hello, you beautiful thing," Kristin whispered as she slipped the bit into the mare's mouth. Debutante nudged her. Kristin stroked the horse's velvety nose, then leaped on her back. Debutante nudged the stall door open, and Kristin gave her free rein as they left the stables behind.

It felt good to ride. It was good to feel the wind strike her cheeks, to feel the coolness of the air as it rushed by her. She was glad she had come bareback. She could feel the power of the animal beneath her, the rhythm of her smooth gallop, the great constriction and release of superbly toned muscle. Kristin leaned close to Debutante's neck. The horse's mane whipped back, stinging her cheeks, but she laughed with delight, glad simply to be alive.

Then Kristin realized she was being followed.

She wasn't sure how she knew she was being followed, except that there was an extra beat to the rhythm churning the earth, something that moved in discord.

She tried to look behind her. Her hair swept into her face, nearly blinding her.

There was a rider behind her. A lone figure, riding hard.

Panic seized her. She was already riding like the wind. How much harder could she drive the mare?

"Debutante! Please! We must become the wind!" She locked her knees more tightly against the animal's flanks. They were moving still faster now. The Arabian mare was swift and graceful, but the horse behind them seemed to be swifter. Either that, or Debutante's stamina was fading.

"Please!"

Kristin leaned closer to the mare's neck. She conjured up a mental image of the terrain. Adam had once owned this land. Ahead, just to the right, was a forest of tall oaks. She could elude her pursuer there.

The trees loomed before her. She raced the mare into the forest, then reined in when the trees became too dense for a gallop. She moved to the right and to the left, pushing deeper and deeper into the maze of foliage. Then she slid from the mare's back and led her onward.

Kristin's heart was pounding as she sought shelter.

If Zeke had come back, if he found her now…

She would pray for death.

But he was alone this time, she thought, praying for courage. She could fight him.

A twig snapped behind her. She spun around. She couldn't see anything, but she knew that her pursuer had dismounted, too, that he was still following her.

The branches closed above her like an arbor. The day was not bright and blue here, it was green and secretive, and the air was cold. She began to shiver.

She wasn't even armed, she realized ruefully. She was a fool. After all that had happened this morning she had ridden away from home without even a pocketknife with which to defend herself.

Kristin searched the ground and found a good solid branch.

Another twig snapped behind her. She dropped the mare's reins and crouched down against an oak. Someone was moving toward her.

Someone was behind her.

She spun around, the branch raised, determined to get in the first blow.

"Son of a bitch!" he swore.

She had gotten in the first blow — just barely. The man had raised his arm, and the branch struck it hard.

The impact sent her flying, her hair in her eyes. She landed in the dirt, and he was on top of her in an instant. She slammed her fist into his face, and heard a violent oath.

"Stop it! Kristin!"

He caught her wrists and straddled her.

She blinked and went still. It was Cole Slater.

"You!"

He rubbed his jaw. "You pack a hell of a punch."

"A hell of a punch?" she repeated. "You — you —" She was trembling with fear and with fury. She didn't mean to strike him again but she was nearly hysterical with relief, and she moved without thinking, slapping him across the face.

She knew instantly it was a mistake. His eyes narrowed, and everything about him hardened. Kristin gasped and looked around her for another weapon. Her fingers curled around a branch, and she raised it threateningly.

Cole wrenched the branch from her grasp and broke it over his knee, then pulled her roughly against his chest.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

She had never seen him so furious, not even when he had gone up against Zeke and his gang of bushwhackers. Then he had seemed as cool as a spring stream. Now his eyes were the dark gray of a winter's sky, and his mouth was a white line of rage.

Kristin clenched her teeth hard, struggling to free herself from his grip. "What am I doing? You scared me to death."

He pulled her closer, and when he spoke again, his words were a mere whisper. "You're a fool, girl. After a morning like this you take off into the woods, without a word, without a care."

"I'm not a fool, and I'm not a girl, Mr. Slater, and I'd appreciate it, sir, if you would take your hands off of me."

"Oh, great. We have the grand Southern belle again."

Kristin gritted her teeth, wishing she could stem the rising tide of rage within her, rage and other emotions. He was too close. He was touching her, and she could feel the power of his anger, the strength of his body, and she was afraid of her own reactions.

"Let go of me. Just who the hell do you think you are?"

"The man who saved your life."

"I'm getting tired of eternal gratitude."

"Gratitude? A crack with a stick?"

"I didn't know it was you! Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you let me know —"

"You were running that mare a little fast for casual conversation."

"Why were you chasing me?"

"Because I was afraid you were going to get yourself in trouble."

"What were you afraid of? I thought you'd decided I wasn't worth the effort."

"I hadn't made any decisions yet. You are a girl, and you are a fool. You didn't give Moreau's men a chance to get far enough away. I didn't save you this morning for a gang rape this afternoon."

"Well, Mr. Slater, I wouldn't have been an annoying little virgin then, would I?"

Kristin was stunned when his palm connected with her cheek. Tears stung her eyes, though she wasn't really hurt. She hadn't expected his anger, and she hadn't imagined that she could humiliate herself this way again.

"Get off me!" she demanded.

"I don't want to hear it again, Kristin. Do you understand me?" He stood and reached down to help her up. She ignored his outstretched hand, determined to rise unaided, but he wouldn't even allow her to do that. He caught her arms and pulled her up. She hated him at that moment. She hated him because she needed him. And she hated him because this heat filled her at his touch, and this curious longing grew within her. She was fascinated by the scent of him, amazed by her desire to touch his face, to feel the softness of his beard…

To experience the sweeping wonder of his kiss once again.

She jerked free, and the leaves crackled under her feet as she whistled for Debutante. He followed behind her, dusting his hat off on the skirt of his coat.

"Kristin…"

She spun around. "You know, I've been wondering where you come from. You certainly aren't any Southern gentleman."

"No?" he queried. They stared at one another for a moment. Then his lips began to curl into a rueful smile. "I'm sincerely beginning to doubt that you're a Southern lady — or any kind of a lady, for that matter."

She smiled icily. She could manage it when he wasn't touching her. Then she turned away from him, squared her shoulders and walked toward her waiting mare.

"Sorry. I haven't had much time lately for the little niceties of life."

When she reached Debutante, he was there beside her. She didn't want his help, but he was determined to give it anyway. He lifted her onto the mare's back and grinned up at her.

"I may have to accept your generous offer."

"My generous offer?"

"Yes." His eyes suddenly seemed dazzling. Smoke and silver. His smile lent youth and humor to his features. He laughed. "I may have to bed you yet. To save you from yourself."

She wanted to say something. She wanted to say that her offer was no longer valid, that she would rather go to bed with Zeke and every single one of his raiders than spend a single night with him, but the words wouldn't come. They weren't true. And it didn't matter, anyway, because he had already turned away. He picked up the reins of his big black horse and leaped upon the animal's back with the agility of long practice.

Kristin started out of the forest, heading for the house. She didn't look back. She rode ahead all the way. He rode behind her, in silence.

By the time they reached the house she was trembling again. She didn't want to see him, she didn't want to talk to him. The whole thing had been a deadly mistake. He needed to get his night's sleep and head out in the morning.

She didn't even know who the man was! she reminded herself in dismay.

When they had dismounted she spoke at last, but without looking at him. "The hands eat out in the bunkhouse at about six. Sleep well, and again, thank you for rescuing us all. I really am eternally grateful."

"Kristin —"

She ignored him and walked Debutante toward the stables. Her heart began to pound, because she imagined that he would follow her. He did not.

She didn't rub Debutante down as she should have. She led the mare into the stall and removed her bit. In a worse turmoil than she had been in when she had left, she walked to the house.

Cole Slater was no longer in the yard. Kristin walked into the house. It was silent, and the drapes were drawn against the afternoon sun. Kristin bit her lip, wondering what to do. Depression suddenly weighed heavily upon her. It (was all lost. She would have to leave, and she would have to be grateful that they were alive and accept the fact that nothing else of their life here could be salvaged.

She wasn't sure it mattered. They had already lost so much. Pa. Adam. Her world had been turned upside down. She would have done anything to save it. Anything. But anything just wouldn't be enough.

With a soft sigh, she started up the stairway. At the top of the stairs, she paused, her heart beating hard once again.

There was someone there, on the second floor with her.

There was someone in her parents' bedroom.

She tried to tell herself it was Delilah, or Shannon, but then she heard Delilah calling to Shannon below and heard Shannon's cheerful answer.

"Oh, God," she murmured, her hand traveling to her throat.

Something inside of her went a little berserk. She couldn't bear it if Zeke or one of his cronies had managed to enter that room. Her father's room, a place he had cherished, a place where all his dreams remained alive.

She ran toward the doorway. If Zeke had been in the room, she might have managed to kill him with her bare hands.

But it wasn't Zeke. It was Cole Slater. He had his blanket laid out on the comforter, and he was taking things from it. He looked up at her in surprise as she stared at him from the doorway. He frowned when he noticed the way her breasts heaved and noticed the pulse beating hard at the base of her throat. He strode to her quickly.

"Kristin, what happened?"

She shook her head, unable to speak at first.

"I — I didn't expect you. I mean, I didn't expect you to be here," she said.

He shrugged and walked back into the room, taking a shirt from the blanket and striding toward her father's armoire. "I didn't intend to be here. Delilah insisted there was plenty of room inside the house." He paused and turned back to her. "Is there something wrong with that? Do you want me out of here?"

She shook her head and had to swallow before she could speak again. "No… uh, no. It's fine." He was going to come toward her again. Quickly, before he could come close enough to touch her, Kristin turned and fled to the sanctuary of her own room.

She didn't know what seized her that afternoon. She didn't dare sit and think, and she certainly couldn't allow herself to analyze.

She went out in the early evening to speak with the hands. There was Jacob, who was nearly seventy, and his grandsons, Josh and Trin, who were even younger than she was. Their father had been killed at Manassas at the beginning of the war. And there was Pete, who was older than Jacob, though he wouldn't admit it. That was all she had left — two old men and two young boys. Yet they had survived so far. Somehow they had survived so far.

Cattle were missing again. Kristin just shrugged at the news. Zeke's boys had been through. They had simply taken what they wanted.

Pete wagged a finger at her. "We heard what happened, missy. I think it's time you got out of here."

She ruffled his thin gray hair. "And what about you, Pete?"

"I've gotten along this far. I'll get along the rest of my days."

She smiled at him. "We'll see."

"Hear tell you've got a man named Slater up at the house."

Kristin frowned. "Yes. Why? You know him, Pete?"

Pete looked down at the wood he was whittling, shaking his head. "Can't say that I do."

She thought the old man was lying to her, and she couldn't understand it. He was as loyal as the day was long.

"You just said his name. Slater."

"Yeah, I heard it. From someone. Just like I heard tell that he managed to get rid of the whole lot of the thieving gutter rats." He looked up, wagging his knife at her. "You can't beat the likes of Zeke Moreau, Kristin. He doesn't have a breath of mercy or justice in him." He spat on the floor. "None of them do, not the jayhawkers, not the bushwhackers. It's time to get out."

"Well, maybe," Kristin said distractedly. She stood from the pile of hay she'd been sitting on. "Maybe."

"Your Pa's dead, Kristin. You're smart and you're tough. But not tough enough to take on Zeke on your own."

He looked at her expectantly. She felt like laughing. Everyone thought she could help. Everyone thought that all she had to do was bat her eyelashes at Cole Slater and he'd come straight to their rescue. If they only knew.

"We'll talk about it in the morning," she told him.

When she returned to the house, it was dinnertime.

Delilah had set out the good china and fine crystal again. She'd made a honeyed ham, candied yams, turnip greens and a blueberry pie.

Shannon and Cole Slater talked all through the meal. There might not have been a war on. There might not have been anything wrong with the world at all, the way the two of them talked. Shannon was beautiful and charming, and Cole was the perfect gentleman.

Kristin tried to smile, and she tried to answer direct questions. But all she could remember was that he had rejected her — and that she needed him desperately. She hated him, yet trembled if their hands so much as brushed when they reached for something at the same time.

She drank far too much Madeira with dinner.

When he went out back to smoke a cigar afterward, Kristin decided to take another bath. She hoped Delilah would think she hadn't been able to wash away the miserable stench of the morning.

Shannon was a sweetheart, tender and caring. Kristin realized when Shannon kissed her goodnight that her sister was suffering more then she had realized. She was just taking it all stoically, trying to ease Kristin's pain with smiles and laughter.

Shannon went to bed.

Kristin dressed in her best nightgown. It had been part of her mother's trousseau. It was soft, sheer silk that hugged her breasts in a pattern of lace, then fell in gentle swirls around her legs.

She sat at the foot of her bed in the gown, and she waited. She was still, but fires raged inside her.

