Dark Stranger

She stared furiously at Cole. He shrugged.

"You fool!" she snapped at him. "Samson is a black man."

"Samson is a man," he replied. "A free man. Your daddy made him so. The way I see it, he's made his choice."

They were all staring at her. No one said anything, and no one moved. The sun streamed down on them all. Cole kept watching her. She couldn't begin to read the emotions in his eyes. I don't know this man, I don't know him at all, she thought in sudden panic. But did it matter? she asked herself. It couldn't matter. The die had been cast.

"I've got to get back to the house now," Delilah said. "I've got to get Daniel and let Shannon come on down here."

"Shannon?" Kristin whispered.

Cole hopped down from the fence at last. He took his gun from Delilah, and he slowly and deliberately reloaded it. His hat shaded his eyes from her when he spoke. "You want your little sister to be defenseless?" He looked straight at her.

Kristin smiled sweetly and took the gun from him. He had a row of bottles set up on the back fence. She took her time, aiming as slowly and deliberately as he had loaded. She remembered everything her father and Adam had ever taught her. Remember the recoil, and remember that it can be a hell of a lot for a small woman to handle. Squeeze the trigger gently. Don't jerk back on it…

She didn't miss once. Six shots, six bottles blown to bits, the glass tinkling and reflecting the sunlight as it scattered. With a very pleasant smile, she turned to Cole, daintily handing him the Colt.

He wasn't amazed; he didn't even seem surprised. He studied her. He slipped a second Colt from his gun belt and handed it to her.

"What happens when the target moves?" he demanded.

"Try me."

Cole nodded to Samson. Samson grinned approvingly. He picked up a bottle and sent it flying high and fast into the air. Kristin caught the missile at its peak, just before it curved back downward to earth. Once again the sun shimmered on the exploding pieces, and they fell in a rainbow of color.

"Not bad," Cole murmured. He nudged back his hat and looked at her sharply. "And Shannon?"

Shannon was already on her way to the yard from the house. Delilah had gone inside. Shannon was dressed like a ranch hand today, too. She seemed all the more feminine for the way her budding curves filled out her shirt and breeches. She glanced slyly at Kristin, and Kristin knew that she was thinking of the fiasco at dinner the night before. She was tempted to give her a sharp slap, but that would be wrong, and she knew it. She decided to ignore her sister's amusement. "Shannon, Cole wants to see you shoot."

"I know." She smiled at Cole. Shannon liked him. A lot. Kristin wanted to spin her around and shake her. He'll be gone in a blink one day! she wanted to tell her sister. Don't care too much!

Then she wondered if Shannon needed the warning, or if Kristin did.

"Show him," Kristin suggested.

Shannon proceeded to do so. She was an even better shot than Kristin, and Cole told her so. He didn't seem to give anyone lavish praise, but he was always gentler with Shannon than with anyone else.

"Good. Damned good," Cole told her.

Shannon flushed, delighted by the compliment.

Kristin turned on her heel and headed for the house. He didn't want her riding away from the house, and he would insist that she stay. If she didn't, he would leave her to the mercy of the bushwhackers. She was going to be mature today, mature and dignified, and she wasn't going to get into any fights over the ranch.

"Kristin!" he called to her.

She turned to look at him.

"What are you doing?" His plumed hat was set at a cocky angle, his hands were on his hips, and his frock coat hung down the length of his back. There was something implacable about him as he stood there, implacable, unfathomable and hard. But that was why she had wanted him. He couldn't be beaten. Not by Quantrill's gang. Not by her.

That last thought made her tremble slightly. She clamped down hard on her jaw and wondered just how long the war could last, and wondered if maybe she shouldn't run after all.

"Paperwork," she told him calmly. "I wouldn't dream of going against your rules, Mr. Slater," she said, and walked away.

He rode out later. She knew when he rode out; she heard the sound of his horse's hooves as she sat in the office, trying hard to concentrate on numbers. She walked out front and watched him, and she was restless. This was hard. She had always been such an important part of things.

But they were playing for high stakes. Damned high stakes. She forced herself to sit down again. She weighed the prices she could receive for her beef against the distances she would have to take the herd to collect the money. Then her pencil stopped moving, and she paused and chewed the eraser, and she wondered what it would be like when he came home for dinner that night.

If he came home for dinner that night.

It didn't matter, she told herself. She was forgetting that this whole thing was business. She was certain Cole never forgot for a moment that it was a deal they had made and nothing more.

She had to learn to be aloof. Polite and courteous and mature, but aloof. She had to keep her distance from him. If she didn't, she would get hurt.

Maybe it was too late already. Maybe she had already come too close to the fire. Maybe no matter what happened she was doomed to be hurt. She wasn't so naive that she didn't know she pleased him, but neither was she so foolish as to imagine that it meant anything to him. There was a coldness about him that was like a deep winter frost. It wasn't that he didn't care at all — he did care. But not enough. And he never could care enough, she was certain.

She gave herself a mental shake and decided that she would have to remember herself that it was business — all business. But still she wondered what he would be like if he returned for dinner, and she swore to herself that her own behavior would be the very best the South had ever had to offer.

Cole did return.

And Kristin was charming. She dressed for dinner again., elegantly, in a soft blue brocade with underpanels and a massive, stylish skirt. She remembered her mother, and she was every bit as gracious as she had been. She was careful to refer to him as "Mr. Slater" all the way through the meal. He watched her and he replied in kind, perfectly courteous, as if he'd been trained for society in the finest drawing rooms back East.

When the meal was over, he disappeared outside. Kristin tried to stay up, but at last everyone else had gone to bed, and she walked up the stairs and to the window. She could see him out on the porch, smoking one of her father's fine cigars and drinking brandy from a snifter. He was leaning against one of the pillars and looking up at the night sky.

She wondered what he was thinking, where his heart really lay.

He turned and stared up at her, there in the window. Her face flamed, but he smiled at her.

"Evening," he said softly.

She couldn't reply to him. He watched her curiously for another moment, and his smile deepened, striking against his well-trimmed beard and mustache.

"I'll be right up."

Her heart hammered and slammed against her chest, and she nearly struck her head trying to bring it back in beneath the window frame. She clutched her heart and reminded herself that she had decided to be mature and dignified and not get as flustered as a schoolgirl.

But she was still trembling when he came up the steps. She heard his footsteps in the hallway, and then he opened the door and came into the room. She was still dressed in her blue brocade. He stared at her for a moment, watching the way her breasts rose and fell above the deep decolletage of her gown. He saw the pulse that vibrated against the long, smooth line of her throat. He smiled, and she sensed the curious tenderness that could come to his eyes. "Come here," he told her softly. He held out a hand to her, and she took it and found herself in his arms. And there was nothing awkward about it at all. He kissed her and touched her face, and then he turned her around, and the touch of his fingers against her bare back as he released her gown set her skin to glowing. Like her heart, her flesh seemed to pulse. It occurred to her that he disrobed her so expertly because he had done the same for many women, but it didn't really matter. All that mattered was that her clothing was strewn on the floor and that he was lifting her in his arms and that the soft glow of the moon was with them again. He carried her to the sleigh bed and set her down, and she saw the passion rise in his eyes and come into his touch. She wrapped her arms around him and sighed, savoring the exquisite feel of him against her, the masculine hardness of muscle and limb, the starkly demanding feel of his shaft against her. Somewhere the tumbleweeds tossed, and somewhere the wind blew harsh and wicked and cruel, but here a tempest rose sweet and exciting, wild and exhilarating.

Somewhere battles raged. Somewhere Northerner fought Southerner, and the nation ran with the blood shed by her youth. Blood washed over Kansas and Missouri as if some shared artery had been slashed, but for tonight, Kristin didn't care.

She was alive in his arms, feline and sensual. She was learning where to touch him, how to move with him and against him and how to leave the world behind when she was with him. No drug and no liquor could be so powerful as this elation, so sweet, so all-encompassing.

That night he slept. She stared at his features, and she longed to reach out and touch them, but she did not. She decided that even his nose was strong, long and straight, like a beak against his features. His cheekbones were high, his forehead was wide and his jaw was fine and square beneath the hair of his beard. She wondered at the fine scars that criss-crossed his shoulders and his chest, and then she remembered that he had been with the Union cavalry before the war, and she wondered what battles had done this to him. She longed to touch him so badly…

She reached out, then withdrew her hand. He was an enigma, and he was fascinating. He drew her like the warmth of a fire, and she was afraid. There was so much she didn't know about him. But her fear went deeper than that, for she sensed that though he cared he would never stay. He liked her well enough. He could even be patient with her temper and her uncertainties. He could be careful, and he could be tender, and he seemed as immersed in this startling passion as she was.

But she sensed that he would not stay, could not stay. Not for long. Worse, she sensed that he could never love her, and that she could fall in love with him all too easily. Already, she thought, other men seemed to pale beside him.

Other men… if any remained when the carnage was over.

She walked to the window and looked out at the night. The moon was high, and the paddocks and the outbuildings looked so peaceful there, rising against the flatland. She sighed. For the rest of the country the war had begun when the first shots had been fired at Fort Sumter back in April of '61, but Kansas seemed to have been bleeding forever, and Missouri along with it. The Army of Northern Virginia had defeated the Army of the Potomac at Manassas twice, while along the Mississippi the Union troops were faring a bit better. The North had won the Battle of Shiloh, and just last April New Orleans had fallen to Union troops under Farragut.

It should matter, she thought. It should matter to her who lost and who won. She should care. At Sharpsburg, Maryland, by Antietam Creek, both sides had suffered horribly. She had been in town when the list of the dead had arrived, and it had been devastating. The papers had all cried that the single bloodiest battle of the war had been fought there, and that men had slipped in the blood, and that bodies had fallen on top of other bodies. All she had seen was the tears of the mothers, the sweethearts, the lovers — the families of boys who had left to join the Union Army and the families who had sons fighting with the Confederacy. She had looked for Matthew's name, and she had not seen it, and she had thanked God. But then she had felt the tears around her, felt the agony of the parents, the sisters, the brothers. And yet sometimes it felt as if the real war were remote here. Here the war had been reduced to sheer terrorism. Men did not battle men; they set out to commit murder.

Here it had become a question of survival. All she wanted to do was survive.

She shivered suddenly and realized that she had come naked from the bed and that the night air was cold. She turned and saw that Cole was awake. His eyes were caught by the moonlight as he watched her. They glimmered curiously, and again she wondered at his secret thoughts. Then his gaze fell slowly over the length of her and she realized again that she was naked, and that his very eyes could touch her like a caress.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

She felt as if she were going to cry, and she didn't know why.

"I was just thinking about the war," she said quietly.

Something covered his eyes, some careful shield. "It seems far away right now, doesn't it? Then again, I don't think we're even fighting the same war as the rest of the country here." There was a harsh bitterness in his tone, and she suddenly felt cold, as if she had turned him against her, or as if she had even made him forget she was there. But then his eyes focused on her again, and they were rueful and surprisingly tender. "Don't think about it," he told her. "Don't think about the war. You can't change it."

She wanted to say something, but she couldn't find her voice, and so she nodded.

"Come back to bed. It's late," he said. Even when he whispered, his voice was so deep. It entered into her and became the wind again.

She forgot about the war. She forgot about the rest of the world. His voice, his beckoning, had that power over her. Her stomach fluttered and her nipples hardened, and she felt she had to cover herself quickly. She had become so bold, so brash. She was standing here naked as a jaybird, and they were talking, and she should have the decency to reach out for something and cover her nudity.

But she did not. She straightened and tossed back her head, and her hair, golden fire in the moonlight, tumbled down the length of her back. She walked toward him. If nothing else, perhaps they could have honesty between them. She honestly wanted him. She wanted these

nights. She wanted the way she felt in his arms, wanted this ecstasy that seemed sweeter than life itself.

She came, he thought, very slowly, very sinuously. She allowed a natural sway to come into her walk, and she moved with a feline grace and purpose that set his blood aflame. He was glad that covers lay over his body, for his response to her was instant and instinctive. He clenched his fists at his sides and waited for her. Waited until she stood above him. Then he reached out, pulled her down to him and held her in his arms. He savaged her lips, groaning with the sweet, aching pleasure of it.

He had never thought it could happen, but he had found an oasis with her. He had known she was beautiful, like a sunrise, like the corn that had grown endlessly in the fields before they had run with blood. He had known that he wanted her.

He had not known how badly, how completely, he would come to need her.

Her eyes were a distant sea that claimed him, and the golden skeins of her hair were webs that entrapped him and brought him softly into a dream of paradise. He could not love her, but he could want her, and he did. He hungered for her, as if he could not be filled. She sated him completely, but then she touched him again, or she moved, or she whispered, and he wanted her again. He had taken her from innocence and he had set the woman within her free, and though she came to him with sensual grace, she held on to something of innocence too, and he wondered at that gift. He had to touch her, had to run his fingers over the fine, delicate beauty of her face, had to press his palms against the lush curve of her breast. He had to breathe in her scent.

It had to end, he knew. But he groaned aloud as her nails stroked against his back, as her hips thrust forward. It had to end, he reminded himself…

But then he ceased to think and gave way to urgent need and fevered desire. He looked into her eyes, blue eyes that were soft, radiant and glazed with passion. He swept her beneath him, and he sank into her as he sank into the dream. She eased the pain. She gave him moments of ecstasy. He could not remember ever having needed a woman so badly. He could not remember so insistent a beat, so desperate, so thunderous a rhythm.

This was like nothing he had ever known. Beautiful, sleek, sensual, she moved beneath him. He became as taut as wire, then shook and shuddered, and spasms continued to rack him.

Later she slept. He cast an elbow behind his head and stared bleakly at the ceiling, shadowed in the moonlight.

It was wrong, he thought. When vengeance lay upon his soul and his heart was barren, it was wrong.

But he could not, would not, make himself cease. She had come to him with the deal. He had not wrung it from her.

That didn't excuse him.

But he needed her…

That didn't excuse him, either. But it mattered. Somehow they had interwoven their lives, and that — as with so many other things — was simply the way it was.

That was simply the way it was.

But still he turned to her. He saw the beautiful curves of her body as she slept, and the tangle of her hair over her shoulders, falling to her flanks, wild and yet somehow virginal. He saw her features, her parted lips and the soft way she breathed. He saw her brow, and he touched it gently, trying to ease the frown line from it. She seemed so very young to have suffered so very much. But she was a fighter. No matter what they had done to her, she had come back up, kicking, fighting. Maybe that was why he couldn't leave her.

He had to leave her, he reminded himself. Soon.

This time it was he who rose. He walked to the window and looked out at the moon. He would have to leave soon, for a time, at least.

He watched the moon, and at last he shrugged. He'd get to the telegraph office tomorrow and hope he could get a message through. He didn't know how long he would have to be gone, but he didn't want her alone. Not now.

Just how long could he guard her?

And would he keep dreaming? He closed his eyes. Dreaming again and again, of one death, of another…

The question washed over his heart, cold as ice. He didn't know. No, he did know. Come hell or high water — or Yankees or Quantrill's raiders — he would find a way to guard her. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because this was a matter of honor, and there wasn't much honor left in his world.

And maybe it was because he wanted her so badly. Because she was the only antidote to pain. Because when he was with her he could almost forget…

He didn't want to forget.

Yes, he did. For those few moments.

Whatever the reason, he thought impatiently, he had struck a bargain. He would protect her. He would protect her if she grew hair all over her body and sprouted a full mustache, he swore to himself.

Then he smiled slowly. He was one hell of a liar, he thought, even to himself. She needed him, and he wanted her. That was the bargain.

No. He would protect her, damn it, and he would do it so that he never had to hold her bleeding in his arms. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. He would protect her because he could not let it happen again.

He breathed slowly and tried to relax.

He would protect her. He had the power. They would help each other, and then he would

ride away. The war had to end some day. Please, God, he thought bleakly. It had to.

The days passed and things were very much the same. After a few days Cole let Kristin ride with him. It was necessary, because the men were busy with the cattle. Kristin showed Cole the length and breadth of her land. She showed him the water holes, and where the land was apt to flood when the rains came too heavily. They went out together searching for a calf that had strayed, and they went into town to buy a length of fencing for the north pasture.

But things felt strange even though they were together. They were polite workmates, cool, courteous acquaintances. Kristin and Shannon always dressed for dinner, because Kristin was determined to cling to what was left of civilization in her life, and the evening meal was her chance to do that. But the conversation there was stilted, too. Cole seldom had much to say to her that wasn't directly concerned with the ranch, with guns, with warnings about the future. She was never to wander around unarmed, and neither was Shannon. He didn't seem to need to warn Delilah or Samson.

He was always polite to Shannon. It seemed to Kristin that her little sister was growing up before her very eyes. Shannon would be eighteen soon, and she was beginning to look every inch the woman. Cole treated her like a child, not condescendingly but with a gentle patience that irritated Kristin. She would have liked some of that patience for herself. Sometimes she asked him very blunt questions, but he invariably ignored her or turned the tables on her. When she demanded to know why he insisted on being such a mystery to her, he merely replied that she had no right to know anything about his past or his future and that she shouldn't be asking.

It didn't matter if she walked away from him, and it didn't matter if she made a sharp reply. He just let her go, or he let her say whatever she wanted and then walked away himself.

But the nights were always the same.

There were times when she couldn't believe she was the same girl who had first met him, innocent, frightened, naive. Even when she felt her temper soar she longed for the night. And even if she turned away from him he stroked her back slowly, moving his fingers down her spine to her buttocks, so lightly that she thought she had imagined it. But his touch was lightning, and it always instilled the same seeds of desire within her. If she really tried to ignore him and he let her be, she sometimes resorted to a soft sigh, feigning sleep, and rolled against him… until he touched her again. Then she sensed his smile, and knew that he knew that she wasn't asleep at all, and that he didn't mind pretending that he needed her more than she needed him.

It went on…

It went on until she woke up one morning, cold and alone. That wasn't so unusual. He was able to get by on much less sleep than she. But somehow she didn't think he had awakened and gone downstairs. She felt a growing sense of dread.

He was gone.

She heard sounds. A rider. Wrenching a sheet from the bed, she raced to the window and stared down at the paddock area. A man had just come riding in on a big bay horse.

She put her hand to her mouth, biting down hard to keep from crying out. He was dressed in gray. She studied the uniform and gold trim.

Cavalry. The man was a Southern cavalry officer.

She turned around and dressed quickly, finding pants and a shirt and her boots. She told herself that she was a Southerner, that she had been born a Southerner and that only Quantrill had made her fear and hate her own people. She tried to smile, reminding herself that Shannon's great hero was Jeb Stuart, a Southern cavalry officer.

It didn't help. Fear raced through her, and she wondered if the officer had been sent by Zeke or his men.

Cole had told her never to walk around unarmed. She had proven she could use a Colt six-shooter and use it well. She slid her narrow gun belt over her hips and nervously checked to see that her weapons were loaded. Then she started down the stairs.

The house was silent. Where was Shannon? she wondered. She couldn't help it. She had awful visions of her beautiful sister caught in the stables with the men all out on the ranch, caught and thrown down in the hay and viciously raped.

She swallowed and tried to tell herself that she was panicking for nothing. But the house was silent, and she still sensed that Cole was gone. Not just off on the ranch somewhere — gone. She couldn't have explained how she knew. It was an emptiness. It festered inside her, and it held her in an awful anguish.

But this…

This was more urgent. "Delilah?"

No one answered her. Delilah was not in the kitchen, and neither was Samson. She didn't hear the baby crying, and she had no idea where Shannon was.

And the cavalry officer hadn't come to knock at her door.

She crept out the back door, careful to keep it from slamming behind her. Walking as quickly and silently as she could, she came around the corner of the house. The man was gone, and the horse was gone.

Her heart was beating much too quickly. She dropped low and raced over the dry sand to the barn. She followed the line of the buildings, coming closer and closer to the corner.

She paused and inhaled sharply. Her blood raced, and she tried desperately to still her erratic breathing.

She rounded the corner and she came face-to-face with an Enfield rifle.

Behind it stood the man in the Confederate cavalry officer's uniform. It was worn and faded, the gold epaulets frayed.

"Drop it!" he warned her. His eyes were teal, a beautiful color. They were also sharp as razors.

She realized that she was aiming the Colt at him.

"You drop it!" she barked.

He smiled. She realized that he was young and very, very good-looking. And familiar in some way she couldn't quite put her finger on.

"This Enfield can blow a hole right through you."

"It's not a totally dependable weapon."

"At this range? Impossible to miss."

"A Colt will scalp you faster than an Indian would dare dream."

He was tall, masculine and elegant in the worn uniform. He didn't intend to harm her, she was certain. But she didn't lower the barrel of the gun. She had learned not to take any chances.

"Kristin McCahy?"

"Yes."

He laughed and lowered the rifle. "Why in God's name were you sneaking up on me like that?"

She jammed the Colt into her holster, instinct assuring her that she was in no danger. She shook her head ruefully.

"I'm sorry. This is my property. And you are a total stranger, you know. Slinking around on it. My property, that is. I mean… who the hell are you?"

"Slinking?" he inquired indignantly, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. He swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply, an elegant and manly cavalier. "Miss McCahy, I assure you that Slaters do not slink."

"Slater?" she demanded with a quick frown.

"Captain Malachi Slater, ma'am. Cole's brother. On leave — and on new duty, or so it seems. You mean to tell me that Cole didn't say anything?"