She had to make him stay, no matter what it took.

This was something that she had to do.

She heard his footsteps on the stairs at last. She heard him walk down the hallway, and then she heard the door to her parents' room open and close.

She waited, waited as long as she could, as long as she dared. Then she stood and drifted barefoot across the hardwood floor. She opened her door and started across the hall. She nearly panicked and fled, but something drew her onward. She wondered if she had gone mad, wondered if the world really had been turned upside down. Nothing could ever be the same again.

She hated him, she told herself. And he had already turned her down once.

One day she would best him.

She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly. Then she pushed open the door.

The room was dark. Only a streak of moonlight relieved the blackness. Kristin stood there for several seconds, blinking, trying to orient herself. It was foolish. She had waited too long. He was probably fast asleep.

He wasn't asleep. He was wide awake. He was sitting up in bed, his chest bare. He was watching her. Despite the darkness, she knew that he was watching her, that he had been waiting for her and that he was amused.

"Come on, Kristin," he said softly. He wasn't whispering like a man afraid of being caught at some dishonorable deed. He was speaking softly out of consideration for the others in the house, not out of fear. He wouldn't give a damn about convention, she thought. And yet he seemed to expect her to respect it.

Men.

"I, uh… just wanted to see if you needed anything."

"Sure." He smiled knowingly. "Well, I don't need anything. Thank you."

The bastard. He really meant to make it hard for her.

"That's a nice outfit to wear to check on your male guests, ma'am." He said the last word with a slow, calculated Southern drawl, and she felt her temper flare. Where the hell was he from?

"Glad you like it," she retorted.

"Oh, I do like it. Very much."

This was getting them nowhere. No, it was getting her nowhere.

"Well…"

"Come here, Kristin."

"You come here."

He grinned. "If you insist."

She should have known he would be lying there nude beneath the sheets.

Well, she had come to seduce him, after all.

She just hadn't imagined his body. The length of it. She couldn't remember what she had imagined. Darkness, and tangle of sheets… She had known it involved a naked man, but she hadn't known just how a naked man could be.

She tried to keep her eyes on his, aware that a crimson tide was rushing to her face. She wished she had the nerve to shout, to run, to scream, but she didn't seem to be able to do anything at all.

Her eyes slipped despite her best efforts, slipped and then widened. She knew that he saw it, and she knew that he was amused. But she didn't move and she didn't speak, and when he stood before her at last, his hands on his hips, she managed to toss her head back and meet his gaze with a certain bravado.

He placed his hands against the wall on either side of her head. "Like what you see?" he inquired politely.

"Someone should really slap the living daylights out of you," she told him sweetly.

"You didn't do badly."

"Good." She was beginning to shake. Right now it was a mere tremor, but it was growing. He was so close that… that part of his body was nearly touching the swirling silk of her gown. She felt his breath against her cheek. She felt the heat radiating from him. She bit her lip, trying to keep it from quivering.

He pushed away from the wall. He touched her cheek with his palm, then stroked it softly with his knuckles. She stared at him, unable to move. She knew then that he could see that she was trembling. His eyes remained locked with hers. He moved his hand downward and cupped her breast.

The touch was so intimate, so bold, that she nearly cried out. He grazed her nipple with his thumb, and sensations shot through her with an almost painful intensity. She caught her breath, trying desperately to keep from crying out. And then she realized that he was watching her eyes carefully, gauging her reactions.

She knocked his hand away and tried to push by him, but he caught her shoulders and threw her against the wall.

"I hurt your feelings before. But then, I don't think that you were lacking in self-confidence. You must know that you're beautiful. Your hair is so golden and you have the bearing of a young Venus. Kristin, it isn't you. It's me. I haven't got any emotion left. I haven't got what you need, what you want. Damn it, don't you understand? I want you. I'm made out of flesh and blood and whatever else it is that God puts into men. I want you. Now. Hell, I could have wanted you right after I ripped another man away from you. I'm no better than he is, not really. Don't you understand?"

She drew herself up against the wall. She hated him, and she hated herself. She had lost again.

"I only know that I need you. Emotion! I saw my father murdered, and Adam…"

"Yes, and Adam."

"And Adam is dead, too. So if you're worried about some kind of emotional commitment, you're a fool. I want help against Zeke Moreau."

"You want me to kill him."

"It's worth any price."

"I told you… I don't murder men in cold blood."

"Then I just want protection."

"How badly?"

"Desperately. You know that."

"Show me."

She stepped toward him and placed her hands around his neck. Suddenly she realized that she hadn't the least idea of what to do. Instinct guided her, instinct and nothing more.

She stepped closer, pressing against him so that she could feel the length of his naked body through the thin silk of her gown. She wound her arms around his neck and came up on tiptoe to press her lips against his, summoning up the memory of the kiss he had given her. She felt him, felt the instrument of his desire pulsing against her. She felt the muscles of his chest and belly and thighs. Then she felt his arms, powerful around her.

Then she plunged her tongue into his mouth and the world began to spin. She had come to seduce him, and she was ready to fall against him, longing for him to sweep her away.

To help her…

She felt the passion in him as he held her, and for a moment, victory was hers. She burned, she longed, with an astonishing hunger, and she could not know where it would lead. His lips held hers, his mouth devoured hers, and with each second that passed she entered deeper into a world that was pure sensation. Her pulse soared, and there was a pounding in her ears that was like the rush of the sea. His kiss was her life, his body was her support. She was afraid, and she was ecstatic.

And then he suddenly pushed her away. His breathing was coming rough and ragged. He watched her for a long, long moment. She felt his eyes on her, felt them as she would have felt an approaching storm. Then he shook his head.

"Go to bed, Kristin."

She inhaled sharply, furiously. "You let me make a complete fool of myself and then you — Damn you!"

Kristin slammed her fists against his shoulders, catching him off guard. He staggered, and she found the doorknob. Throwing the door open, she tore across the hall. She threw herself onto her own bed, tears hovering behind her lashes, fury rising in her throat.

The door crashed open behind her, and she spun around. He had followed her across the hall without even bothering to dress.

"Get out of here!" she snapped, enraged.

He ignored her and strode calmly toward the bed. Kristin shot up, determined to fight. It was all to no avail. His long stride quickly brought him to her. She came to her knees hastily, but he joined her on the bed, grabbing her hands and pressing her down.

"I should scream!" she told him. "Samson would come and —"

"Then scream."

She held her breath. He pressed her down on the bed and straddled her.

"Why won't you leave me alone?"

"You wanted to make a deal," he said harshly.

"What?"

"You said you wanted to make a deal. All right. Let's talk. I'm willing to negotiate."

PART 2

The Lover

CHAPTER FOUR

Kristin was glad the room was steeped in darkness. His features were shadowed, his body was shadowed, and she prayed that her own emotions were hidden by the night. She wanted to hate him. She could not. She wanted to think, to reason, and she could think of nothing but the hard male body so hot and intimate against her own.

He had come here, naked, to accept her proposition, it seemed. And yet he was angry again, angrier even than before. Hard and bitter and angry.

Moonlight cast a sudden soft glow over the room. She saw his features, and they were harsh, taut, almost cruel, as if he were fighting some inner pain.

"Negotiate?" she whispered.

"First, Miss Kristin, if you're going to play a game of chance, make sure you're playing with a full deck."

"I don't know what —"

"Exactly. That's why I'm going to explain things to you. I'll meet any man in a fair fight, but I won't go out and commit murder, not for you, not for myself, not for anyone. Do you understand?"

She nodded. She didn't understand him at all, but she was suddenly too afraid to do anything else. She had lost her mind. The war and the bloodshed had made her insane. She, Kristin McCahy, raised to live up to the highest standards of Southern womanhood, was lying on her bed with a naked stranger.

And she wasn't screaming.

"No involvement, Miss Kristin." The mock drawl was back in his voice, making her wonder again where he hailed from. She was filled with awareness of him. His muscled chest was plastered with crisp dark hair. She thought of how quickly he had drawn his Colts and his rifle, and she shivered. He carried with him an aura of danger that drew her to him despite her best intentions.

His sex pulsed against her belly, and she fought wildly to keep her eyes glued to his. It was all she could do to remember that she had intended to seduce him, to leave him gasping and longing and aching, his tongue hanging out for her.

He would never long for her that way, she realized now. Nor would he be denied. He had mocked her, but now he was determined to have her, and she felt sure he must despise her more with each passing second.

She steeled herself and whispered harshly, "No involvement. You needn't worry. I need a gunslinger. I could never love one."

A slight smile curved his lip. "This deal is made on my terms, lady. No involvement, no questions. And I won't murder Zeke. I'll go after him when I can. I'll do my damnedest to keep you and Shannon safe and your place together. But I've got other commitments, too, Kristin. And I can't forget them."

She didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say or do, didn't know where to go from here. This was so easy for him. He was so casual. He didn't even seem to know he was naked.

He touched her cheek, brushing it with his fingertips. "Why?" he said suddenly.

She shook her head, uncomprehending. "Why what?"

"This is all Zeke wanted."

"I hate Zeke. I hate him more than you could ever imagine. He killed my father. I'd rather bed a bison than that bastard."

"I see. And I'm a step above a bison?"

"A step below."

"I can still leave."

Panic filled her. She wanted to reach out and keep him from disappearing, but her pride wouldn't let her. Then she realized that he was smiling again, that he was amused. He leaned down low and spoke to her softly. His breath caressed her flesh, and the soft hair of his beard teased her chin. "There's one more point to this bargain, Miss McCahy."

Her heart was suddenly pounding mercilessly, her body aching, her nerves screaming.

"What's that, Slater?"

"I like my women hungry. No, ma'am, maybe that's not enough. I like them starving."

Words and whispers could do so much. As much as his slow, lazy, taunting smile. Fever ran through her, rife and rampant. She wanted to strike him because she felt so lost, and in spite of herself, she was afraid. She wasn't afraid he would hurt her. She might have gone insane, but she believed with all her heart that he would never hurt her. And she wondered, too, if this madness hadn't been spawned by the very way he made her feel, alive as she had never been before, haunted and shaken and… hungry, hungry for some sweet sensation that teased her mind and heart when he was near.

And yet she lay stiff and unyielding, numbed by the fear that swept through her, the fear that she would be unable to please him, the fear that she didn't have what it would take to hold him. Women… He had used the plural of the word. He liked his women hungry…

No, starving.

She didn't know him, and she didn't want involvement any more than he did, and yet this very intimacy was involvement. Even as she lay there, unable to move, she felt a painful stirring of jealousy. She had sacrificed so very much pride and dignity and morality for this man, and he was herding her together with every other female he had ever known.

He touched her chin. Then he brushed her lips with his, with the soft sweep of his mustache.

"Hungry, sweetheart." She sensed his smile, hovering above her in the dark. "This is as exciting as bedding a large chunk of ice."

She struck out at him blindly, but he caught her arms and lowered his weight onto her. She clenched her teeth as his laughing eyes drew near.

"Excuse me, Mr. Slater. My experience is limited. You wouldn't let me run out and screw a ranch hand, remember?"

"Kristin, damn you —"

"No, damn you!" she retorted, painfully close to tears. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be the night, the magic night she had wondered about in her dreams. No, it couldn't be, she thought bitterly. In her dreams this night had come after she had been married. And Adam had been in her dreams. And there had been nothing ugly or awkward about it. There hadn't even been any nude bodies, except beneath the sheets, and even then she had been cloaked all in white and he had whispered about how much he loved her and how beautiful she was and it had been wondrously pure and innocent…

She hadn't known these feelings then. And she hadn't known she could sell herself to a man who didn't even really want her.

"Please!" she cried suddenly, trying to escape his touch. Tears were beginning to sting her eyes, and she didn't want him to see them. She couldn't bear any more humiliation. "Just leave me alone. I — I can't be what you want, I can't —"

"Kristin!"

She went still when she heard the pained tenderness in his voice. He touched her cheek gently. Then he lay beside her and swept her into his arms.

She was stunned to realize that he was trembling, too, that his body was racked by heat and fever. He murmured her name again and again, and his lips brushed over her brow, as light as air. "Don't you see? I don't want to need you like this. I don't want to want you!"

There was passion in his voice, dark and disturbing. There was bitterness in it, too, pained and fervent, and as he continued to touch her, his emotions seemed to burn and sear her along with his touch. His hands were tender, then demanding, then gentle again.

"I don't want to want you," he murmured, "but God help me, I do."

Then he kissed her, and there was nothing left to worry about, for she was suddenly riding swiftly across the dark heavens and there was no time to think, no time for reason. She could only hold tight.

It all seemed to come together, everything she had felt since she had first set eyes on the man. Hungry… his mouth was hungry, and he was devouring her. His lips molded and shaped hers, and his tongue seemed to plunge to the very depths of her being, licking her deep, deep inside, taunting her, arousing her still more.

His hands roamed her body with abandon, abandon and a kind of recklessness. He caressed her tenderly, even delicately, then touched her with a force that told her that he wanted to brand her, wanted to leave his mark on her.

She never knew where the awe and the trembling and fear ceased and something entirely different began. She didn't even know when she lost the elegant nightgown brought west in her mother's trousseau, for his touch was so sweeping, so swift, so heady. She knew only that her breast was suddenly bare and his mouth was upon it. He cupped the soft mound of flesh with his hand, his lips hard around the nipple, drawing, suckling, raking the peak with his teeth as he demanded more and more.

She nearly screamed. She had never imagined such intimacy, and she never dreamed that there could be anything like the sensation that gripped her now with burning fingers, drawing a line of raw excitement down her spine and into her loins. She clutched his shoulders, barely aware that her nails were digging into him, that she was clutching him as if he were a lifeline in a storm-swept sea.

And still the tempest raged. His lips found her throat, and he raked his palm down the length of her, kneading her thigh and her buttocks. He moved swiftly, and she tried to follow, but she could not, for she was breathless, gasping in shock and amazement at each new sensation. He began anew. He touched her, held her, all over again. His lips trailed a line down the valley between her breasts to her navel, and the soft, bristling hair of his mustache and beard taunted her naked flesh mercilessly. She felt his knee force her thighs apart, and she knew that she was close to the point of no return, to being changed forever, and even then she could not keep pace with the winds that buffeted her.

And then he stopped. His palms on either side of her head, he caressed her with that curious tenderness he possessed and lowered his head to hers, whispering into her mouth.

"Hungry?"

She didn't want to face it. It was too new, too startling. She lowered her head and nodded, but it wasn't enough, not for him.

"Kristin?"

"Please…"

"Tell me."

"Oh, God!" she cried, trying to twist away from him. His palms held her fast, and her eyes were forced to meet his. Her lips were moist and her hair was a mass of gold between them, startlingly pale against the darkness of his chest.

He smiled at her, watching her as he drew his hand down to the pulse at her throat, then over her breast, down, down, to draw a circle on her abdomen and then plunge lower. He kept his eyes on her as he stroked her upper thigh. Then, suddenly, he swept his touch intimately inside her, moving with a sure, languorous rhythm.

She cried out again and tried to burrow against him, but he held her away from him. He watched her eyes, watched the rise and fall of her breasts, watched her gasp for air.

He caught her lips with his own, caught them and kissed them, and then he whispered against them again.

"Yes. You are… hungry."

Was this it? Was this the hunger he demanded, this burning sensation that filled her and engulfed her? She was grateful for the darkness, for the night, for with the moon behind a cloud, she could believe that all her sins were hidden, all that she had bartered, all that she had given so freely. She couldn't believe how she lay there with him, and yet she would not have changed it for the world. A soft cry escaped her, and she threw her arms around his neck, hiding against his chest at last. Something surged within her, and she gasped and murmured against his chest, barely aware that her hips were pulsing to his rhythm, that he hadn't ceased taunting her, that his strokes were growing more enticing.

Cole knew vaguely that he shouldn't be there. He should have told her that morning that nothing could make him stay, nothing could make him help her. She was the last thing in the world he needed. He had commitments of his own, and come heaven or hell or death itself, he meant to see them through.

And this innocence…

This, too, was the last thing he needed. She was hardened, and there were jagged edges to her. War did that. War and death and pain and blood. But the innocence was still there, too. He had thought he could make her run, and he had thought he could be strong enough himself not to touch her. He was used up. He knew that. He was used up, and she deserved more than that. He was still alive, though, still breathing, and she touched every raw cord of desire within him. Maybe he had known what was to come, and maybe he hadn't expected it at all, but now that it was happening, he couldn't even try to deny it. She spun a golden web of arousal and passion as soft and silky and luxuriant as the long strands of hair that tangled around them both, dampened by the glistening sheen of their bodies. She had beautiful features, exquisite features, fine, high cheekbones, a small, slim nose and eyes like an endless blue sky, darkly fringed with rich lashes and glazed now with blossoming passion. And her mouth… it was full and giving, sensual in laughter, sensual when her lips parted beneath his own. She was soft, she was velvet and she was created for desire, with high, firm breasts, a slim waist and flaring hips, and smooth, fascinating buttocks. He hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to come here, and he hadn't meant to stay. He hadn't meant to touch her…

But he had.

And she moved. She moved with exquisite grace. She made sweet, soft sounds that entered his loins and caused the blood to pound in his head so that he could think no more. Only one thought guided him, and that was that he had to have her, had to have her or go mad. Her nipples pressed against his chest, and she arched against his hand. Despite his best efforts, the agony of the past was erased, the vengeance of the future forgotten. Even the present meant nothing at all. All that mattered was this woman, and she was hot and wet and begging for release.

He pulled her to him almost roughly. Her eyes widened, and he commanded her to hold tight. He caught her lips in a heady kiss and swept his hands beneath her. He fought hard to remember her innocence. He kissed her with sweeping ardor, and then he entered her.

He was slow, achingly slow, and she was sleek and damp, a hot sheath ready to encase him, and still he felt her shudder, heard the sudden agonized cry that she muffled against his chest.

He'd heard it before. On his wedding day.

The irony, the bitter, bitter irony touched him for a moment, and for a moment he hated her and himself. For a moment he was still. Then he felt her shudder again and thought she might be crying, and then he was whispering things without thinking.

Yes… he'd been here before. Making love tenderly to a woman for the very first time. Her very first time.

He held her, caressed her, promised to help her. And then he moved again, slowly at first, carefully, tenderly.

And then she was moving beneath him, subtly at first. She was taking him in, and the tears were gone, and the shock was gone, and the desperate tension was growing again.

Care and consideration left him. A thirst that he was frantic to slake ripped through him and into his loins. He couldn't remember ever being so fevered, and still the sensations grew. He touched her breasts, struck anew by their beauty. He inhaled the clean, sweet scent of her tangled hair and the fever soared higher and higher. He wrapped her legs tightly around him and cupped her buttocks, and rocking hard, filled her with himself again and again. He threw back his head and rough sound tore from him as the relief began to shake and convulse through his body. Again and again he spilled into her. She cried out, her voice ragged. He was aware that she had reached some sweet satisfaction, and he was pleased. She fell still, and the last of the fever raked through him. He thrust deep, deep inside her one last time. It was shattering, and he couldn't remember when he had known such a deeply satisfying climax.

He fell to her side, covered with sweat, breathing heavily.

She was silent. He touched her cheek and found tears there.

Suddenly he was furious with himself and with her. This should never have happened. She should have married some young buck and worn white, and she should have been loved, not just desired.

She twisted away from his touch, and he let her go. She turned her back on him, and he wondered if she was crying again. Maybe she had a right to, but it was damned insulting. He'd taken even greater care with her than he had with — Elizabeth. With Elizabeth.

There. He dared to think her name.

Though he gritted his teeth and wished it away, agony gripped him from head to toe. He wondered if the pain would ever leave him.

"You can… you can go back now," Kristin said suddenly.

"What?" His voice was sharp.

"Our deal." She spoke softly, her voice a mere whisper, as if tears hovered behind her words, tears and just a touch of anxiety. "It's — it's made now, isn't it?"

He hesitated before he answered her. "Yes, your bloody bargain is made, Miss McCahy."

"Then you could… you could go back. Across the hall."

He didn't know what demon seized him. He didn't care if he was heard by the others in the house, didn't care about anything at all. He sat up in a sudden fury and wrenched her around to face him. He spoke bitingly, trying to make every word sting like the stroke of a lash.

"Not on your life, my little prima donna. You invited me in here. Now you've got me. That was the game, Kristin. You knew it was going to go by my rules —"

"My God!" she cried, jerking away from his touch. "Have you no consideration, no —"

"Compassion? Not a whit. This is what you wanted, and now you've got it."

She was beautiful still, he thought. The moonlight was playing over her breasts, and they were damp and shimmering and very, very fine, the nipples still enlarged and hard. He felt a quickening inside him all over again, and with it felt the return of the pain. The pain of betrayal. It was all right with whores, with tavern girls. It was something else with this innocent young beauty.

He scowled fiercely and turned his back on her. "Go to sleep, Kristin."

She didn't move. She didn't answer him. Not for endless seconds.

"Go to sleep?" she repeated incredulously.

"Damn it, yes, go to sleep." He swung around again and pressed her down on the bed. She started to fight him, and he wasn't in the mood to take it. Dark anger was in him, dark, brooding anger, and though he didn't mean to be cruel to her, he didn't seem to be able to help himself. He caught her shoulders and shook them. "Good night, Kristin. Go to sleep."

"Leave," she said stubbornly.

"I'll be damned if I will."

"Then I'll leave."

"And I'll be damned if you'll leave, either. Now go to sleep!"

He turned around, offering her his back once again. He didn't know why he had started this bout, but now that he had begun it, he wasn't about to lose.

He felt it when she started to rise, and he turned with frightening speed, sweeping his arm around her waist and holding her still. He felt her heart beating like that of a doe.

"Go to sleep!"

He heard her teeth grating, but she didn't move, not again. He knew she was planning to wait until he fell asleep, then slip away.

He smiled. She had another think coming. He would feel her slightest movement. He would awaken.

When she did try to move, he kept his eyes closed and held her fast. He heard her swearing softly, and he heard the threat of sobs coming to her whispering voice.

But then it was she who fell into an exhausted sleep. And it was he who awoke first with the morning. He stood and stretched and padded naked to the window and looked out on a beautiful summer's day. It was a fine ranch, he thought. Then he sighed, and he knew that she would think she had sold herself dearly in the night.

He had sold himself dearly, too. He had sold his honor, and he would have to stay, and he would have to protect her.

He walked over to the bed. The evidence of their night together was painfully obvious in the twisted bedding.

Her face was covered by long, soft tendrils of hair that picked up gold from the sun. A hand seemed to tighten around his heart and squeeze.

Cole stepped closer to the bed and covered Kristin with the top sheet and the comforter. Then he stepped to the door, glanced out and returned to the room across the hall to wash and dress.

Kristin knew it was late when she awoke. She opened her eyes and saw that the sun had risen high, then closed her eyes again and discovered that she was shaking.

She had almost believed that she had dreamed the entire episode.

But she hadn't. Cole Slater was gone, but he had definitely been there, and just thinking about everything that had happened made her shake again and burn crimson to the roots of her hair.

A knock sounded at her door. "Kristin?"

It was Shannon. Kristin sat bolt upright and looked at the bed. The comforter seemed to hide the sins of the night.

"Shannon, just a minute!" she cried out. Her gown was on the floor beside the bed. She made a dive for it, wincing at the soreness that plagued her thighs. Then she realized that the gown was torn and ragged, and she knew why it had seemed to melt away the night before. Bitterly she wound it into a ball, stuffed it into her dresser and dragged out an old flannel gown. Breathless, she told Shannon to come in.

Shannon came in with a pot of coffee and a cup and breakfast on a silver tray. Kristin stared at it blankly and arched a brow at her younger sister.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," Shannon told her.

"Breakfast? In bed?" The ranch was a place where they barely eked out their existence. Breakfast in bed was a luxury they never afforded themselves. "After I've slept all morning?"

"Delilah was going to wake you. Cole said that maybe things had been hard on you lately and that maybe you needed to sleep."

"Oh, Cole said that, did he?"

Shannon ignored the question. "I rode out to the north pasture with Cole and Pete, and everything's going fine for the day."

Kristin kissed her sister's cheek and plopped on the bed, wincing again. It even hurt a little to sit.

She felt her face flood with color again, and she lowered her head, trying to hide her blush behind her hair. She still didn't know if she hated him, or if her feeling had become something different, something softer.

A little flush of fever seemed to touch her. She was breathing too fast, and her heart was hammering. She couldn't forget the night. She couldn't forget how she had felt, and she didn't know whether to be amazed or grateful or awed — or ashamed. The future loomed before them. They had a deal. He had said he would stay. And he hadn't left her room, and she —

She couldn't help wondering what he intended for their personal future together. Did he mean to do it… again?

"My Lord, Kristin, but you're flushed!" Shannon said with alarm.

"I'm all right," Kristin said hastily. She sipped the coffee too quickly and burned her lip. She set the cup down. "This was really sweet. The breakfast."

"Oh," Shannon said nonchalantly, "this was Cole's idea, too. He seemed to think you might have a little trouble getting up this morning."

"Oh, he did, did he?" She bit so hard into a piece of bacon that her teeth snapped together. He was laughing at her again, it seemed, and he didn't even have the decency to do it to her face. She longed for the chance to give him a good hard slap just once.