She felt as if her knees were going to crumble. Cole was gone. And he hadn't even said goodbye.

"Cole —"

"He had a few things to attend to. I'll be with you for a while. If you don't mind."

She did mind. She minded terribly. Not that Malachi was here, but that Cole was gone. She forced herself to smile and to extend her hand. "Why, Mr. Slater, I'm thrilled and grateful for your appearance. Completely thrilled and entirely grateful."

"Thank you, Miss McCahy." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then his blue eyes met hers again and she was certain that he knew everything. And there was something in his gaze that suggested that he understood her feelings.

She withdrew her hand suddenly. "Oh, my God!"

"What?"

"You're a Confederate officer."

He stiffened, and his jaw took on a stubborn set that reminded her of his brother. "Miss, last I heard, Missourians were still considering themselves Southerners — for the most part, that is."

Kristin nodded vaguely. "Well, yes, Mr. Slater. But this is a border country. Half the land around here is occupied by Federal forces."

"Don't worry about me. I'll change into civilian clothing quickly, and I'll avoid the Federals."

She shook her head again. "It's just that, well, I have a brother who is a —"

"A Yankee?"

"Ah… yes, a Yankee."

He looked a lot like Cole. A whole lot. He was very tall and very broad-shouldered in his dress shirt and cape, and at the moment he looked very severe, as if he were about to explode.

But he didn't explode. He suddenly started laughing. "Well, it's one hell of a war, isn't it, Miss McCahy? One hell of a war."

Suddenly the wall behind them exploded. Wood chips went flying from the solid impact of a bullet.

"What the hell?" Malachi shouted. He dragged her to the ground, shielding her with his body. Once again there was the sound of gunfire, and another bullet tore into the walls, sending more wood chips cascading down on them.

"Damn it, what the hell!" Malachi repeated.

What the hell indeed? Kristin had no idea who was firing at them.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Kristin lay facedown on the ground, dirt in her mouth, with Malachi on top of her, protecting her. Finally the firing stopped and she heard soft footsteps.

"Get off her, Reb!" Kristin almost laughed out loud with relief. It was Shannon.

"Watch it with that thing, little girl," Malachi said slowly, easing himself away from Kristin. He had angry narrowed eyes leveled on her sister. Kristin sprang to her feet and stepped between them. Shannon's temper was flaring, and her eyes were sparkling dangerously.

"I'm not a little girl, Reb, and I swear I'm damned accurate with this Colt," Shannon replied.

"Why, you little —" Malachi began.

"Stop, stop!" Kristin begged, reaching for the gun. She couldn't imagine trying to explain to Cole Slater why they had murdered his brother. "Shannon —"

"He's a Reb, Kristin. He's probably one of Quantrill's —"

"Don't you know a regular cavalry uniform when you see one, girl?"

Kristin lost patience and swung around. "Mr. Slater, please, just for a minute, shut up. Shannon, this is Cole's brother."

"Brother?"

Her eyes wide, she looked at Malachi, then at Kristin again. "Are you sure? They don't look much alike!"

"We have identical big toes," Malachi snapped sarcastically. Shannon stiffened.

Then, suddenly, there was the sound of another explosion. The three of them stared at one another blankly. Wood chips flew as a second bullet struck the barn wall above their heads.

"Get down —" Malachi began.

"Drop that gun!" The order was spoken in a commanding, masculine tone.

Shannon wasn't about to obey. She spun around, aiming. Malachi swore and slammed his fist down on her wrists. The Colt fell to the ground, and Shannon turned on Malachi, swearing and flailing at him with her fists. Malachi swore in return, and Kristin wondered how the two of them could be going at one another this way when someone else was firing at all three of them. They were warning shots, she realized. She stared blankly across the yard and saw that another man had come out of the shadows of the porch. He was younger than Cole and Malachi and dressed like a rancher in high boots, a long railway frock coat and a slouch hat that sat low on his forehead. Malachi paid no attention to him. As he came forward, the stranger tipped his hat to Kristin.

"They've got a set of rotten tempers between them, huh?"

"Do they?" Kristin crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the young man who had been doing the shooting. Shannon was still shrieking, fighting the hold Malachi had on her. Kristin ignored them both and kept staring at the newcomer. "Why were you shooting at us?"

"I thought she meant to poke a hole right through old Malachi there," he said solemnly. He had cloudlike blue-gray eyes and tawny hair. He smiled again. It was an engaging smile, and Kristin almost smiled, too, in spite of herself.

"I take it you're another Slater? Or are you a friend of the family?"

He stuck out his hand. "Jamie, ma'am."

Malachi let out something that sounded like a growl. "Damned brat bit me!" he thundered.

"Shannon!" Kristin implored.

She might have bitten Malachi, but the bite didn't keep him from maintaining his hold upon her, his arms around her waist. Her toes were barely touching the ground.

"Ah, Malachi." Jamie shook his head sorrowfully and said to Kristin, "He met Grant at Shiloh but he can't handle a little wisp of a girl."

"I'm not —" Shannon began.

"You are a foolish little brat!" Malachi said, releasing her at last and shoving her towards Kristin. She would have swung at him again, but Kristin caught her sister's arms. "Shannon, please!"

But Shannon was still staring at Malachi, seething. "I am not a brat, Reb. You attacked my sister —"

"And you attacked my brother," Jamie said pleasantly. "We're all even. And if Cole were here he'd say the entire lot of us were a pack of fools playing around with firearms. But then, Cole isn't here, and that's why Malachi and I are. Maybe we ought to try and start over."

"Cole sent you, too?" Kristin asked Jamie.

"Yes, ma'am, he did."

"I see," Kristin said stiffly.

Jamie grinned broadly. "No, ma'am, I doubt if you see at all. He had some business to attend to."

"I told her," Malachi said.

"My brother is a cavalry officer," Shannon snapped at Malachi, ignoring everything else. "And if he knew you were on his property he'd skewer you right through!"

He shook his head, looking as if he were about to explode. Then he exhaled in an exaggerated display of patience. "I thought I was supposed to be looking out for Quantrill, not a two-bit piece of baggage!" He shoved his hat down hard over his forehead and started walking toward the house. Kristin, amused, stared after him. Shannon, amazed, placed her hands on her hips.

"Where do you think you're going?" she called.

Malachi stopped and swung around. "In. For coffee and breakfast. And if you don't like it, little girl, that's just too damned bad. You take it up with Cole the next time you see him. He asked me to be here, and I'm here, and I won't be leaving, not until he gets back. Until that time, you do us both a favor. You stay clear of me. Way clear." He paused, then swore softly again. "Hell, I could still be out there with the Yankees. It'd be a hell of a lot less nerve-racking than a morning here!" Once again he turned. Kristin saw that Delilah was on the steps, watching them. She was grinning broadly.

"You must be Mr. Malachi."

Delilah's voice floated down to Kristin, and Kristin arched a brow at her. She and Shannon hadn't known that Cole's brothers were coming, but Delilah had. Cole had told Delilah what he was up to, and he hadn't said a word to them.

She gritted her teeth, damning Cole a thousand times over. What was this business he had to attend to? They had made a deal. Zeke was still out there somewhere. She didn't need a pair of baby-sitters. She needed to have Zeke taken care of.

And she needed to have Cole talk to her, to tell her about his life, not just walk away from her when the sun came up.

"You come on in," Delilah was saying to Malachi. "Breakfast's on the table, boys. Breakfast's on the table."

Kristin felt Jamie watching her. She turned to him, and she flushed, surprised by the knowing assessment she saw in his eyes. He had been reading her mind, or else he had been wondering about her relationship with his brother. No, he seemed to know what their relationship was already. She could read that in the look he was giving her.

Then he smiled, as if he had already decided that he liked her, and so she smiled, too. She liked Jamie. And she liked Malachi. She even liked the war he was waging with Shannon. She had felt like laughing as she'd watched them and she hadn't felt like laughing in a long time.

"I'm awful hungry, too," Jamie said. He offered her his arm. "Shall we go in for breakfast?"

Kristin hesitated, then took his arm, and they started toward the house. She paused, turning back to her sister. "Shannon?"

"I'll skip breakfast," Shannon said heatedly, her bright blue eyes still on Malachi's retreating back. "I don't rightly feel like sitting down with —" She paused when she saw that Jamie was studying her intently. "I'm not hungry." She spun around and stomped off to the barn. Kristin looked at Jamie again.

"Just where is Cole? I don't need looking after like this, you know. Cole and I had a — an agreement."

She studied his eyes, trying hard not to flush.

"You talk to Cole about his whereabouts later," Jamie said flatly. Neither of the Slaters was going to say a thing about Cole's absence, she realized. "And we're here 'cause of your agreement. We know Quantrill and his boys. We're just here to see that you're safe. Do you really mind? Terribly?"

"No, I, uh… of course not. You're both very welcome," she said, forcing herself to smile. They were welcome, they really were. It was just that…

It was just that she wondered where the hell Cole had gone. She wondered if it had to do with another woman, and she wondered if she could bear it if it did.

Don't fall in love with him! she warned herself again. But he was gone, and she was aching, and it was too late. He wasn't involved and she was, and it was gnawing away at her. She forced her smile to remain in place. "Jamie, you are very welcome. Come on. Delilah makes an incredible breakfast."

He rode southeast the first day. The farther east he went in Missouri, the more closemouthed and careful people were about Quantrill and his gang.

It was natural, he supposed. It had all turned into such a hideous, ugly thing. The ugliness had taken hold way back in the 1850s when John Brown had come into Missouri with his followers and killed slaveholders. Cole didn't really know what to think of John Brown. He had seen the man at his trial, and he had thought then that old John Brown spoke like a fanatic. But he had also thought that he spoke from conviction, too, when he said that only a bloodbath could cleanse the country of the sin of slavery.

John Brown and his followers had gone on to raid the arsenal at Harper's Ferry. Robert E. Lee — then an officer of the United States Army — had been sent in to capture John Brown. Jeb Stuart had been with the forces sent to Harper's Ferry, too.

Cole had been with them himself, riding right alongside Jeb. They had captured John Brown and taken him to Charlestown to stand trial. There hadn't been any Confederacy then. And Cole hadn't known what was to come.

In the North they had quickly begun to sing, "John Brown's body lies a-molderin' in the grave," conveniently forgetting that even if the man had been a God-fearing murderer, he had still been a murderer.

And in Missouri men had learned to retaliate.

Quantrill and his raiders were worshipped by the people here, people who had known nothing but death and destruction from the Kansas jayhawkers. Cole had to be careful. When he stopped at a farmhouse, he quickly made his presence known. He asked for a sip of water from a well, then asked if anyone knew where he might find Quantrill or any of his boys. He was polite, and he smiled, and he used his best country accent, and he kept it filled with respect.