She caught herself. He had warned her. They were playing by his rules. And there was only one thing she was gaining from it all. Safety. She had agreed to the rules. She had meant to seduce him, she had meant for it all to happen, she had wanted the deal. It was just that she wasn't at all sure who had seduced whom.

"Where is Cole now?" she asked Shannon. She was surprised to find that she had a ravenous appetite.

Shannon shrugged. "I'm not sure. But do you know what?" she asked excitedly.

"No. What?"

"He says he's going to stay around for a while. Isn't that wonderful, Kristin?"

Kristin swallowed and nodded. "Yes. It's wonderful."

"Samson says it's a miracle. He says God has looked down on us with mercy at long last."

The Lord certainly does work in mysterious ways," Kristin murmured dryly.

Shannon, who had seated herself at the foot of the bed, leaped up and hugged Kristin. "We're going to make it," she whispered. "We're really going to make it."

She had underestimated Shannon, Kristin realized. She had felt their father's death every bit as keenly as Kristin had.

And because she felt it so strongly, she had learned to hate, just as Kristin had.

"I've got to get back downstairs. Delilah is baking bread and making preserves and I promised to help."

Kristin nodded. "I'll be right down, too."

When her sister had left, Kristin washed hastily. She couldn't help remembering every place he had touched her, everything he had done to her. And then, naturally, she started trembling again, thinking about the feeling that had come over her. In the midst of carnage, a brief, stolen moment of ecstasy.

Shameful ecstasy.

Ecstasy.

She wondered if it had ever really been, if it could ever come again.

She dressed, trying desperately to quit thinking. If she didn't, she would walk around all day as red as a beet.

She dressed for work. There was some fencing down on the north side, and she had told Pete she'd come out and look at it. The stash of gold hidden in the hayloft was dwindling, but they could afford to repair the fencing. And if she could just hang on to her stock a while longer, she could command fair prices from any number of buyers in the spring. She had to remember that she was fighting for the land. Nothing else mattered.

In breeches and boots, Kristin started for the doorway. Then she remembered her bedding, and the telltale sheets.

Delilah usually did the beds. She kept the house with Shannon's help. Samson kept it from falling apart. Pete and Kristin ran the ranch. That was just the way things had worked out.

But she didn't want Delilah doing her bed. Not today.

He liked his women hungry. Women. Plural.

Kristin let loose with a furious oath and ripped the sheets from the bed. She jumped up and down on them a few times for good measure, then realized how ridiculous she was being and scooped them up. She carried them down with her to the stables, stuffing them into the huge trash bin. She would burn them later, with some of the empty feed bags.

She headed for the stable, determined to saddle Debutante and ride out. She paused in the doorway, aware that Cole was there, brushing down his black thoroughbred stallion. It was a beautiful animal, Kristin thought.

Very like the man who owned him.

She wasn't ready to see Cole Slater yet. She almost turned around, ready to change her plans for the day to avoid facing him. But he had sensed her there, and he turned, and there seemed to be nothing for her to do but stand there and meet his stare.

It was long, and it was pensive, and it gave no quarter. She would never accuse the man of being overly sensitive or overly polite. His gray eyes were sharp and curious, and she still thought he must be amused by her, because he was smiling slightly. There were times when she thought he hated her, but then he would stare at her in a way that warmed her and offered her a fleeting tenderness.

Very much like the way he made love…

She shouldn't have thought it. The color that had so alarmed her rose to fill her face, and she had to lower her eyes to still the blush. She prayed fervently that she could appear sophisticated for just this one encounter. But it was impossible to stand here now, fully clothed, and not remember what had gone on the night before. Things could never be the same again. She could never see life the same way again. She could never see him the same way again, for she knew the power of the form beneath the shirt and jeans, and he knew all that made up the woman she was.

"Sleep well?" he asked her after a moment.

There was something grating in the question, something mocking, and that helped. She squared her shoulders and tried to walk by him, heading for Debutante's stall. He caught her arm and swung her around. His eyes were serious now.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Out to the north pasture. I have to see the fencing. I should have gone yesterday, but…" She paused, her voice fading away.

He shook his head impatiently. "I'll meet Pete."

"But it's my ranch!"

"And it's my life, Miss McCahy." He dropped her arm and put his hands, the currycomb in one, on his hips. "You're taking up my time. We made some ridiculous deal —"

"Ridiculous deal!" She was choked with rage. She was going to slap him this time. Right across the face.

She didn't make it. He caught her wrist. "I'm sorry, Kristin. I didn't mean it that way."

"I'm so terribly sorry if I disappointed you."

She'd thought his eyes would drop with shame. They didn't. Hers did. He was still smiling.

"You didn't disappoint me. You surpassed my wildest expectations. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you. I meant that you really should be the hell out of here."

"You're not reneging?" she asked crisply.

He smiled slowly, tilted back his plumed hat and shook his head. "No, Kristin," he said softly. His low, grating voice sent tremors up her spine. "I never renege on a deal. But I'll be damned if I'm going to stick around so you can run off and be swept away beneath my very nose."

"But I —"

"Forget it, Kristin. I warned you. We play by my rules. And you're not riding out anywhere."

"But —"

"You ride out, I ride out."

"But… but you've already been… paid!" Kristin exploded.

His brows shot up, and his lips curled mockingly. "Paid?"

"You know what I mean."

He shook his head. "I sure as hell don't! That was it? One night in your arms and I'm supposed to gladly lay down my life and die?"

"You are no Southern gentleman."

"Did I say I was?"

"You are no gentleman at all!"

"I never claimed to be one, Kristin. In fact, I haven't made any claims to you at all. Remember that."

"I find it difficult to forget."

"Are you trying to renege?" he queried softly.

She drew herself up stiffly, determined to counter-attack. "So you're not from the South?"

"Does it matter where I'm from?" Maybe it does!"

He caught her hand and held it. They stared at one another. Behind them, the massive black stallion snorted. Cole stared at her seriously for a long moment and then said, "No, it doesn't, Kristin. Nothing about me matters at all. No questions. No involvement. Remember that."

She jerked her hand away. "I'll remember, Mr. Slater."

She started toward Debutante's stall. Maybe she couldn't go riding, but she had to get away. She would take a moment to stroke the mare's velvet nose, and then she would escape. She didn't know how she would be able to bear it, though. She would be like a caged animal with all the emotions that were playing havoc in her heart.

She patted Debutante's nose and promised the horse in a low whisper that she would come out and give her a good grooming as soon as he was out of the stable.

Then she turned around, determined to walk out of the stables with her head held high, determined to hang on to her few remaining shreds of dignity.

"By the way, Kristin…" he began.

She paused, her back to him. She straightened, stiffening her shoulders, and turned in a swift circle. He wasn't watching her. He was combing the stallion's shining flanks.

"Why don't you move your things into the larger bedroom? We'll have more space there."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"But — but everyone will know! And just how many times do you intend to… to…"

"Get paid?" he suggested politely. He didn't even seem to be paying attention to her. He stroked the stallion's ears, then stared directly at her. "You want blood, Kristin. That's an expensive commodity. And as far as everyone knowing is concerned, that's exactly what I want."

"But —"

"I make the rules, remember?"

"I can't! I can't go by this one —"

"Delilah will understand. So will Shannon and Sam and Pete and everyone else. And if Zeke Moreau hears anything about it, he'll get the message, too."

"But —"

"Do it, Kristin."

She spun around in a dead fury again. She didn't look back. She stormed into the house, wishing desperately that she were a man. She would run away and join the army in two seconds.

She wouldn't even give a damn whose army she joined. Just as long as it was someone who hated Quantrill and his animals.

"Kristin, that you?" Delilah came into the hallway, smiling. "Want to give us a hand with the wax? I could surely use some help stirring. I've got Shannon jarring and sealing while J've been kneading the bread."

"Er… of course," Kristin said. She'd much, much rather run away and join the army.

Shannon gave her a bright smile when she came into the kitchen. "Did you find Cole?"

"Yes. I found him."

Shannon nodded. It was obvious that she approved of it all. They were all mad, Kristin decided.

"He wants me to move into Pa's bedroom with him," she blurted out.

Shannon had been holding a jar of jam, sealing it with wax. The jar slipped from her fingers and shattered loudly on the floor.

Delilah sent the bread she was kneading into the air. It fell back on the block table.

Both of them stared at her. Then they glanced at one another. Neither of them said a word.

"Say something!" Kristin demanded. "Help me make some kind of a decision!"

"You can't!" Shannon gasped.

"Seems to me like you've already made your decision," Delilah said softly. "But it ain't right. It just ain't right. Still…"

"He's much, much better than Zeke Moreau," Shannon said. She stooped to pick up the broken glass and the jam that was seeping into the floorboards. "Yes, maybe you have to. And he is much better than Zeke."

"So that's why I'm sleeping with a stranger." Kristin sank into a chair before the fire. "I cannot believe I'm doing this," she murmured.

"These are different times," Shannon murmured, staring at the floor. She looked up at her sister. "Kristin, we can't be blind to the facts! We need him. We need him, or else we just have to give up and pull out."

"Shannon!" Kristin exploded. "You're shocked, and you know it. Pa must be turning in his grave. We don't even know where Cole Slater comes from!"

Shannon's beautiful blue eyes widened. "But of course we do, Kristin."

"What?"

Shannon smiled broadly. "He's from Missouri. He was originally from Virginia, but his family bought a big spread out here. I think he comes from tobacco money, a lot of it. He went to West Point. He was in the same class as Jeb Stuart!"

Kristin stared at her sister, who appeared about to swoon. Shannon thought that the Confederate general Jeb Stuart was the handsomest, most gallant gentleman in the whole world. Shannon's reaction to Stuart's name didn't surprise her, but the fact that she seemed to know so much about Cole stunned her.

"What?" she repeated numbly.

Shannon sighed with supreme patience, as if she were the elder, explaining things to a sullen child.

"He's a Virginian, Kristin, moved to Missouri. He went to West Point. Once upon a time he was in the army in Kansas. He and Stuart served together."

"Wonderful," Kristin murmured.

So he was a Southerner. And he wasn't in uniform. He was one of them, one of the breed that ran with Quantrill…

She was a Southerner herself, she thought dully. Not all Southerners were like Zeke Moreau.

But Cole…

Cole had talked freely to Shannon. But the questions hadn't all been answered yet.

He had gone to West Point. He had served in the Union Army before the war with the gallant Southern cavalry officer, Jeb Stuart.

But he wasn't wearing a uniform now. Not the Union's, and not the Confederacy's. Why not?

Delilah stirred something over the fire. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Well, Kristin? What do we do? If you want, I'll go move your things."

Kristin swallowed. She wanted to protest. She wanted to refuse Cole Slater.

She looked at Delilah. Delilah wasn't making any judgments.

Kristin nodded. She could give up the place or she could hold tight to Cole Slater. She really had no choice. But she vowed to herself that she'd find out everything there was to know about the man.

CHAPTER FIVE

Kristin spent the day worrying about the night ahead. She prowled around upstairs, trying to keep busy. Though she hated it, she did what Cole had told her to, taking a few of her dresses and nightshirts and putting them in the armoire in her parents' bedroom.

Shannon came upstairs while she was at it. There was something about her knowing glance that made Kristin feel terribly ashamed. "Cole — Mr. Slater — thinks that Zeke ought to think there's something… um, that he and I, that…"

"I understand," Shannon said softly. Even her innocence was dead, Kristin thought. There was an awkward silence, but then Shannon came into the room and hugged her. "I like him," she told Kristin. "I like him a whole lot."

"Only because he knows Jeb Stuart." Shannon made a face. "That helps." She sat down on the bed. "What happened here?" she queried softly.

"What do you mean?" Kristin asked her. "So many men are so fine. General Lee is such a gentleman, by all accounts. And Jeb Stuart is so dashing! And then out here…"

"We get the bushwhackers and the jayhawkers," Kristin finished for her. She sat down beside Shannon and hugged her. "And don't forget," she reminded her, "we have a brother fighting in Mr. Lincoln's army."

"I never forget!" Shannon said.

They sat there in silence for a long time. Then suddenly, there was a volley of shots from outside. Kristin leaped to her feet and raced to the window.

Cole was out back with Samson. He'd set a few rows of old liquor and tonic bottles on the back fence to serve as makeshift targets. He'd already shot up the first set.

Kristin watched as he reloaded, then twirled his six-shooter in his hand and shoved it back in its holster. He paused. Then, in the wink of an eye, he cleared away another row. Then he spoke to Samson, and Kristin realized that it was a lesson.

Then it was Samson's turn with the guns. Kristin strained to hear Cole's words.

"Quantrill's boys usually carry four or five Colts, a shotgun or a rifle or maybe both. That's why they keep licking the pants off the Union troops. They're well armed, and the boys in blue are still trying to fire off muzzle-loading carbines. Zeke will always be well armed. So we've always got to be prepared to out shoot him in return. You understand, Sam?"