In return he was pointed more and more toward the south. Finally, in a small town almost fifty miles south of Osceola, he heard that Quantrill was at the local saloon.

No one was afraid there. Quantrill's boys were in charge. The South had a good grip on its own here. At a farmhouse outside the town, Cole was invited in for a meal, and the farmer assured him that he could find Quantrill at the saloon at about six that evening.

Cole rode in carefully. If he saw Quantrill first, or Anderson, he'd be all right, but he didn't want to run into Zeke, not now. In case he did, though, he rode in with his six-shooters and two shotguns loaded and ready.

Things were quiet enough as he rode into town. It was almost as if there were no war. Nicely dressed women with stylish hats stood outside the mercantile. As he rode slowly along the dusty main street, they stared at him, and he tipped his hat. They blushed and whispered to one another.

That was when Cole realized that the quiet little town was pulsing with an inner excitement and that things weren't really quiet at all. He could hear the sound of laughter and piano music up ahead and saw a sign that read Red Door Saloon. There were at least eight horses tethered out front.

Quantrill and company do reign here, he thought. He reined in his horse and dismounted, dropping the reins over the post in front of the saloon and dusting off his hands. Then he headed for the red door that had given the saloon its name.

He opened the door and stood there, blinking in the dim light. Then he swiftly cast his gaze over the Red Door's patrons.

Zeke wasn't there.

But William Clarke Quantrill was, playing cards at a round table, leaning back with a thin cigar in his mouth. He was a pale, ashen man with dark hair and a neat brown mustache. He saw Cole just as Cole saw him, and he smiled. He tossed his cards down and stood. He was of average height, about five-foot-nine. There was nothing about the man to label him the scourge of the West. Nothing except his eyes. They were pale blue and as cold as death.

"Cole. Cole Slater. Well, I'll be damned. To what do I owe this honor?"

Cole didn't answer him. He'd already looked around the room, and looked hard. Zeke wasn't there, but Cole was certain that Quantrill wasn't alone. He wasn't. Cole recognized the other four around the table as young recruits. The two James boys, Jesse and Frank, were there, along with Bill Anderson and little Archie Clements. Cole was sure, too, that Quantrill had more men in the saloon. It wasn't that he had anything to fear here. He was a hero in these parts. It didn't matter that he made out lists of men to be executed. It didn't matter that his men were rapists, murderers and thieves. All that mattered was that what had been done to the Missourians by the jayhawkers was being returned to the Kan-sans twice over by the bushwhackers.

Cole hadn't come here to do battle, anyway.

He strode into the saloon, toward the poker table. The piano player had stopped playing. Everyone in the room was watching him.

He reached Quantrill. Quantrill had his hand extended. Cole took it. "Quantrill," he acknowledged quietly, nodding to the other men at the table. "Jesse. Frank. Archie. Bill. You all look fit. War seems to agree with you."

"Bushwhacking agrees with me," Archie Clements admitted freely. He was dark and had a mean streak a yard wide. "Hell, Cole, I couldn't make it in no ordinary unit. Besides, I'm fighting Yanks for Missouri, and that's it. 'Course, now, you aren't so much regular army, either, are you, Cole? What do they call you? A spy? A scout? Or are you still just a raider?"

"I'm a major, Archie, and that's what they call me," Cole said flatly.

Quantrill was watching the two of them. He turned to the piano player and said, "Hey, what's the problem there, Judah? Let's have something light and fancy here, shall we? Archie, you and Bill take the James boys over to the bar for a whiskey. Seems to me that Cole must have made this trip 'cause he's got something to say. I want to hear it."

Archie stood, but he looked at Cole suspiciously.

"You alone, Cole?"

"That's right, Archie. I'm alone."

Archie nodded at last. Young Jesse James kept staring at Cole. "It was good to see you again, Major Slater. We miss you when we ride. You were damned good."

Damned good with his guns, that was what the boy meant. What the hell was going to be in store for these men when the war was over? If they survived the war.

"You take care, Jesse. You, too, Frank," Cole said. He drew up a chair next to Quantrill. Quantrill started to deal out the cards. "You still a gambling man, Cole?"

"Always," Cole told him, picking up his cards. A buxom brunette with a headful of rich curls, black fishnet stockings and a blood-red dress came over. She nudged up against Quant rill's back but flashed Cole a deep, welcoming smile.

"Want some whiskey for your friend there, Willy?"

"Sure. Bring over the best. We've got a genuine Confederate scout in our midst. But he used to be one of mine, Jennifer. Yep, for a while there he was one of my best."

"He'd be one of anybody's best, I'm sure," Jennifer drawled, fluttering her dark lashes.

Cole flashed her an easy smile, surprised to discover that he felt nothing when he looked at her. She was a pretty thing, very sexual, but she didn't arouse him in the least. You're too satisfied, he warned himself. He found himself frowning and wondering if he shouldn't be interested. At least then he'd know he could be. He shrugged. He was committed — for the moment. And he'd be taking a long ride away soon enough. There'd be plenty of time to prove things to himself then if he had to. That bothered him, too. He shouldn't have to feel the need to prove things to himself.

He shouldn't feel any of these things. Not when his wife lay dead.

"Get the man a whiskey," Quantrill said sharply. Jennifer pouted, then spun around. "What's this all about?" he demanded of Cole.

"The McCahy girls," Cole said flatly.

Quantrill frowned. He didn't seem to recognize the name, and Cole felt sure he wasn't acting. "I don't know them."

Jennifer returned with a new bottle of good Irish whiskey and a pair of shot glasses. She was going to pour out the amber liquid, but Quantrill shooed her away and poured out the shots himself.

"Your man Zeke has been after them."

Quantrill met his frown. "Zeke? Zeke Moreau? I didn't even know the two of you had met. Zeke came in after you were gone."

"Not quite. We met. But I don't think he remembered me when we met again."

Comprehension dawned in Quantrill's cold eyes. "The farmhouse? Near the border? That was you, Cole?"

"Yeah, that was me." Cole leaned forward. He picked up his glass and swallowed down its contents. It was good. Smooth. The kind of stuff that was becoming rare in the South as the war went on and on. He poured himself another shot. He could feel Quantrill's eyes on him. He sensed that Quantrill wasn't angry. He seemed amused more than anything else.

"So you came back to beat my boys up, huh?"

Quantrill poured himself another glass of whiskey, then sat back, swirling the liquid, studying its amber color. Cole looked at him. "No, I just happened by your boys at work, and I'll admit I was kind of sick to my stomach at the war they were waging. They dragged out an old man and killed him. Then they came back after his daughter. Seems the lady had the bad luck to dislike Zeke."

Quantrill shrugged. His amusement was fading. "You don't like my methods?"

"You've become a cold-blooded killer, Quantrill."

"I didn't know anything about the McCahy place."

"I believe you," Cole said.

Quantrill watched him for a moment, a sly smile creeping onto his lips again. "Hell, Cole, you're starting to sound like some damned Yankee."

"I'm not a Yankee."

"Yankee lover, then."

"I don't want the girl touched, Quantrill."

"My, my…" Quantrill leaned back, idly running a finger around the rim of his glass. "Seems to me that you weren't so finicky back in February of '61, Mr. Slater. Who was heading up the jayhawkers back then? Was it Jim Lane, or was Doc Jennison calling the shots by then? Don't make no real matter, does it? They came riding down into Missouri like a twister." He came forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Yessir, just like a twister. They burned down your place, but that wasn't enough. They had to have their fun with Mrs. Slater. Course, she was a beauty, wasn't she, Cole?"

Cole felt his face constrict. He felt his pulse hammering against his throat. He longed to jump forward and throttle the life out of Quantrill, to close those pale, calculating eyes forever.

"Nope, you weren't so finicky about methods when I met you first, Cole Slater. You had revenge on your mind, and nothing more."

Cole forced his lips to curl into a humorless smile. "You're wrong, Quantrill. Yeah, I wanted vengeance. But I could never see murder done in cold blood. I could never draw up a list of men to be gunned down. I could never see dragging terrified, innocent women out of their beds to be raped and abused. Or shooting down children."

"Hell, Cole. Children fight in this war."

"And that's the hell of it, Quantrill. That's the whole bloody hell of it. The war is hell enough. The savagery is too much."

"We fight like we've been attacked, and that's the plain truth of it. You go see the likes of Lane or Jennison. Tell them about innocents. You can't change the war, Cole. Not you, and not anybody else. Not anybody."

"I didn't come here today to end the war, Quantrill," Cole said calmly.

"You just want me to rein in on Zeke, is that it?"

"Well," Cole told him casually, "you can rein in on him or I can kill him."

Quantrill grinned and shrugged. "You're overestimating my power, Slater. You want me to call Zeke in when this girl isn't anything to you. Not anything at all. She's not your sister and she's not your wife. Hell, from what I understand, Zeke saw her first. So what do you think I can do?"

"You can stop him."

Quantrill sat back again, perplexed. He lifted a hand idly, then let it fall to his lap. "What are you so worried about? You can outdraw Zeke. You can outdraw any ten men I know."

"I don't perform executions, Quantrill."

"Ah… and you're not going to be around for the winter, huh? Well, neither are we. We'll be moving south soon enough —"

"I want a guarantee, Quantrill."

Quantrill was silent. He lifted his glass, tossed back his head and swallowed the whiskey down in a gulp, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. His eyes remained on Cole. He set the glass down.

"Marry her."

"What?" Cole said sharply.

"You want me to give the girl a guarantee of safety. A girl Zeke saw first. A girl he wants —badly, I'd say. So you give me something. Give me a reason to keep him away from her. Let me be able to tell the men that she's your wife. That's why they have to stay clear. She'll be the wife of a good loyal Confederate. They'll understand that."

Cole shook his head. "I'm not marrying again, Quantrill. Not ever."

"Then what is this McCahy girl to you?"

What indeed, he wondered. "I just don't want her hurt anymore, that's all."

Quantrill shook his head slowly, and there was a flash of something that might have been compassion in his pale eyes. "There's nothing that I can do, Slater. Nothing. Not unless you can give me something to go on."

The damnedest thing about it, Cole thought, was that Quantrill seemed to want to help him. He wasn't trying to be difficult and he wasn't looking for a fight. He was just telling it the way it was.

"We will be gone pretty soon," Quantrill said. "Another month of raids, maybe. Then the winter will come crashing down. I intend to be farther south by then. Kansas winter ain't no time to be foraging and fighting. Maybe she'll be safe. From us, at least. The jayhawkers might come down on the ranch, but Quantrill and company will be seeking some warmth."

"Another month," Cole muttered.

Quantrill shrugged.

The two men sat staring at one another for several moments. Then Quantrill poured more whiskey.

He couldn't marry her. She couldn't be his wife. He'd had a wife. His wife was dead.

He picked up the whiskey and drank it down in one swallow. It burned. It tore a path of fire straight down his throat and into his gut.

"You going east?" Quantrill asked.

Cole nodded. Maybe he shouldn't have, but Quantrill knew he would have to get to Richmond sooner or later, and probably sooner.

Cole let out a snarl and slammed his glass down on the table. The piano player stopped playing again. Silence filled the saloon, like something living and breathing. All eyes turned toward Cole and Quantrill.

Cole stood. "I'm going to marry her," he told Quantrill. Then he looked around at the sea of faces. "I'm going to marry Kristin McCahy, and I don't want her touched. Not her, and not her sister. The McCahy ranch is going to be my ranch, and I'm promising a slow, painful death to any man who thinks about molesting any of my property."

Quantrill stood slowly and looked around at his men. "Hell, Cole, we're all on the same side here, aren't we, boys?"

There was silence, and then a murmur of assent. Quantrill lifted the whiskey bottle. "Let's drink! Let's drink to Cole Slater's bride, Miss McCahy! Why, Slater, not a man jack here would think to molest your property, or your woman. She's under our protection. You've got my word on it."

Quantrill spoke loudly, in a clear voice. He meant what he said. Kristin would be safe.

Quantrill offered Cole his hand, and Cole took it. They held fast for a moment, their eyes locked. Quantrill smiled. Cole stepped back, looked around the room and turned to leave. He had his back to the room, but he had probably never been safer in his life. Quantrill had guaranteed his safety.

He walked through the red door, his shoulders squared. Outside, he felt the sun on his face, but the breeze was cool. Fall was fading, and winter was on its way.

He had just said he would marry her.

Hell.

The sun was bright, the air was cool, and the sky was cloudless and blue. He stared at the sun, and he felt cold. He felt a coldness that seeped right into him, that swept right around his heart. It was a bitter cold, so deep that it hurt.

He found his horse's reins and pushed the huge animal back from the others almost savagely so that he could mount. Then he turned and started at a trot down the street.

It couldn't be helped. He had said he would do it, and he had to carry it through.

He had to marry her.

It wouldn't be real, though. It wouldn't mean anything at all. It would just be the way it had to be, and that would be that.

The cold seeped into him again. It encompassed and encircled his heart, and he felt the numbness there again, and then the pain.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't marry another woman. He couldn't call her his wife.

He would marry her. But he never would call her his wife.

Malachi was the more serious of Cole's two brothers, Kristin quickly discovered. Like Cole, he had gone to West Point. He had studied warfare, from the campaigns of Alexander the Great to the American Revolution to Napoleon's grand attempts to take over Europe and Russia. He understood the South's situation in the present struggle for independence, and perhaps that understanding was the cause of gravity. He was on leave for no more than three weeks, so he would have to be returning soon to his unit. Kristin wondered if that meant Cole would return soon. Malachi was courteous to her. He seemed to be the last of the great Southern gentleman, perhaps the last cavalier. Shannon retained her hostility toward him, though. Since Malachi's arrival, she had become a Unionist. She loved to warn both Malachi and Jamie that her brother would come back and make them into nothing more than dust in the wind. Jamie was amused by Shannon. Malachi considered her a dangerous annoyance. Since Kristin had her own problems with Cole, she decided that Shannon was on her own.

Kristin didn't think Matthew would make it home. The last letter she had received from him had stated that his company had been sent east and that he was fighting with the Army of the Potomac.

Malachi didn't wear his cavalry butternut and gray while he was with them at the ranch. He fit into Matthew's breeches fine, and since Federal patrols had been known to wander over the border, it seemed best for him to dress in civilian clothing. Two weeks after his arrival, Kristin heard hoofbeats outside and hurried to the porch. To her vast astonishment, Jamie sat whittling on the steps while Malachi held Shannon in a deep engrossing embrace, kissing her as hotly as a newlywed. Stunned, Kristin stared at Jamie. Jamie pointed to two men in Union blue who were riding away.

"She started to mention that things might not be all they seemed," Jamie drawled. "Malachi didn't take kindly to the notion of spending the rest of the war in a Yankee prison camp."

There was a sharp crack. Kristin spun around to see that Shannon had just slapped Malachi.

Her sister's language was colorful, to say the least. She compared Malachi Slater to a milk rat, a rattlesnake and a Texas scorpion. Malachi, her fingerprints staining his face, didn't appreciate her words. Kristin gasped when he dragged her onto his lap and prepared to bruise her derriere.

Shannon screamed. Jamie shrugged. Kristin decided she had to step in at last. Kristin pleaded with him, but he ignored her at first. She hadn't the strength to come to physical blows with him, so all she could do was appeal to his valor. "Malachi, I'm sure she didn't mean —"

"She damned well did mean!" Malachi shouted. "And I may fall to a Yankee bullet, but I'll be damned if I'll rot in a hellhole because this little piece of baggage has a vicious heart!"

His palm cracked just once against Shannon's flesh.

"Rodent!" Shannon screeched.

"Please —" Kristin began.

Malachi shifted Shannon into his arms, ready to lecture her.

Then Jamie suddenly stood up, dropped his knife and the wood he'd been whittling and reached for his Colt.

"Horses!" he hissed.

A sudden silence settled over them. Malachi didn't release Shannon, but she froze, too, neither sniffling in indignation nor screaming out her hatred.

Kristin glanced at Jamie. She could tell he was afraid that the Union patrol was on its way back. That Malachi's act just hadn't been good enough. That Shannon had exposed them all to danger.

They all saw the riders. Two of them.

Kristin saw Jamie's tension ease, and then Malachi, too, seemed to relax. Even his desire for vengeance against Shannon seemed to have ebbed. He suddenly set her down on the wooden

step, not brutally but absently. Still, Shannon gasped out, startled. Malachi ignored her. Even Kristin ignored her. Kristin still couldn't see the riders clearly, but apparently Malachi and Jamie knew something.

Then she realized it was Cole's horse. It was Cole, returning.

Instantly she felt hot and then cold. Her heart seemed to flutter in her breast. Then butterfly wings seemed to soar within her, and she was hot and then cold all over again.

Cole…

No matter what she wanted to think or believe, she had thought of nothing but him since he had gone away. Waking or sleeping, he had filled her heart and her mind. She had touched the bedding where he had lain and remembered how he had stood, naked, by the window. She had remembered him with the length of her, remembered the feel of his fingers on her flesh, the staggering heat of his body against hers, the tempest of his movement. She had burned with the thoughts and she had railed against herself for them, but they had remained. And in her dreams she had seen him naked and agile and silent and sleek and coming to her again. And he would take her so tenderly into his arms…

And in her dreams it would be more than the fire. He would smile, and he would smile with an encompassing tenderness that meant everything. He would whisper to her, and the whispers would never be clear, but she would know what they meant.

He loved her…

He did not love her.

He rode closer, a plump, middle-aged man at his side. She barely noticed the other man. Her eyes were for Cole, and his rested upon her.

And her heart ran cold then, for he was staring at her with a startling dark hatred.

Her fingers went to her throat, and she backed away slightly, wondering what had happened, why he should look at her so.

"Cole's back," Jamie said unnecessarily.

"Cole!"

It was Shannon who called out his name, Shannon who went running out to him as if he were a long-lost hero. Kristin couldn't move.

Cole's horse came to a prancing halt, and Shannon stood there, staring up at him in adoration, reaching for him. To his credit, Kristin admitted bitterly, he was good to Shannon. His eyes gentled when they fell upon her, and if there was a certain impatience about him, he hid it from her well. He dismounted from his horse in front of the house. Both Jamie and Malachi stood there watching him in silence, waiting for him to speak. He stepped forward and greeted both of his brothers.

"Malachi, Jamie."

He grasped both their hands, and Jamie smiled crookedly while Malachi continued to observe him gravely. Then Cole's eyes came to her again, and she would have backed up again if she hadn't already been flush against the door. His gaze came over her, as cold as the wind of a twister, and perhaps, for just a second, with the same blinding torment. Then the emotion was gone, and all that remained was the staggering chill.

Her mouth was dry, her throat was dry, and she couldn't speak. She was grateful then for Shannon, who told Cole how glad she was to see him, how grateful she was that he was back.

Then she was suddenly still, and Kristin realized that the pudgy middle-aged man was still sitting atop his horse, looking at them all. She was the hostess here. She should be asking him in and offering him something cool to his throat from the dust and dirt of his ride. She should be doing something for Cole, too. If she could only move. Cole should be doing something, too, she thought, not leaving the little man just sitting there.

She forced her eyes away from Cole's to meet those of the man. She even made her lips curl into a semblance of a welcoming smile. "Hello, sir. Won't you come in?"

Jamie smiled. "Welcome, stranger. Cole, you're forgetting your manners. Who is this man?"

Cole turned to the man on the horse. "Sorry, Reverend. Please, come down."

"Much obliged," the man said, dismounting from his horse. Jamie stepped forward to tether the horses. The wind picked up and blew a handful of dirt around.

"This is the Reverend Samuel Cotter," Cole said. "Reverend, my brothers, Malachi and Jamie. And Miss Kristin McCahy in the doorway there, and Miss Shannon McCahy here by my side."

The reverend tipped his hat. "A pleasure, ladies. Gentlemen."

Then they were all just standing there again. The reverend turned his hat awkwardly in his hands. He had a nice face, Kristin thought. Heavy-jowled, with a nice, full smile and bright little eyes. She wished she could be more neighborly, but she was still having difficulty moving.

"Maybe we should all move into the house," Jamie suggested.

"Perhaps the reverend would like a sherry," Shannon murmured.

"The reverend would just love a whiskey!" the little man said, his eyes lighting up.

Malachi laughed. Cole came forward, his hands on his hips. He stood right in front of Kristin, and his eyes were just like the steel of Malachi's cavalry sword. His hands fell on her shoulders, and she almost screamed.

"You're blocking the door, Kristin," he said.

"Oh!" She moved quickly, jumping away from his touch. Her face flushed with color. She looked at the little man. "Forgive me my lack of manners, sir. Please, please, do come in." She paused, looking at Cole's hard, dispassionate features, then back at the reverend. "Um… just what are you doing here, sir?"

The little man's brows shot up. "Why, I've come to marry you, miss."

"Marry me?"

"Why, not myself!" He laughed hard, enjoying his own joke. "I've come to marry you to Mr. Slater here."

"What!" Kristin gasped. She turned to stare at Cole again. She saw the ice, and the hatred in his eyes, and she thought it must be some horrible joke.

"Oh, no! I can't marry Mr. Slater." She said it flatly and with grim determination.

His hands were on her shoulders once again. His eyes bored into hers, ruthless, demanding. His fingers bit into her flesh, brutal and challenging.

"You will marry me, Kristin. Now. While we have the nice reverend here. It took me four days to find him, and I don't intend to have trouble now."