"Yes, Mr. Slater, that I do."

"Let's try it again. Hold your hand steady, and squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it."

Cole took off his plumed hat, ran his fingers through his hair and set the hat back on his head, low over his eyes. Then he said, "Go!" and Samson drew. He shattered a fair number of the bottles, then laughed. Cole slapped him on the back, congratulating him. Then the men's voices grew low, and Kristin couldn't hear any more.

Suddenly Cole looked up at the window. It was too late. She couldn't draw away.

He smiled and waved. She almost waved back, but then she realized that Shannon had come up beside her and that it was her sister he was waving to, because she was waving down to him.

"We're moving Kristin in!" Shannon called down.

Kristin was mortified. She felt his eyes on her, she saw his slow, lazy smile. She wanted to hit Shannon over the head. She backed away from the window instead.

"You coming up?" Shannon called.

"Shannon!" Kristin hissed.

But Cole shook his head. He looked handsome then, as tall as Samson, and hard and lean in his long coat and his plumed hat. "Tell your sister I'm on my way out to find Pete. Might be gone awhile. If I can take care of some things today, I will."

Shannon turned to Kristin. "Cole said —"

"I heard what Cole said."

"Shannon!" Cole said.

"Yes, Cole?"

"Tell your sister I may be back late. Tell her she doesn't have to wait up."

Shannon turned to Kristin. "Cole said —"

"I heard what Cole said!"

Kristin spun around and stormed out of the room. She returned to her own room and slammed the door. She sat down on her own bed and pressed her hands against her temples. She had a staggering headache, and her nerves were as shattered as the bottles Cole had shot up.

Well, he had shattered her world, too.

She needed to get this over with quickly. She needed him to be around. She wanted him. She hated him.

She wished to God she knew him. She wished to God she could get to know him. But she didn't think he would let anyone get close to him. Anyone at all.

No involvement…

She didn't want any involvement. And he couldn't possibly make her as nervous as Zeke Moreau made her hateful.

Or could he?

If he came back at all that night, Kristin never knew it. She lay on her parents' bed until the wee hours of the morning, and then exhaustion claimed her. When she awoke, it was almost noon. No one came for her. When she dressed and went downstairs, Delilah was busy with a big pot of lye and Shannon was putting their last two-year-old colt through his paces. Kristin longed to do something, to ride somewhere, but

Samson found her in the stable and warned her that Cole had said she should stay close to home. She bit her lip but did as she was told, and Samson proudly showed her something of what he had learned.

Kristin was impressed with his newfound skill with a gun, and she told him so, but then she rested her chin on the fence and sighed. "Is it enough, Samson? Is it enough against Zeke?"

"Maybe not me alone, Miz Kristin, but Mr. Slater had all the boys out here this morning, and he can teach a whole lot about gunplay, as well as practice it."

"You sound like you like him a lot, Samson."

"Yep. Yes, miss, I do. He complimented me on my language this morning, and when I told him how big your pa was on learning he said that he thought fine men came in both black and white, and that he was mighty proud to know me."

Kristin smiled. "That's nice, Samson. That's mighty nice."

They were both silent for a moment. Then Kristin began to grow uncomfortable, wondering what he really thought of what was going on with Cole Slater.

"The world just ain't the same anymore, Miz Kristin," Samson said at last. "The world just ain't the same." He chewed on a long blade of grass and stared out at the pastureland. "No, the world just ain't the same, and we can only pray that it'll right itself when this awful war is over."

Kristin nodded. Then she turned to him and gave him a big hug. She didn't know what she'd do without him and Delilah.

She didn't see Cole again all that day and night. He was still out with Pete and the boys at dinnertime, and later, much later, she heard laughter and the strains of Pete's fiddle coming from the bunkhouse. That night she slept alone again in the big sleigh bed in her parents' room.

In the morning she didn't know if he had ever come to bed or not. For some reason, she didn't think he had, and she wondered why he was taunting her this way when he seemed to have so little real interest in her. Her temper rose, but then she remembered that she should be grateful to have him here. And then she was afraid he would leave.

And then she hated him. He was supposed to want her. They were supposed to have a deal. She was supposed to loathe him for taking advantage of her weakness. But she was the one left wondering and wanting. No, not wanting. Merely curious, she assured herself. But she couldn't deny that she had been in a fever ever since he had come. She simply couldn't deny her emotions.

Then he was there. He was there all day. He passed her in the hallway and tipped his hat to her, a smile of amusement tugging at his lips.

"Wait!" she cried. "Where are you going?"

"Rounding up strays."

"Let me come."

His smile faded. "No."

"But —"

"My rules, Kristin."

"But —"

"My rules."

She gritted her teeth and stiffened, watching him for a moment in simmering silence. He smiled again. "But I will be back for supper this evening. Steak and sweet potatoes and Delilah's black-eyed peas, and blueberry pie for dessert. And then…" He let his voice trail off. Then he lifted his hat again and turned and left.

And she didn't even know where he had spent the night.

It was another wretched day. She fed the chickens. She groomed her horse. She played with little Daniel, marveling in spite of herself at the way the child grew daily. She wandered around upstairs. Then she found herself sitting at the foot of the big sleigh bed.

His blanket lay on the floor next to the dresser. Kristin hesitated, staring at it for a long while. Then she got up and went over to it.

And then she unrolled it and went through his personal belongings.

There wasn't much. If he had a wallet, he had it with him. There was a shaving mug and a tin plate, a leather sack of tobacco, another sack of coffee and a roll of hardtack.

And there was a small silver daguerreotype frame.

Kristin stared at it for a moment then found the little silver clasp and flicked it open.

There were two pictures in the double frame. The first was of a woman alone, a very beautiful woman, with enormous eyes and dark hair and a dazzling smile.

In the second picture the woman was with a man. Cole.

He was in a U.S. Cavalry uniform, so the picture must have been made before the war. The woman wore a beautiful, voluminous gown with majestic hoops, and a fine bonnet with a slew of feathers. They weren't looking at the camera. They were looking at one another.

There was such tenderness, such love in their eyes, that Kristin felt she was intruding on something sacred. She closed the frame with a firm snap and put it back inside the blanket, trying to put everything back together as if she hadn't touched it at all. It didn't make any difference, she told herself dully. He should expect people who didn't know a thing about him to check up on him. No, that didn't wash, not at all, not even with her.

The woman was dead, she thought.

She didn't know how she knew, but she knew. Cole Slater had loved her, and Kristin was certain that he wouldn't be here with her now if the woman in the picture were still alive.

There seemed to be an ominous silence all over the house as dinnertime approached. Delilah had been out to feed the hands, and the table was set for the family.

Set for three.

They weren't using the fine service that evening. Shannon had set out the pewter plates, and the atmosphere in the dining room seemed as muted and subdued as the dull color of the dishes.

Cole had stayed out all day. Kristin had done her best to be useful, but the day had been a waste. There was no way out of it. She couldn't forget Cole's promise that he would be there that night, and she couldn't forget the woman in the picture, and she couldn't forget the startling array of emotions that it had all raised within her.

Kristin had dressed for dinner.

She was a rancher, and this ranch on the border between Kansas and Missouri was a far cry from the fine parlors and plantations back east, but she was still a woman and she loved clothes.

It was a weakness with her, Pa had told her once, but he'd had a twinkle in his eyes when he'd said it. He'd always been determined that his daughters should be ladies. Capable women, but ladies for all that. He had always been pleased to indulge her whims, letting her study fabrics, and to pick up her Lady Godoy's the minute the fashion magazine reached the local mercantile. Her armoire was still filled with gowns, and her trunks and dressers held an endless assortment of petticoats and hoops, chemises and corsets, stockings and pantalets. They had all lent a certain grace to life once upon a time. Before the carnage had begun. By day they had worked for their dream, and the dust and the tumbleweed of the prairie had settled on them. At night they had washed away the dust and the dirt, and after dinner Pa had settled back in his chair with a cigar and she and Shannon had taken turns at the spinet. Her own voice was passable. Shannon's was like that of a nightingale.

And there had been nights when Adam had been there, too. Sometimes winter had raged beyond the

windows, but they had been warm inside, warmed by the fire and by the love and laughter that had surrounded them.

That was what Zeke had hated so much, she thought. He had never understood that laughter and love could not be bought or stolen. He had called her a traitor to the Southern cause, but she had never betrayed the South. She had merely learned to despise him, and so she had lost her father, and then Adam, too.

Today she could remember Adam all too clearly. He had loved books. He had always looked so handsome, leaning against the fireplace, his features animated as he spoke about the works of Hawthorne and Sir Walter Scott.

No one had told her that Adam was riding out after Zeke. She'd never had the chance to try to stop him.

And now she wondered painfully if she had ever really loved him. Oh, she had cared for him dearly. He had been a fine man, good and decent and caring, and he had often made her laugh.

But she had never, never thought of Adam in the way that she had Cole Slater, had never even imagined doing with Adam the things she had actually done with Cole Slater.

And she didn't love Cole Slater. She couldn't love him. No, she couldn't love him, not even now. How could a woman love a man who had treated her the way he had?

But how could she forget him? How could she forget all she had felt since she'd first seen the man? How could she forget all that had passed between them? Kristin realized that it was difficult just to be in the same room with him now. Her breath shortened instantly, and she couldn't keep her gaze steady, and she wanted to run away every time he looked her way. She couldn't look at him without remembering their night together, and when she did she wanted to crawl into a hole in the ground and hide. She was ashamed, not so much because of what she had done but because she had been so fascinated by it. Because she still felt the little trickles of excitement stir within her whenever he entered the room, whenever she felt his presence.

She knew instinctively when he came into the house for dinner.

Fall was coming on, and the evening was cool. She had dressed in a soft white velvet gown with black cord trim. The bodice was low, and the half-sleeves were trimmed in black cord, too. The skirt was sweeping, and she had chosen to wear a hoop and three petticoats.

She'd made Delilah tie her corset so tightly that she wasn't sure she'd be able to breathe all evening.

Her appearance had suddenly become very, very important to her. He hadn't been cruel to her, but he had been mocking, and he'd warned her again and again that this terribly intimate thing between them had nothing to do with involvement. Her pride was badly bruised, and all she had to cling to was her dream of leaving him panting in the dust. Someday. When she didn't need him anymore.

She'd braided her hair and curled it high atop her head, except for one long lock that swept around the column of her neck and the curve of her shoulder to rest on the mound of her cleavage.

She never used rouge — Pa hadn't allowed it in the house — but she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips, to bring some color to her features. Still, when she gazed at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser — she had refused to dress in the other room — she was terribly pale, and she looked more like a nervous girl than a sophisticated woman in charge of her life, owner of her property, mistress of her own destiny.

She tried to sweep elegantly down the stairs, but her knees were weak, so she gave up and came down as quickly as she could. Shannon was setting cups on the table. She stared at Kristin with wide blue eyes, but she didn't say anything. Nor did Kristin have to question her about Cole.

"He's in Pa's office," Shannon mouthed. Kristin nodded. Nervously, she started through the house. She passed through the parlor and came around, pausing in the doorway.

He was sitting at her father's desk, reading the newspaper, and his brows were drawn into such a dark and brooding frown that she nearly turned away. Then he looked up. She was certain that he started for a moment, but he hid it quickly and stood politely. His gaze never left her.

"Bad news?" she asked him, looking at the paper.

He shrugged. "Not much of anything today," he said.

"No great Southern victory? No wonderful Union rout?"

"You sound bitter."

"I am."

"You got kin in the army?"

"My brother."

"North or South?"

"North. He's with an Illinois troop." Kristin hesitated. She didn't want him to feel that they were traitors to the Southern cause. "Matthew was here when Pa was killed. He learned a whole lot about hatred."

"I understand."

She nodded. Then curiously she asked him, "And have you got kin in the army, Mr. Slater?"

"Yes."

"North or South?"

He hesitated. "Both."

"You were in the Union Army."

"Yes." Again he paused. Then he spoke softly. "Yes. And every time I see a list of the dead — either side — it hurts like hell. You've seen the worst of it, Kristin. There are men on both sides of this thing who are fine and gallant, the very best we've ever bred, no matter what state they've hailed from."

It was a curious moment. Kristin felt warm, almost felt cherished. She sensed depths to him that went very far beyond her understanding, and she was glad that he was here for her.

However briefly.

But then he turned, and she saw his profile. She saw its strengths, and she saw the marks that time had left upon it, and she remembered the woman in the picture, and that he didn't really love her at all. And she felt awkward, her nerves on edge again.

"Supper's about on the table," she said.

He nodded.

"Can I… can I get you a drink? Or something?"