She gritted her teeth against the pain of his touch, against the force of his will. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't do that, and she couldn't explain that she couldn't possibly marry him, not when the mere idea made him look at her with such hatred.

"I will not —"

"You will!"

He turned around and shoved her through the door to the house. His touch stayed upon her, the warmth and strength of his body radiated along her spine, and his whisper touched her ear like the wind.

"Damn it, Kristin, stop it! You will do this!"

Suddenly tears glistened in her eyes. She'd dreamed about just such an occasion, but it hadn't been like this. He hadn't looked at her this way.

"Why?" she managed to whisper.

"We have to."

"But…" She had to salvage some pride. "I don't love you."

"I don't love you."

"Then —"

"Kristin, you've got your choices."

"I see. This is another threat. If I don't go through with this, you'll ride away."

"I have to ride away, Kristin. No matter what. And this is the only safeguard I could find for you."

"I can't do it —"

"Then plan on entertaining Zeke Moreau, Kristin. And if you can't think about yourself, think about Shannon."

"This is a travesty!" His eyes burned with silver emotion for a moment. He was a stranger again as he stood there, touching her yet somehow distant from her.

"War is a travesty, Kristin. Cheer up. If it ever ends, you can divorce me. I'm sure you'll have plenty of cause. But for the moment. Miss McCahy, get into the parlor, stand sweetly and smile for the nice reverend, please."

PART 3

Her Husband

CHAPTER NINE

It was not what she had expected her wedding day to be like, and it was certainly not what she had dreamed it would be like.

Cole and the reverend were still covered with dust from their ride. She wore a simple cotton day dress with a single petticoat, since Cole had sworn impatiently when she had murmured something about changing. Shannon was wearing a shirt and trousers. The only concession to the fact that it was a wedding was the little bouquet she held, hurriedly put together by Delilah from ferns and late-blooming daisies.

They stood stiffly in the parlor. Cole was brusque, and the reverend tried to be kind. Malachi stood up for Cole, and Shannon acted as bridesmaid. Jamie, Delilah and Samson looked on. The reverend kept clearing his throat. He wanted to say more, wanted to speak about the sanctity of marriage and the commitment made thereby between a man and a woman. Cole kept shifting his weight from foot to foot. Then he snapped at the man, "Get on with it!"

Hastily the reverend went on.

Kristin listened to the droning voice and found herself looking around her mother's beautiful parlor and wondering what it had been like for her parents. Not like this. They had loved one another, she knew. She could remember her father's eyes, and the way they had misted over when her mother's name had been spoken. They had built their lives on a dream, and the dream had been a good one.

But they weren't living in a world of dreams, and Cole didn't love her. He didn't even pretend to love her.

"Kristin?"

"What?"

Startled, she looked up at him. She realized that they were standing side by side, she in simple cotton, he in denim and Missouri dust. His hand was around hers, and his flesh felt dry and hot. He squeezed her hand, and she gasped at the pressure, her eyes widening.

"Kristin!" His eyes were sizzling silver and dangerous. "The reverend just asked you a question."

She looked at the reverend. He was flushed and obviously uncomfortable, but he tried to smile again.

"Kristin… do you take this man for your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, to love, to cherish and to obey in all the things of this earth?"

She stared at him blankly. It wasn't right. He didn't love her. And she was falling in love with him.

"I, er…"

"Kristin!" The pressure of his fingers around hers was becoming painful.

"Cole…" She turned to him, trying to free her hand from his grasp. "Cole, this is marvelously noble of you, honestly. But I'm sorry, I don't think —"

"Kristin!" Shannon gasped.

"Kristin…" Cole began, and there was a definite threat in his tone, like a low rumble of thunder. What could he do to her, here, with all these people, she wondered recklessly.

He caught her shoulders and jerked her against him. The reverend was sucking air in and out of his cheeks very quickly. "Mr. Slater, if the young lady isn't prepared to take this step, if she isn't completely enamored of you —"

"She's enamored, she's enamored!" Cole snapped. He wound his fingers into Kristin's hair and kissed her hotly. He kissed her with such conviction and passion that she felt herself color from the roots of her hair to her toes. His lips molded around hers, and his tongue plunged deep into her mouth. She couldn't breathe, and she could barely stand, and her knees were beginning to shake.

"Really, now —" the reverend protested.

"They really are in love!" Jamie assured him cheerfully.

"Cole —" Malachi tapped his brother on the shoulder. "I — er… think you've made your point."

Cole lifted his lips from Kristin's by just a whisper. His eyes burned into hers. "Say 'I do,' Kristin. Say it."

She inhaled. Her ribs felt as if they had been crushed. She tried to shake her head, but it wouldn't move. "Say 'I do,' " he insisted.

She felt as if the trembling in her heart were an earthquake beneath her feet. She parted her lips, and they felt damp and swollen.

"For God's sake, do it!" Shannon whispered. "We need him. Don't be so naive!"

She nodded, but she couldn't speak. Cole caught her fingers and brought their hands together and squeezed. " 'I do,' Kristin! Say it!"

She formed the words at last. I do.

"Go on!" Cole roared at the reverend.

The reverend asked Cole the same question he'd asked Kristin.

He almost spat out the answer. "I do!" His lips twisted bitterly, as if, having forced her to do what he wanted, he had found a new contempt for her. She tried to wrench her hand away from him, but he held her firm and slipped a ring on her finger. It was a wide gold band, and it was too big for her.

She heard Delilah saying that if they twined some string around it it would fit fine.

Then the reverend announced that they were man and wife, and Cole released her. No one said anything, not a single word. The silence went on and on, but Delilah finally broke it.

"This calls for some of that fine white wine in the cellar, I think. Samson, you go fetch it up here, please."

"Yessir, a wedding sure calls for wine," Samson agreed.

The room seemed very still, and Kristin was still unable to move. She was hot and cold by turns. She had never felt more alone in her life. Cole had moved away from her, far away, as if he couldn't bear to touch her now that the words had been spoken. He thanked the reverend and paid him. Then he seemed to notice Kristin again. She had to sign the marriage certificate.

She balked again. He grabbed her hand and guided it to the paper, and she managed to scratch out her name. Nothing seemed real. Delilah said she would set out a cold supper, and Shannon promised to help. Somehow Kristin wound up in one of the big plush wing chairs in the parlor. Jamie stood beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

"He's really not as bad as he seems, you know," he whispered. She clenched her teeth together to keep them from chattering. "No, he's worse." Jamie laughed, but there was an edge to his laughter. He sat down on the sofa across from her and took her hands in his. His eyes were serious. "Kristin, you have to try to understand Cole."

"He doesn't want to be understood," she replied softly.

"You're not afraid of him, are you?" he asked. She thought for a moment, then shook her head, smiling ruefully. "Afraid of Cole? Never. He saved my life. No, Jamie, I'm not afraid of him. I just wish that —"

"That what?" Jamie murmured.

They could both see Cole. He was rubbing the back of his neck as he talked to Malachi. He looked tired, Kristin thought. She bit her lower lip, and wished for a moment that the marriage was real. She wanted to tiptoe up behind him and touch his shoulders with soothing fingers. She wanted to press her face against the coolness of his back and pretend there was no war, no Zeke, no chaos.

"I wish I understood him," she said at last, staring straight at Jamie. "Want to help?"

He straightened and released her hands. "I'm sorry, Kristin. I can't." He stood and smiled down at her. "Look at that, will you? Delilah is a gem. A cold supper, indeed. She's got biscuits and gravy, turnip greens and a shank of ham over there. Come on!" He took her hands in his again and pulled her to her feet. Suddenly, impulsively, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Hey, welcome, sister," he whispered.

Some instinct caused her to look behind him. Cole was watching them. He scowled darkly and turned his attention to Malachi again.

"I'm not very hungry, Jamie," Kristin said. It was true. She wasn't hungry at all. She smiled at him, though and whispered, "Thank you, Jamie!" She felt like crying again, and she shook herself impatiently. It was absurd. She had stood

tall in the face of tragedy. Now there was only confusion, but it was tearing her apart.

Cole didn't seem to be very hungry, either. He waited with barely concealed impatience for his brothers to finish their meal. When they had, he started toward the door with long strides, and they followed. He paused in the doorway and said to Kristin, "We're going to ride out and take a look at things. I want to tell the ranch hands."

He was going to announce their wedding the way he might have spread the news of a battle. She nodded, wondering again at the fever that touched his eyes. He couldn't wait to be away from her, she thought. Then why, she thought angrily, had he done it at all? Surely his obligation to her wasn't as great as that.

She didn't say anything. He looked at the reverend, thanking him again for making the trip and urging him to make himself at home. Then he paused again. Malachi and Jamie shifted uncomfortably, exchanging worried glances.

"Write to your brother," Cole told Kristin. "Write to him immediately. There's a good possibility I may stop a Yankee bullet before this is all over, but I don't intend it to be because of a stupid mistake."

Then the three of them were gone. Kristin stood up, watching as the door closed, listening as their booted feet fell against the floorboards of the front porch.

Then, ridiculously, she felt her knees wobbling. She heard a humming in the air, and it was as if wind were rising again, bringing with it a dark mist.

"Kristin!"

She heard Shannon calling her name, and then she heard nothing. She sank to the floor in a dead faint.

Several hours later the Slater brothers rode back from their inspection of the ranch. They'd told all the ranch hands about the marriage. Old Pete had spit on the ground and told Cole he was damned glad. He seemed to understand that with Cole and Kristin married, they were all safer from Zeke Moreau. He didn't seem to care much whether the marriage was real. He seemed to think it was none of his business.

The brothers had gone on to ride around the perimeters of the McCahy ranch. It was a quiet day. By the time they headed back for the house, night was coming and coming fast. Still, when they were within sight of the place, Cole suddenly decided he wanted to stop and set up camp.

Jamie built a fire, and Malachi unsaddled the horses. Cole produced a bottle of whiskey and the dried beef and hardtack. By then the stars had risen, bright against the endless black velvet of the night sky.

Malachi watched Cole, and he noticed the nervous tension that refused to ease from his features. There was a hardness about him today. Malachi understood it. He just didn't know how to ease it.

Let it rest! Malachi thought. Let it go. Kristin McCahy — no, Slater now — was young, beautiful and intelligent, and if he wasn't mistaken, she was in love with Cole. Cole was too caught up in his memories of tragedy to see it. Even if he did see it, it might not change anything. Malachi knew his brother had acted out of a sense of chivalry. He also knew Kristin would have preferred he hadn't. Malachi sighed. Their personal lives were none of his business. He had to leave. He was a regular soldier in a regular army, and his leave was about up.

"This is kind of dumb, ain't it?" Jamie demanded, swallowing some of the whiskey.

"Dumb?" Cole asked.

"Hell, yes. You've got yourself a gorgeous bride, young and shapely —"

"And what the hell do you know about her shape?" Cole demanded heatedly.