Or something. She saw the slow smile seep into his lips at her words, and she blushed, feeling like a fool despite herself. He nodded again.

"Madeira?"

"A shot of whiskey would be fine."

Kristin nodded, wondering what had prompted her to say such a thing. He was closer to the whiskey than she was, and he knew it, but he didn't make a move to get it. He kept staring at her, his smile mocking again.

She swept into the room and took the whiskey from the drawer. They were very close to one another. He hadn't changed. He was still wearing tight breeches and a cotton shirt and his riding boots. She knew he had ridden out to meet with Pete, and she knew, too, that he seemed to know something about ranching. Well, he was from somewhere around here, according to Shannon.

She poured him out a double shot of the amber liquid, feeling him watching her every second. She started to hand him the glass, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were on hers, grown dark, like the sky before a tornado.

He reached out and touched the golden lock of hair that curled over the rise of her breasts. He curled it around his finger, his thumb grazing her bare flesh. She couldn't move. A soft sound came from her throat, and suddenly it was as if all the fires of hell had risen up to sweep through her, robbing her of all strength. She stared up at him, but his eyes were on her hair, and on her flesh where he touched her. She felt heat radiating from the length and breadth of his body, and yet she shivered, remembering the strength of his shoulders, the hardness of his belly, the power of his thighs.

And she remembered the speed of his draw. He was a gunslinger, she thought, bred to violence.

No. He had been to West Point. He had served as a captain in the U.S. Cavalry. That was what he had told Shannon, at least.

Did any of it matter? He was here, and as long as he was here she felt safe from the Zeke Moreaus of the world. And yet, she thought, theirs must surely be a bargain made in hell, for when he looked at her, when he touched her even as lightly as he did now, she felt the slow fires of sure damnation seize her.

"Do you always dress so for dinner?" he asked her, and the timbre of his voice sent new shivers skating down her spine.

"Always," she managed to murmur.

His knuckles hovered over her breasts. Then his eyes met hers, and he slowly relinquished the golden curl he held. Expectation swirled around them, and Kristin was afraid that her knees would give, that she would fall against him. The whiskey in the glass she held threatened to spill over. He took the glass from her and set it on the desk. She felt heat where his fingers had brushed hers, and it seemed that the air, the very space between them, hummed with a palpable tension.

"You are a very beautiful woman, Miss McCahy," he told her softly, and she felt his male voice, male and sensual, wash over her.

"Then, you're not… you're not too disappointed in our deal?"

He smiled again, and his silver-gray eyes brightened wickedly. "Did we need a deal?"

"I don't know what you mean," she told him, though she knew exactly what he meant.

The light went out of his eyes. He picked up the whiskey and swallowed it quickly. "I'm still damned if I know what the hell I'm doing here," he muttered.

"I thought —" she began, and her face flamed.

He touched her cheek. "You thought the payoff went well, is that it?"

She shoved his hand away. She didn't want him to touch her, not then. "You do have a talent for making a woman feel just like river slime," she said, as sweetly as she could. He arched a brow, and she saw fleeting amusement light his features. She could hold her own in any fight, she thought, but only for so long. She needed to escape him now.

"I didn't mean to make you feel like… river slime."

"Don't worry. You already did so. Last night." With a sweetly mocking smile, Kristin turned to leave.

Then she paused and turned toward him again, biting her lip. She kept forgetting how much she needed him. Her eyes must have widened with the realization, for he was smiling cynically again and pouring himself another shot of whiskey.

"Don't worry," he told her smoothly. "I'm not walking out on you. Not yet."

Kristin moistened her lips. "Not yet?" she whispered.

"Why, Miss McCahy! I really couldn't leave a lady in such distress, could I?"

"What do you mean by that?"

He raised the glass. "Take it as you will, ma'am."

Kristin swore under her breath and strode over to him again. She snatched the glass from his hand and thought seriously of pouring the contents over his head. His eyes narrowed, and she quickly reconsidered.

She swallowed the whiskey down so quickly that her head spun in an instant and her throat burned with the fury of a brush fire. A double shot, straight. But she steeled herself, and she still managed to smile sweetly. "You don't owe me anything."

"No, darlin'. You owe me." He smiled, took the glass from her and poured another double. "And I'm real anxious for the next installment."

Kristin snatched the glass again and swallowed the liquid down. She didn't know if she was alive with anger or with desire.

She slammed the glass down and tried to spin around. He caught her arm, pulling her back. She tossed her head back, staring into his eyes.

"Isn't it what you want?" he asked her.

"I want revenge, nothing more," she told him.

"Nothing more?"

"I want you to — I want you to stay. I want to hold on to the ranch. I just want to hold on to what is mine."

"The precious ranch," he muttered darkly.

Fear fluttered briefly in her heart. "Cole…Mr. Slater, you really wouldn't… you wouldn't go back on your word, would you?"

"Not so long as you follow the rules."

Her head was really spinning now. He had poured so much whiskey, and she'd swallowed it down so fast. He was so warm, and so damn vibrant, and so shockingly male. And she'd already been in bed with him.

Her mother would be spinning in her grave, Kristin thought.

He was using her. He was using her because he had loved another woman and now he just didn't give a damn.

"Your rules! Just don't forget that the place belongs to me!"

She wrenched free of him, and this time she walked out. She wasn't afraid of him leaving. He was having too fine a time torturing her to leave now.

When she reached the dining room, she was startled to discover that he was behind her. He had followed her, as silent as a wraith. It was disconcerting.

"Stop it!" she demanded.

Shannon came out of the kitchen. Delilah was behind her. Both women stopped, startled.

Cole ignored them both. "Stop what?" he demanded irritably.

"Sneaking up on me!"

"I wasn't sneaking up on you. You told me it was time for supper, so I followed you."

"Whoa!" Shannon murmured, looking at her sister. "Kristin, you've been drinking!"

"Yes!" she snapped, glaring at Cole. "And I'll probably do a whole lot more drinking before… before…"

"Oh, hell, will you just sit the hell down!" Cole growled. He caught her hand, pulled out a chair and directed her into it with little grace. Her wide skirts flew. He pressed them down and shoved her chair in.

Kristin wanted to be dignified. She wanted to be sophisticated and elegant, and most of all she wanted to be in control. "You arrogant scallywag!" she said quietly, her voice husky with emotion.

"Kristin, shut up."

That was it. She started to push herself away from the table, but his hand slammed down on hers, holding her fast. "Kristin, shut up."

"Bas—"

"Now, Kristin." He came closer to her, much closer, and spoke in a whisper. This was between the two of them. "Or else we can get up and settle this outside."

The whiskey seemed to hit her anew right then, hit her hard. She thought she was going to scream. She burst into laughter instead. "Outside? With pistols?"

"Hardly, but you can call it what you want, darlin'."

The buzz of the liquor was nice. If he stayed around too long, Kristin thought, she'd find herself turning into a regular old drunk.

"Shall we eat?" Cole asked politely.

There was silence in the room. Shannon was staring at him. "Sit!" he told her.

Shannon sat hastily, then lowered her head before looking surreptitiously over at Kristin, who hiccuped loudly.

Cole groaned, then he looked up at Delilah. "Don't you and Samson usually eat?"

"Oh, no, sir!" Delilah protested. "Why, you know it just wouldn't be right for black folks —"

"Delilah, cut the… er —" He broke off, looking from Samson to Kristin. Shannon was about to laugh.

"Manure," Kristin supplied.

Shannon did burst into laughter. Even Delilah grinned. Cole said, "Get your husband, woman, and sit down and eat. I once had the opportunity to discover that a black man could save my hide as good as a white one. Let's just have supper and get it over with, shall we?"

"Yessir, yessir," Delilah said, chuckling. "My, my, my," she muttered, moving off toward the kitchen.

Kristin sat primly, her hands folded in her lap. Her dress felt ridiculously heavy, now that she was sitting. She felt as if she was about to fall over. She realized that Cole was looking at her, but it didn't matter very much, and that was a nice feeling.

Delilah walked back in from the kitchen.

Cole gazed at her expectantly. "You've never washed her mouth out with soap, huh?" He indicated Kristin.

Kristin decided that she could sit straight. She told Cole that he reminded her of the stuff that people needed to wipe off their boots before they came in from the barn.

Shannon gasped, and then she began to giggle. Delilah stood stock-still. Samson, coming in behind his wife, turned an ashen color.

Cole was dead still. Explosively still. And then explosively in motion.

He was up, and Kristin sobered enough to know a moment's panic as he came around behind her and purposely pulled her chair away from the table. He lifted her, and her petticoats and hoops and skirt went flying. Kristin swore at him and pounded on his back.

"Cole!" Kristin gasped.

What manner of man had she let loose in her home, she wondered.

He started for the stairs.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked.

"Putting you to bed."

"I don't want to go!"

"My rules, Miss McCahy."

They were all watching her, Shannon and Delilah and Samson, and they weren't doing a thing to save her. They were just staring. She raised her head and saw that Delilah was openly grinning and Samson was hiding a smile.

"You son of a bitch!" she yelled.

"We are going to have to do something about that mouth of yours," Cole vowed grimly.

"This is my house!"

"My rules!"

She told him what he could do with his rules, but it was too late. They were already up the stairs. He booted open the door to the room he had decreed they would share, and before she knew it she had landed on the bed. She wanted to get back up, but she groaned instead and clutched her temples.

His leering face was above her.

"Why, what's the matter, Miss McCahy? Why, I would have thought you could drink any man west of the Mississippi under the table."

"Madeira," she whispered. "Not whiskey."

He showed her no mercy. Suddenly his hand was on her leg and he was pulling off her shoe. She managed to pull herself up to a sitting position and pummel his back. "What are you doing?"

"Taking your shoes off." But her shoes were off, and his hands were still on her, slipping along her calf, then her thigh. When his fingers touched her thigh, she gasped and tried to stop him. "Damn you Cole Slater —"

Her words ended in a gasp, for he turned quickly, pulling hard on her ankle so that she was lying flat on her back again. Her silk stockings came free in his hands, and he tossed them carelessly on the floor. She tried to rise, and he came down beside her on the bed, his weight on her.

"Where the hell are the damn ties to these things?" he muttered, working on her hoop.

Kristin struggled to stop him, but he found the ties. She reached for his hands, but they had already moved, freeing her from her hoop and petticoats, and he pulled her up, working on the hooks of her gown. In seconds he had it free and she was down to her pantalets, chemise and corset.

"Come here!" he demanded roughly. Kristin cried out, trying to elude him, but he pulled her back by the corset ties. He loosened the ties, and she gasped, amazed by the air that rushed into her lungs. But then she was naked except for her sheer chemise and pantalets, and his presence was overwhelming.

She began to protest. He caught her shoulders and slammed her down on the bed.

"Calm down and sleep it off!" he commanded.

He was straddling her, and his eyes were like steel. She wanted to slap his superior face. She tried. She missed by a mile, and he caught her hand.

"My rules."

She told him again what he could do with his rules.

"Stay here alone, or I'll stay here with you."

She went still, trying to grasp the meaning of his words. The room was spinning madly.

Then she understood. He stared at her. Then he lowered his head toward her and kissed her, and somewhere, within her hazy mind and her bruised heart she knew that he did desire her.

And she knew, too, that he didn't love her, not at all.

His kiss was hard and demanding and, in its way, punishing. But then it deepened, and it was rich, and it betrayed a growing passion and hunger. She felt her body respond. She felt his hands move over her, felt him grow warm and hard. She began to tremble and suddenly she wanted him, but she wanted him loving her, loving her tenderly, not just wanting her with the raw desire that had finally brought him to her.

His mouth opened and closed hungrily upon her flesh. His teeth grazed her throat, and the tip of his tongue teased the valley between her breasts. He was a flame setting on her, seeping into her, and she was stunned that he could so easily elicit this willingness…

This eagerness…

Within her. She stiffened, fighting the whiskey haze in her heart and in her mind. She had to stop him. He hadn't meant to do this, not now. He had stayed away from her on purpose, she was certain of it. He wanted no involvements.

And she could too easily fall in love with him.

She forced herself to feel nothing, to allow the bitterness of the last years to invade her, so that his searing warmth could not touch her. When he rose above her, she met his steely gaze and spoke to him in a quiet, toneless voice.

"Who was she? Your wife?"

She might have struck him. All the heat left him. It was as if he turned to ice. He stared at her, his jaw constricted, his features as harsh as a desert. He rolled away from her and sat on the side of the bed. His fingers threaded through his hair, and he pressed his hand against his temple as if he were trying to soothe some awful pain.

"Go to sleep," he told her. "And stay off the hard stuff from now on."

Kristin cast her arm over her eyes. "Your rules," she murmured.

"I don't like this kind of a fight, Kristin," he said dully, "but…"

"But?"

"You start it, and I'll end it. Every time."

She felt his weight lift from the bed, and she started to shiver. Suddenly she was warmed. He had laid a blanket over her, and he was close by her again.

"Go to sleep," he said softly, his voice almost tender again.

Almost.

He got up and walked away. She heard the door close quietly, and to her great dismay she closed her eyes and started to cry as she hadn't done since they had come to tell her that Adam was dead.

CHAPTER SIX

It was the liquor, Kristin thought. Lying in the darkness, feeling miserable, she put her arm over her eyes and felt her head spin, and she wondered what had made her drink so much so fast. She was humiliated, but it was her own fault, and she was in no mood to do anything about it, except to suffer in silence.

And, in a way, she wasn't sorry. She could dimly hear the sounds of dinner, and she wondered if Samson and Delilah had sat down to eat. Cole Slater was an unusual man. A very unusual man.

The darkness closed in and whirled around her. She knew she ought to be sorry she had let the liquor ignite her temper, but instead she was glad of it. She didn't feel the awful pain for once. She didn't remember what it had been like to see Pa die, to see Matthew turn his back on his own people and ride away with the Union forces.

She didn't even quite remember what it was like to be with Cole Slater. To be so nervous that she lost all the wisdom her harsh life had taught her. To be afraid in a way, and yet to want something, some intangible thing, so badly.

Curiously — bless the liquor — she felt at peace.

She closed her eyes, and she must have dozed. Then she must have awakened, or else she was dreaming, because when she opened her eyes, the room was bathed in moonlight. Her mind was still spinning, and she still felt at peace.

He was in the room with her.

He had come in quietly, and the door had closed softly behind him. He stood just inside of it, his hands on his hips, and watched her where she lay upon the bed. The moonlight fell on his features, and they were both harsh and curiously beautiful. For the longest time he stood there. The wind seemed to rise, not to a moan, but to a whisper. She imagined that outside tumble-weeds were being caught and tossed in the strange, sweet dance of the West, buffeted as she was being buffeted. Her heart rose and fell like that tumbleweed, tossed around heedlessly.

No…

He was a marvelous creature, sleek as a cougar, sharp as an eagle. He was still standing there, his hands on his hips, his head at an angle, as if he were waiting, as if he were listening to the curiously tender whispering of the wind.

Then he moved. He unbuttoned his cuffs. He took off his boots and stripped off his socks. He came to her in silence, barefoot, and he dropped his gun belt beside the bed. Then he looked down at her, and saw that her eyes were open. "You're still awake."

She nodded gravely, and then she smiled. "I'm sorry. I was out of line this evening. And I… I don't want to fight."

Unbuttoning his shirt, he sat beside her on the bed. His eyes remained on hers. He reached over and touched her cheek. "I don't want to fight, either, Kristin. You've had a hard time of it, and you've done well. Someone else might have shattered a long, long time ago."

The gentle whisper of the wind was in his voice, and there was an evocative tenderness in his fingertips as they brushed her cheek. She didn't reply, but kept her eyes on his, and then the whisper of the wind seemed to sweep into her, to permeate her flesh and fill her veins. She was warm, and achingly aware of herself, and of the man. Surely, she was still asleep. Surely it was all a dream. It was a spell cast by the moonlight. It lived in the clouds of imagination.

But it was real. Very real. He leaned over then and caught her lips in a curious kiss. It was light at first. He tasted her lips, teasing them with the tip of his tongue. Then he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and felt the rugged, steel-muscled frame of his chest against her. She felt his hands on her, rough and tender. Then his hands were in her hair, threading through the tendrils, and he was stroking her arm as he moved his lips over her throat and down to the place where her breasts spilled provocatively from her lace chemise. His mouth fastened over her nipple through the sheer fabric, and she cried out softly. He shifted swiftly, taking her mouth again, taking her cry into him.

He stood, dropping his shirt and stripping away his pants. The moonlight fell on him. He was tall and rugged, lean and sinewed, his skin shining almost copper in that light, his shoulders shimmering with it. She stared at him. If this was a dream, she was grateful for it. She wanted him. She wanted him with her heart and with her mind, she wanted him with every fiber of her being. She wanted him desperately.

She was not to be denied.

He came down beside her and took her in his arms, and she strained to meet his kiss again. He unlaced her chemise, and her breast spilled from it. He lowered his head again, touching her nipple with his tongue, fondling the weight of her breast with a touch so achingly soft… She was barely aware that she arched to him, that she dug her fingers into his hair and cried incoherently for him to come to her. But it was not to be. His hands brushed her flesh, and where they had been she yearned for them again. His kisses ranged over the length of her, a mere breath, a mere whisper, and then were gone. She writhed. She tried to hold him, to pin him down. And she felt something move in her, like lava rising to the surface of the earth. She felt the earth teeming and bubbling with heat and steam, and still he pressed her. She moved her hands against him, felt the tension in his taut muscles, and touching him inflamed her, bringing her to still greater heights. She no longer knew herself. She had become some strange wanton. She felt his hands on her hips, and on her belly and she moved toward the feel of them, the promise of them. He made her touch him, and the pulsing heat and size of him gave her pause. Then a curious elation filled her, and for a moment she was afraid she might faint.

Her remaining clothes were gone now. Like him, she lay naked in the moonlight, her skin shimmering like copper beneath its glow.

Time had lost all meaning. She lay upon clouds of moonlight, and all that was real was the hardness of this man, the demand in his eyes. The wind had become the ragged cry of his breath, and the storm was the near-savage urgency that drove him. He did not tease. He sucked hard on her breast until she thought she would explode. He did not shyly caress her thighs, but stroked within, to the heart of her, and as he touched her, he caught her cries again with his lips. He knelt before her, caught her eyes again, then watched her, before he caught the supple length of her legs and brought them around him. He stared at her as he lowered his head, and she opened her mouth to stop him, but she could not.

He touched her intimately, with a searing demand, and she tossed her head, savagely biting her own lip so as not to scream. She could not bear it, and despite her efforts she did cry out. She lunged forward, she convulsed and she heard the soft tenor of his laughter. She longed to strike him, to hide from him. But he was above her, and he had her hands, and suddenly he was within her, igniting a fierce burning, and it was all happening again, all beginning again. His hands roughly cupped her buttocks, and again he led her into a shattering rhythm.

The clouds danced around them. She closed her eyes and buried her face against his chest, and she tasted the salt on his body. There was nothing gentle in him then. He moved in a frenzy, violent, urgent, and though she feared she would lose herself in him, she clung to him and fought to meet his every move. Ecstasy burst through again, even stronger than before, and she dug her fingers into his flesh, convulsing against him. He shuddered strongly against her, and she was filled with their mutual heat. Then he fell from her, smoothing the wild tangle of her hair.

They didn't say anything. Not anything at all.

The wind had died down again. It was a mere whisper. It caught the tumbleweeds down below and tossed them around.

Her heart was still beating savagely. He must have felt it when he put his arm around her and pulled her against him. It was a wonderful way to sleep, her back to his chest, his fingers just below the full curve of her breast. She didn't think about the wind, or the night. The moonlight was still shining down on them. Perhaps it had all been a dream. She didn't want to know. She closed her eyes, and at long last the spinning in her head stopped. She slept.

He slept, too, and it was his turn to dream. The nightmare of the past, the nightmare that haunted him whether he was awake or asleep, came back to him now.

The dream unfolded slowly, so slowly. It always came to him first with sound… a soft, continual thunder, like the beating of drums. It was the sound of hooves driving across the earth, driving hard. Then he heard the shouts. They made no sense at first, they meant nothing, nothing at all. Then he realized that the hooves were churning beneath him. He was the rider. He was riding hard, riding desperately, and all he wanted to do was get home before…

Smoke. He inhaled sharply and it filled his nostrils and mouth with an acrid taste. There was something about that smell… He could feel a trail of ice streak along his spine. He recognized the awful odor of burning flesh.

Then he saw the horror up ahead. The house was burning; the barn was burning.

And he saw Elizabeth.

She was running, trying to reach him. He screamed her name, his voice ragged and harsh, and still he felt the movement beneath him, the endless thunder of the horse's hooves. He rode across the plain, across the scrub brush. And she kept coming. She was calling to him, but the sound of her voice could not reach him. She could not reach him.

She fell and disappeared from sight. He rode harder, and then he leaped from the horse, still shouting her name, over and over. He searched through the grass until he found her. Her hair, long and lustrous and ebony black, was spread over the earth in soft, silken waves.

"Elizabeth…"

He took her into his arms, and he looked down, and all that he saw was red. Red, spilling over him, filling his hands. Red, flowing in rivers, red… the color of blood.

He cast back his head, and he screamed, and the scream echoed and echoed across the plain…

He awoke with a start.

He was covered in sweat, and he was trembling. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gazed at the woman beside him. He saw her golden hair, and the easy rise and fall of her chest with her breath.

She hadn't awakened.

He rose and went to the window, where he stared out at the moon. He hadn't woken her; it was going to be all right. Maybe he was getting better; at least he wasn't screaming out loud anymore.

He walked over to the bed and stared down at her; and she seemed incredibly young and pure, and very lovely. His fingers itched, and he wanted to shake her, to tell her that she didn't understand how deadly the game she was playing could be.

His fingers eased. Maybe she knew.

He went back to the window and stared at the moon again. Slowly, the tension left him, and he sighed. He went back to bed, but he couldn't bear to touch her, even though he knew that someday soon he would. He needed to touch her, just as he needed air to breathe.

He didn't sleep. In time, dawn came. He rose and dressed, then went outside. He gazed out over the plain, and in his mind he saw Elizabeth again, running toward him. He closed his eyes, and she was gone, but the pain was still with him, filling him, gnawing at his insides. He straightened his shoulders, and the pain slowly began to ebb, but it never fully left him. It clutched his heart with icy fingers, and he wondered what the hell he was doing here, then reminded himself that he had agreed to a "deal," and he might as well get on with it. He turned around and stared at her window. She was sleeping just beyond it. He marched back to the house.

She'd never expected to be awakened so rudely. One second she was so deep in blissful sleep, and the next she felt his hand against her rump. Her bare rump. He'd pulled the covers away from her.

Protesting, she grabbed the covers and sat with them pulled up to her chin, her eyes blazing with fury and indignation. He was up and dressed, standing at the foot of the bed and surveying her with cold eyes.

"I want you in the office. Now. If you want my help, you'd better show me the books."

"I'll come down to the office when I'm ready," she snapped. She couldn't understand the man. She couldn't understand his strange, distant behavior after the things they had shared in the night. It hurt.

"Get up."

She narrowed her eyes at this new battle.

"You get out and then I'll get up. When I'm ready."

He grabbed the sheets again. She lunged for them but she was too late, and he stripped them away. He eyed her dispassionately, his steely gaze sweeping over her form. She jumped out of bed, swearing once again, and leaped toward him, her temper soaring. He caught her arms, and his smile was curiously grim and somehow self-satisfied. It was as if he had been trying to pick a fight. She tried to wrench free of his touch. She didn't like the daylight on her naked flesh, and she didn't like the disadvantage of being undressed while he was clad from his scarf to his boots. He pulled her close against him. She felt the bite of his belt buckle and the texture of his shirt, but most of all she felt a hot tempest of emotions within him, no matter how calm, cold and in control he looked.

"I told you," he said sharply, "I call the shots. And you can't laze in bed all morning. You're a rancher. You should know that. Or do you fust play at this thing? When you feel like riding with the boys, you do. And when you feel like playing the Southern belle, then you do that, too."

She was furious, but she smiled to hide it. Tense and still against him and staring up into his eyes, she smiled. "I don't play at anything, Mr. Slater. I am a rancher, and probably better at it than you ever were or could be. I just don't have to be as ugly as a mule's rump to do it. You call the shots? Well, that's just fine. When you want me up from now on, you knock. One knock, Mr. Slater, and I promise I'll be right out in less than five minutes. But don't you ever, ever touch me like that again!"

His brow arched slowly, and she saw his smile deepen. He released her and put his hands on his hips. She felt his gaze sweep over her again like fire. For a moment she thought he was going to sweep her up in his arms, right there, right then, in broad daylight. For a moment she was certain he was going to carry her over to the bed and take her there and then, with the morning sun shining on them.

She'd have to protest, she'd have to scream…

For the life of her she didn't know if she was afraid or if she wished he'd take a step forward and sweep her up in his arms…

He tipped his hat to her.

"I call all the shots, Kristin. All of them."

He turned around then and left her. The door closed sharply behind him.

She washed and dressed, wondering again what kind of a monster she had brought into her home. She touched her cheeks, and it was as if they were on fire.

When she came down the stairs, he was just finishing his breakfast. He tossed his checkered napkin on the table and rose at the sight of her. Kristin went to her chair.