"Come on, you can't miss it," Malachi protested dryly. He was determined to have a peaceful evening. He sent Jamie a warning scowl. They both knew what was bothering Cole. "Jamie… stop it."

"Why? Does Cole think he's the only one who's been hurt by this war?"

"Damned brat —" Cole began angrily.

"But the damned brat came running when you asked, Cole, so sit back. Hell, come on, both of you stop it."

"I just think he should appreciate the woman, that's all. And if he didn't mean to, damn it, he shouldn't have tied her up in chains like that."

Cole, exasperated, stared at Malachi. "Will you shut him up, or should I?"

"There's a war on, boys!" Malachi reminded them both.

"He should be decent to her —" Jamie began.

"Damn it, I am decent to her!" Cole roared.

"Leaving her alone on her wedding night —"

"Leaving her alone was the most decent damned thing I could do!" Cole said. He wrenched the whiskey bottle from his brother's hands. "You're too young for this stuff."

"Hell, I'm too old," Jamie said softly. He grinned ruefully at his brother, and all the tension between them seemed to dissipate. "I'm twenty, Cole. By some standards, that's real old. Seventeen-year-old boys are dying all over the place."

"Quantrill is running a bunch of boys," Cole said. He lifted his hand in a vague gesture. "The James boys. The Youngers. And that butcher Bill Anderson. He's just a kid."

He swallowed the liquor, then swallowed again. He felt like being drunk. Really drunk.

Malachi reached for the bottle. The firelight played over his hair, and he arched his golden brows at Cole. "You think that Quantrill can really control his men? That marrying Kristin can keep her safe?"

Cole looked out at the Missouri plain before him, gnawing on a blade of grass. He spit out the grass and looked over at his brothers, who were both looking at him anxiously. If he hadn't been knotted up inside he might have smiled. They were both concerned. There was something about the McCahy place that got to a man. He could understand how even the great struggle between North and South had ceased to matter here, had ceased to matter to Kristin. The brutality here was too much. It left the mind numbed.

"I know Quantrill is about to head south for the winter. He doesn't like the cold. He'll make one more raid, I'm certain. Then he'll head on somewhere south — maybe Arkansas, maybe Texas. I'll stick around until he moves on. Then I'll go on over to Richmond. If I can just find some train tracks that are still holding together, I should make it in time."

"If Jefferson Davis is still in the Cabinet," Jamie said glumly.

Cole looked at him sharply. "Why? What have you heard?"

"Nothing. It's just that the battle of Sharpsburg left a lot of dead men. A whole lot of dead men."

"Watch your step around here," Malachi warned Cole. "There's Federal patrols wandering all around the McCahy place."

"Yeah, I know."

"That little witch just about got me hauled in today."

"Witch?" Cole asked.

"Shannon," Jamie supplied.

Malachi grunted. "I envy you your wife, Cole, but not your in-laws."

"And he doesn't mean the Yankee brother." Jamie laughed. "It's a good thing Malachi has to ride out soon. I don't think she's too fond of him, either."

Malachi looked as if he wanted to kill somebody, Jamie thought, but at least Cole laughed, and Cole needed it the most. "What have I missed?" Cole asked.

"The antics of a child," Malachi replied, waving a dismissing hand in the air. He reached for the liquor bottle. It was going down quickly.

"Some child!" Jamie said. "Why, she's coming along just as nicely as that wife of yours, Cole."

Malachi and Cole looked at one another. "We could end this war if we just sent this boy to Washington to heckle the Union commanders," Malachi said.

Cole grunted his agreement. Jamie grinned and lay back against his saddle, staring up at the stars. "You know, Cole," he said suddenly, "I am sorry about the past. I sure am."

There was a long silence. The fire snapped and crackled. Malachi held his breath and held his peace.

"But if I were you," Jamie went on, "I wouldn't be out here with my brothers. Not when I had a woman like that waiting. A woman with beautiful blond hair and eyes like sapphires. And the way she walks, her hips swinging and all…Why, I can just imagine what it'd be like —'"

"Son of a bitch!" Cole roared suddenly. He stood up, slamming the nearly empty whiskey bottle into the fire. The liquor hissed and sizzled. Jamie leaped to his feet, startled by the deadly dark danger in his brother's eyes. Malachi, too, leaped to his feet. He couldn't believe that Cole would really go for Jamie, but then he had never seen Cole in a torment like this. Nor had he ever seen Jamie so determined to irk him.

"Cole —" Malachi reached for his brother's arm, and they stared at one another in the golden firelight.

"No!" Jamie told Malachi, his eyes on Cole. "If he wants to beat me up, let him. If he thinks he can strike out at me and feel better, fine. Let him hurt me instead of that poor girl waiting for him at the house. At least I understand why he strikes out. Hell, she doesn't even know why he's so damned hateful."

"What the hell difference does it make?" Cole thundered. "All she wanted from me was protection!"

"She deserves some damned decency from you!"

"I told you —"

"Yeah, yeah, you came up with some puny excuse. You are a bastard."

"You don't know —"

"I know that it wasn't my wife killed by the jayhawkers, but we loved her, too, Cole. And she loved you, and she wouldn't want you making your whole life nothing but ugly vengeance."

"Why, I ought to —"

"Cole!" Malachi shouted. Between the three of them, they'd consumed almost an entire bottle of liquor. This wasn't a good time for Jamie to be goading Cole, but Jamie didn't seem to care. And now Cole was losing control. He shook off Malachi's arm and lunged at Jamie with a sudden fury. Then the two of them were rolling in the dust.

"Jesus in heaven!" Malachi breathed. "Will the two of you —"

"You don't know! You don't know anything!" Cole raged at Jamie. "You didn't find her, you didn't feel the blood pouring out all over you! You didn't see her eyes close, you didn't see the love as it died. You didn't watch her eyes close and feel her flesh grow cold!"

"Cole!"

His hands were around Jamie's neck, and Jamie wasn't doing anything at all. He was letting Cole throttle him. Malachi tried to pull him off, and Cole suddenly realized what he was doing. Horrified, he released his brother. Then he stood and walked away, his back to his brothers.

"I need to stay away from Kristin," he said softly.

Jamie looked at Malachi and rubbed his throat. Malachi spoke to Cole.

"No. You don't need to stay away from her. You need to go to her."

Cole turned around. He came over to Jamie and planted his hands on his brother's shoulders. "You all right?"

Jamie nodded and grinned. "I'm all right."

Cole walked over to his horse. He untied the reins which were tethered to a tree, and walked the horse into the open. Then he leaped up on the animal's back without bothering to saddle it.

"You going back?" Malachi asked.

"Just for another bottle of whiskey."

Malachi and Jamie nodded. They watched as Cole started back toward the house, the horse's hooves suddenly taking flight in the darkness.

"He's just going back for another whiskey bottle," Jamie said.

Malachi laughed. "We betting on when he's going to make it back?"

Jamie grinned. "You get to bring his saddle in the morning." He lay down again and stretched out, feeling his throat. "Too bad I wasn't blessed with sisters!" He groaned.

Malachi grunted, pulled his hat low over his face and closed his eyes. The fire crackled and burned low, and at last the two of them slept.

Cole heard one of Pete's hounds barking as he approached the house. Then Pete himself, shirtless, the top of his long Johns showing above his hastily donned trousers, came out to challenge him.

"Just me, Pete," Cole assured him.

"Evening, boss," Pete said agreeably, and headed back to the bunkhouse.

Cole dismounted from his horse, sliding from the animal's back without his accustomed grace. He gave his head a shake to clear it. The whiskey had gotten to him more than he would have cared to admit, but not enough to really knock him out the way he wanted, not enough to take away the last of his pain. He was determined to be quiet, but it seemed to him that his boots made an ungodly noise on the floorboards of the porch.

The house was dark. He stumbled through the hall and the parlor and into what had been Gabriel McCahy's office. He fumbled around for a match and lit the oil lamp on the desk, then came around and sat in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk and digging in the lower right hand drawer for a bottle of liquor — any kind of liquor.

Then he heard a click, and the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. His whiskey-dulled reflexes came to life, and he slammed his feet to the floor, reaching for his revolver.

He pointed it at the doorway — and right at Kristin, who stood there with a double-barreled shotgun aimed at his head. He swore irritably, returning his gun to his holster and sinking back into his chair.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.

"What am I doing? You son of a bitch —" She lowered the shotgun and moved into the room.

She stopped in front of the desk, caught in the soft glow of the lamplight. Her hair was loose, a soft storm of sunshine falling over her shoulders. She was dressed chastely enough, in a nightgown that buttoned to her throat, but the lamplight went through the fabric and caressed her body. He could see all too clearly the sway of her hips, which Jamie had so admired. He could see the curve of her breasts, the flow and shape of her limbs, and suddenly the sight of her hurt him. It was as if some mighty hand reached down and took hold of him, squeezing the life from him. He felt his heart pounding, felt his shuddering pulse enter his groin and take root there. His fingers itched to reach out to her, to touch her. She was staring at him, her blue eyes a raging sea of fury, and not even that deterred him. It only made the pulse within him beat all the harder.

He didn't love her. To love her would be disloyal. But he had married her. What the hell else could she want?

"What are you doing in here?" she snapped.

"Kristin, put the gun down. Go to bed."

"You scared me to death! And you taught me not to go wandering around unarmed!"

"Kristin, put the gun down." He hesitated. Then he smiled suddenly. "Come on. We'll go to bed. Together."

Her eyes widened. "You're out of your mind, Cole Slater."

"Am I?" He came around the desk, slowly, lazily, yet purposefully. Kristin raised the shotgun again.

"Yes! You are out of your mind."

"You're my wife."

"And you walked out of here this afternoon and didn't come back until three in the morning — after treating me with the manners of a rabid squirrel. I promise you, Mr. Slater, if you think you're going to touch me, you're out of your mind."

He was out of his mind, and he knew it. He swallowed raggedly. He had forgotten so much. He had tried to forget. He had forgotten that she could hold her head with such incredible pride. He had forgotten her eyes could snap this way, and he had forgotten that her mouth was wide and generous and beautifully shaped. He had forgotten that she was beautiful and sensuous, and that her touch was more potent than whiskey or wine or the finest brandy. He had forgotten so much…

But now he remembered. The revealing lamplight glowed on the lush curves of her body, and the thunder inside him became almost unbearable. He took a step forward, and she cocked the shotgun. His smile deepened.

"Fire it, Kristin."

"I will, damn you!"

He laughed triumphantly, stepped toward her again and took the shotgun from her hands. He pulled her hard against him, and he lowered his head and seized her lips in a kiss. It was not at all brutal, but it was filled with a shocking need and a shocking thirst. For an instant she thought to twist from him, but his kiss filled her with a searing, liquid heat, and she felt as if she were bursting with the desire to touch him, to be touched by him.