"Flapjacks, honey?" Delilah asked her.

Cole was around the table before she had a chance to sit. He took her arm.

"Give her a cup of coffee, Delilah. Nothing else for the moment. We've got work to do."

She could make a scene, as she had at dinner. Delilah was staring at her, and Samson was staring at her, and so was Shannon. Her sister's eyes were very wide. They were all waiting.

Bastard! she thought. He was at fault! But she had been at fault the night before, and she knew she would look like a spoiled fool again if she created a problem.

"That's right. This is a busy, busy day, isn't it?" she said sweetly. "Coffee, Delilah." She accepted a cup and smiled her gratitude, gritting her teeth. She freed her arm from Cole's grasp. "Do come, Mr. Slater. The day is wearing on."

He followed her into the office, then swept past her, taking a seat behind her father's desk. He'd already been in there that morning, she was certain. He had the ledgers out, and before she could even seat herself he was firing out a barrage of questions. Where did she buy her feed, how much, how often? Had she considered moving any of the herd to avoid soldiers, Union and Confederate? Had she thought of leaving more pasture time, had she thought of introducing new strains? And on and on.

She didn't falter once. She was a rancher. She was bright, determined and well-schooled, and she wanted him to know it. It occurred to her that he was just some drifter, that he had no rights here at all. But then she remembered that she had asked him to stay, that she had been desperate for him to stay.

That she had been willing to do anything at all to make him stay. And he had stayed, and she wasn't the same person anymore, not in any way. But whoever she was now, he wasn't going to treat her this way.

Suddenly he slammed the ledger he was examining shut and stood up. He stared across the desk at her, and for a moment she thought he must hate her.

He had saved her from Zeke, she reminded herself. He had ridden in, all honor and chivalry, and he had saved her from Zeke. Now he looked as if he wanted to flay her alive himself.

He looked as if he were about to say something. He shook his head impatiently. "I'm going out," he said. He jammed his hat low on his head, and came around the desk.

Kristin rose quickly and, she hoped, with dignity. "If you'd let me come with you —"

"No. I don't want you with me."

"I could show you —"

"God damn you, can't you hear? Or are you just incapable of listening? I'll see things myself. I'll see what I want to see. And you'll stay here by the house. Roam too far and come across Zeke and you'll wind up on your own this time. I swear it."

It might be better! she longed to shout. But she didn't do it, because it wasn't true. Zeke had killed her father. No matter how outrageously bad Cole's manners were turning out to be, he didn't compare with Zeke.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back. "Don't let me keep you," she said sarcastically.

He walked past her.

She didn't know where he went. She was pretty sure he was never far away, but he didn't come by the house.

He had left a newspaper on the table, and she sat down and stared at the articles. War. It was all about war. About the Union troops holding Kansas, about the measures they intended to take against Quantrill and his raiders.

War and more war. The Union held New Orleans, and Grant was swearing he'd have Vicksburg soon. But whether the Union held sway or not, there was something that couldn't be changed. In the East, Lee was leading them all a merry chase. He had fewer men, he had less ammunition, he had less food. But he was brilliant, and not even the fact that the paper had been published in a town filled with Yankees could change the tenor of the articles. The South was strong. They could beat her and beat her, but she had the genius of Lee and Stonewall Jackson, and she had the daring of Jeb Stuart and Morgan Hunt and others like them.

Kristin laid her face against the cool wood of her father's desk. The news didn't make her happy or proud. It filled her heart with dread. It meant the war was going to go on and on. Nobody was going to go out and whomp the pants off anybody else. It was just going to keep going.

And Quantrill's outlaws would keep raiding and raiding…

After a while, Kristin lifted her head. There was a knock at the door. Delilah was there. She stuck her head in hesitantly.

"How about something to eat? Flapjacks and bacon?"

Her stomach was rumbling. She was starving. She hadn't had any supper, and she hadn't had any breakfast. She stood up and slid her hands into her back pockets.

"Flapjacks sound great."

"Fine. Come along."

"Delilah, wait."

Delilah hesitated there in the doorway. She met Kristin's eyes.

"Delilah, am I doing the right thing?"

"Honey, you're doing the only thing."

Kristin shook her head. "He made a fool out of me last night, Delilah."

"You let that happen."

"Yes, I did. But —"

"We need him," Delilah said bluntly. Then she smiled and gazed at Kristin, and Kristin was sure she was blushing beneath the gold and mahogany of her coloring. "We need him, and I like him. I like him just fine. You did well."

Kristin blushed herself. "I didn't marry him, Delilah. I'm… I'm his… mistress, Delilah."

"You did well," Delilah repeated. "I like him. I don't care what he seems to be, he's a right honorable fellow." She was silent for a moment. "You come along now and have something to eat."

Kristin did.

Then she set to the housework with a vengeance, cleaning and sweeping. Later she went out to the barn and spent some time grooming the horses that weren't out with the hands. She came back in and bathed, and while she sat in the tub she decided that although her feelings about him were entirely different from her feelings about Zeke, she still hated Cole Slater. She couldn't even take a bath in peace anymore. She kept thinking about him the entire time. She wanted to be clean, and she wanted to smell sweet, because she could just imagine him…

She promised herself she would be cool and aloof and dignified through dinner and all through the evening.

She promised herself she would be cool and aloof and wouldn't allow him to touch her.

But he didn't come back for dinner. He didn't come back at all. At midnight she gave up and went upstairs. She managed to stay awake for an hour, but then she fell asleep. She had taken care to dress in a high-necked nightgown, one with a multitude of delicate little buttons at the throat.

Cole stayed out for a long time that night, waiting for her to fall asleep. He smoked a cigar and sipped a brandy and wondered where Quantrill's boys might be.

Quantrill was no bargain, Cole thought, but he wasn't the worst of the lot. He rode with some frightening company. Bill Anderson was a blood-thirsty soul. Zeke was a horror. Cole had heard that some of the men liked to fight the way the Indians did, taking scalps from their victims.

Quantrill for the South…

And the likes of Lane and Jennison for the North. Killing anyone and anything that stood in their way. Making a jest out of a war that was being fought desperately on both sides for different sets of ideals.

Smoke rose high above him, and he shivered suddenly. He hadn't been able to get Elizabeth's face out of his mind all day. But now, curiously, when he closed his eyes, he saw Kristin. Saw her fighting for all she was worth. Saw her fallen in the dirt.

He stood up and dusted off his hands on his pants.

Kristin was alive, and Elizabeth wasn't. Elizabeth had died because of Doc Jennison and his jayhawkers; Kristin had been attacked by the bushwhackers.

He was angry with her for being alive, he realized. She was alive and Elizabeth wasn't. And he knew he couldn't explain that to her.

He threw his cigar down in the dirt and snuffed it out with the heel of his boot. Then he turned around. He couldn't back down on any of the demands he had made of her. Not ever. It was just part of his nature, he supposed. And it was important that Quantrill know that he was living with her — intimately.

He looked up at the house and swore, then entered it quietly. For a moment he paused in the darkness of the entry. It was a good house. It had been built sturdy and strong, and it had been made into a home. It had grace.

He paused and inhaled deeply. Then he started for the stairway and climbed the steps silently. He reached his room and opened the door, thinking that she must have returned to her own room.

She hadn't. She was curled up on the bed. Her hair spilled over on his pillow.

He cast aside his clothes impatiently and approached the bed, but before he could pull back the covers, his hand brushed a tendril of hair that lay on his pillow, and its soft scent rose up to greet him. Heat immediately snaked through him. He didn't want it this way. But all he had to do was touch her hair and see her innocent form and he was tied into harsh knots of desire.

He didn't have to give in to it, he reminded himself.

He stretched out and stared at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on his chest. She was sound asleep, and even if she were not she would surely not be particularly fond of him at the moment.

A minute later he was on his side, just watching her. He throbbed, he ached, his desire thundering, clamoring for release.

He touched her hair again and reminded himself that it should be black. He didn't love this girl.

He slipped his hand beneath her gown and slowly, lightly stroked her flesh, following the line of her calf, the length of her thigh, the curve of her hip. He rounded her buttocks with a feathery touch, then gently tugged her around and pressed his lips against hers.

She responded, warmly and sweetly and instinctively, to his touch. Her arms swept around him and her body pressed against his. Her lips parted and he plundered the honey-warm depths of her mouth with his tongue. His body pressed against hers intimately. He pulled her gown up farther and wedged his hips between her bare thighs. Her eyes remained closed. She was barely awake.

Then she awoke fully. Her eyes widened, and she pressed furiously against his shoulders. He thought he saw tears sting her eyes as she pronounced him a son of a bitch.

"I know," he told her.

"If you know —"

"I'm sorry."

He tried to kiss her again, but she twisted her head, and his lips fell against her throat.

"You behave like a tyrant."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You treat people like servants —"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You behave —"

Her mouth was open, and he caught her lower lip between his teeth and bathed it with his tongue. Then he began to move against her. He caught her cheeks between his palms and stroked her hair, and when she stared up at him again, gasping for breath, he kissed her again quickly, speaking against her lips.

"I am sorry. So damned sorry, for so damned much."

She was silent then, staring at him in the darkness. She was very still, very aware of his sex throbbing against her, so close. If she fought him he would leave.

She didn't fight him. She continued to stare at him, and he met her eyes. Then he moved, thrusting deep inside her. She let out a garbled little sound, and her arms came around him and she buried her face against the hard dampness of his shoulder. Her long limbs came around him, and he sank deeper into her and then deeper still.

She was instinctively sensual, and she offered him greater solace than he could ever have imagined. When it was over he lay with her hair tangling over his naked chest and reminded himself again that it was blond and not ebony black. They were strangers who had stumbled together. They had answered one another's needs, and that was all.

If he closed his eyes he would see her, Elizabeth, racing toward him. Running, running, running…

But it was not Elizabeth's face he saw in his dreams. Sweet blond hair flowed behind the woman who ran to him in his dreams. Kristin raced to him in the night, and he wanted to reach for her, but he was afraid to. He was afraid he might fail.

He was afraid he would take her in his arms and find her blood on his hands. He was afraid he would see Kristin's exquisite blue eyes on his and see her blood running red onto his hands.

CHAPTER SEVEN

When Kristin awoke, she could hear gunfire. Looking out the window, she saw that Samson and Delilah were practicing with Cole's six-shooters. She dressed quickly in a cotton shirt and pants and boots and hurried downstairs and out to the pasture. Delilah stumbled from the recoil every time she fired, but she had a set and determined expression on her face. Samson laughed at her, and she gave him a good hard shove. Cole actually grinned. Then he looked at Kristin and saw that she wasn't happy at all. Perched on a fence, he nodded to her and arched a brow, and she flushed. The nights they shared were real, she thought. But the nights were one thing, and the harsh light of day was another. She wasn't going to act like a child again, and she wasn't going to try to pretend that he hadn't touched her in a way she would never forget, that he hadn't awakened her to something incredible. What if it was wrong according to all moral and social standards? Murder was wrong, too. The world wasn't run according to moral standards anymore. She didn't mind getting close to Cole. He knew how to treat a woman, knew when to be tender, knew when to let the wild winds rage. Even now, as his eyes flickered over her, she felt the warmth of their intimacy, and it wasn't an unpleasant feeling, despite her current impatience. Cole just didn't seem to understand what he was doing to her. He didn't speak. He watched her. Waiting.

"Miz Kristin, I am going to get this down pat!" Delilah swore.

Kristin tried to smile. "Delilah, you can master anything you set your mind to. I've seen you." She set her thumbs in the pockets of her pants and said to Cole, "May I speak with you a moment?"

"Speak," Cole said flatly. He had said he was sorry about lots of things, but his manner toward her didn't seem to be much better today than it had been before. And he didn't come down from the fence.

"Alone," she said.

He shrugged, and started to climb down.

"Don't you bother, Mr. Slater," Samson said behind her. Kristin whirled around in surprise. Samson looked at her, his expression almost sorrowful, and gave her a rueful grin. "Meaning no disrespect, Miz Kristin, and you know it. But you're gonna tell him that you don't want him teaching us any more about gunfire. 'Cause of us being free blacks. She thinks that if we don't shoot they'll just put us on a block and not think to shoot us or string us up. Delilah and me talked about it a long, long time. We're in this together. If there's more trouble, we got to stick together. Delilah's got to shoot just like everybody else. You see, Miz Kristin, I been a free man now a long time. And it's mighty sweet."

"Samson…" Kristin swallowed and closed her eyes. "Samson, if you're alive, you can get free again. If you're dead —"

"I believe in the good Lord, Miz Kristin. And one day there's going to be a meetin' 'cross that river. And I ain't going to that meetin' being no coward, or a man who didn't live up to what I believe in. We're in this together, Miz Kristin."