He broke away from her, and his eyes sought hers. "No!" she told him angrily, but he smiled and swept her up into his arms. Her eyes were still angry but she locked her arms around his neck. He carried her effortlessly through the darkened parlor, up the stairs and into the bedroom. He closed the door with his foot and set her down by the window. The moonlight found her there, dancing over her fine, delicate features and her rich, feminine curves.

"You're horrid," she told him.

He smiled tenderly. "You're beautiful."

"You're filthy."

He kissed her forehead, and he kissed her cheeks, and he rimmed her lips with the tip of his tongue, teasing them, dampening them. His fingers went to the tiny buttons of her gown, and he tried to undo them but they wouldn't give, and he finally ripped the gown open impatiently. The moonlight fell on her naked flesh. He groaned and kissed her shoulder and her throat, feeling the urgent quickening of her heart.

"Does it matter so terribly much?" he whispered.

She didn't answer. He stroked her breast. Then he lowered his head and touched his lips to the nipple. He teased it with his teeth, then sucked it hard into his mouth and finally gentled it with his tongue. Rivers of pleasure streaked through her, and she threaded her fingers roughly into his hair, and he savored the little tug of pain. He lowered himself slowly to his knees, holding her hips, then her buttocks.

"Does it matter so terribly much?" he repeated, looking up into her dazed eyes. He teased her navel with the tip of his tongue.

"Yes!" she whispered. He started to move away from her, but she wouldn't let him. He bathed her belly with kisses, cupping her buttocks hard and pressing close to her, sliding his tongue along the apex of her thighs and into the golden triangle there. She shuddered and cried out, but he held her firmly, and when it seemed she was about to fall he lowered her carefully to the floor. He touched her gently and tenderly, and then he brought his mouth over hers again. "Does it really matter so terribly much?" he demanded.

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck. "No," she whispered, and she released him to tug at his buttons and then at his belt buckle. She groaned in frustration, and he helped her, stripping quickly. She was so very beautiful, there in the full flood of the moonlight. All of him quickened, and desire spread through him like a raging wind, and he cried out in a ragged voice. She was there, there to take him, there to close around him, a sweet and secret haven. Nothing on earth was like this.

He sank into her, swept into her, again and again. She rose to meet his every thrust, and the pulse raged between them. She was liquid fire when she moved. She was made to have him, made to love him, made to take him. The culmination burst upon them swiftly. She gasped and shuddered, and he thrust heatedly, again, and felt his climax spew from him. He held her tight. He felt the sweat, slick between them. He felt the rise and fall of her breath and the clamor of her heart, slowing at last.

He stroked her hair, and he marveled at the ecstasy of it.

Then he remembered that he had made her his wife, and suddenly he hated himself again.

He should have said something. He should have whispered something to her. Anything. Anything that was tender, anything that was kind.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

Instead, he rose, his skin glistening in the moonlight. Then he bent down and took her naked form in his arms. She was silent, her eyes lowered, her hair a tangle around them.

He laid her down upon the bed. Her eyes met his at last, and he saw in them a torment that seemed to match that within his heart. She was so very beautiful. Naked, she was a goddess, her breasts firm and full and perfect, her limbs shapely and slim, her belly a fascinating plane between her hips. He pulled the covers over her.

Her sapphire eyes still studied him.

"I'm… I'm sorry," he muttered at last.

She let out a strangled oath and turned away from him.

He hesitated, then slipped in beside her. He crossed his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, wishing he were drunker, wishing fervently he could go to sleep.

But he lay awake a long, long time. And he knew she didn't sleep, either.

At dawn he rose and left.

And at dawn Kristin finally slept. She had the right to stay in bed all day, she told herself bitterly. She was a bride, and this was the morning after her wedding day.

Cole wasn't in the house when she finally did get up. Shannon told her he had gone out with Malachi.

Jamie was there, though. He told her that they were low on salt and that they needed a couple of blocks for the cattle to lick through the winter. Cole had said that she and Pete were to go into town and buy them.

The Union had control of most of the border area — despite Quant rill's sporadic raids — and the town had managed to remain quieter than the McCahy ranch. Kristin was glad to take the buckboard and ride into town with Pete. She was glad to be away from the house.

It was a three-hour ride. The town of Little Ford was small, but it did have two saloons, one

reputable hotel, two doctors old enough to be exempted from military service and three mercantile stores. In Jaffe's Mercantile she saw Tommy Norley, a newspaperman and an old friend of Adam's from over the Kansas border.

"Kristin!"

He was limping when he came over to her. He tipped his hat quickly, then took both her hands in his. "Kristin, how are you doing out there? Is everything all right? You and Shannon should have moved on, I think. Or maybe into town. Or maybe out to California!"

She smiled. He was a slim man, pale-faced, with a pencil-thin mustache and dark, soulful eyes.

"I'm doing well, Tommy, thank you." She searched his eyes. She had last seen him when they had buried her father. He had written a scathing article about guerrilla attacks.

"You should move, Kristin."

She chose to ignore his words. "Tommy, you're limping."

He smiled grimly. "I just got caught by Quantrill."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What do you mean? What happened?"

"The bastard attacked Shawneetown last week. I was with the Federal supply train he and his maniacs caught up with on their way in." He paused and looked at her, wondering how much he should say to a lady.

"Tommy, tell me! What happened?"

He took a deep breath. "Kristin, it was awful. Quantrill and his men came after us like a pack of Indians, howling, shouting. They gunned down fifteen men, drivers and escorts. I rolled off the side of the road, into the foliage. I took a bullet in the calf, but I lived to tell the tale. Kristin, they went on into town and murdered ten more men there. Then they burned the village to the ground."

"Oh, God! How horrible!" Kristin gasped.

"Kristin, come to Kansas. I'm opening an office in Lawrence, and I'm sure you'll be safe."

She smiled. "Tommy, my home is in Missouri."

"But you're in danger."

"I can't leave the ranch, Tommy." She wondered if she should tell him that she had married to save her ranch and that she would probably be in real danger from her new husband if she deserted him and ran off to Kansas.

"You should have seen them," Tommy murmured. "Kristin, they were savages. You should have seen them."

She held on to the counter in the mercantile, suddenly feeling ill. He kept talking, and she answered him as politely as she could. She cared about Tommy. He had been a good friend to Adam. It was just that Adam had begun to fade from her life. It was not that she hadn't loved him. She had. But Cole was a stronger force in her life.

Kristin hesitated, then asked him if he thought he could get a message to Matthew for her. He promised to try, and she bought some stationery from Mr. Jaffe and quickly wrote a letter to Matthew. It wasn't easy to explain her marriage. She did it as carefully and as cheerfully as she could, then turned the letter over to Tommy, hoping she had done well.

She kissed Tommy and left him. Pete had gotten the salt licks, and he had stacked the remaining space in the buckboard with alfalfa to help get them through the coming winter.

She told him about Shawneetown, then fell silent. The news bothered her all the way home.

When they arrived at the ranch, she still felt ill. She went out back and stood over her parents' graves. Cold and chilled, she tried to pray, but no thoughts came to her mind.

A while later she felt a presence behind her, and she knew that it was Cole. She was angry, and she didn't know why, unless it was because she knew he didn't love her, and because she knew she was falling in love with him. He was attracted to her, certainly. Maybe he even needed her. But he didn't love her.

She spun around, ready to do battle.

"Quantrill and his animals attacked Shawneetown last week. They killed the men escorting a supply train, and then they went into the village and killed some more, and then they burned the whole place down."

His eyes narrowed, and he stared at her warily, but he didn't say anything. She walked up to him and slammed her fists against his chest. "He's a captain! The Confederates made him a captain!"

He grabbed her wrists hard. "I don't condone Quantrill, and you know it. The Missouri governor considers him and his raiders like an elephant won at a raffle."

"Let go of me!" she hissed furiously.

"No. You listen to me for a minute, lady. Quantrill has no monopoly on brutality! Quantrill came after the likes of Lane and Jennison. Unionists, Kristin! Jayhawkers! You want to know some of the things they've done? They've ridden up to farmhouses and dragged men out and killed them — men and women! They've murdered and they've raped and they've tortured, exactly the same way Quantrill has! You remember that, Kristin! You bear that in mind real well!"

He pushed her away from him and turned, his long, angry strides taking him toward the house. The rear door opened and then slammed shut, and he disappeared inside.

She waited a moment, and then she followed him. She didn't know if she wanted to continue the fight or try to make up with him somehow.

It didn't matter. He wasn't in the house anymore.

And that night he didn't come back at all.

CHAPTER TEN

Cole might have slept somewhere else during the night, but he appeared at the breakfast table in the morning. Kristin was angry and wondered what everyone must think. He came and went like the breeze, with no regard for her feelings. Kristin was sharp when he spoke to her. When he asked her to pass him the milk, she seriously considered splashing it in his face or pouring it in his lap. He caught her hand and the pitcher before she could do either. He stared at her hard, and she looked away.

She didn't like Cole's ability to stay away from her. She wanted to fight with him. She wanted to do anything just to bring him close to her again. It was an effort to turn away from him, to find some trivial thing to discuss with Jamie and Shannon.

Cole remained in a foul temper all day. With winter coming on, there was a lot to do. Cole was anxious to have it all done before he left for the East and before Malachi and Jamie had to leave to rejoin their units. They spent the day gathering up as much of the herd as they could for Pete to drive to market. Kristin had been surprised that Cole was willing to let her sell the beef on the Union side of the line, but he had reminded her that the ranch belonged to her brother, Matthew, and that Matthew was fighting for the Union. Cole couldn't go north himself, but Pete could handle the cattle drive, and Malachi and Jamie would be around until he got back at the end of the week.

By dinnertime, Cole seemed to be in a somewhat better mood, and Kristin maintained a polite distance from him. Cole, Jamie and Malachi all sat down to dinner with Kristin and Shannon that night. Delilah refused to sit and made a big fuss over everyone. Jamie made the meal a pleasant affair. He told the two girls about a pair of hammers his mother had bought for Cole and Malachi when they were boys and about how the two of them had used their hammers on one another. Even Shannon laughed and refrained from engaging in verbal warfare with Malachi. Cole listened to the story with a smile on his face, and at one point his eyes met Kristin's and he gave her an entrancing grin and a sheepish shrug.

After dinner, Kristin played the spinet and Shannon sang. She sang a few light tunes, then gave a haunting rendition of "Lorena", a ballad about a soldier who returns from the wars to find that his love is gone. When it was over, they were all silent. Then Cole stood up and told Shannon in a strangled voice that her singing was very beautiful. He excused himself and left them.

Kristin bit her lip as she watched him leave the room. Jamie gave her an encouraging pat on the knee, and Malachi practically shoved Shannon out of the way and began a rousing chorus of "Dixie."

When he had finished, Shannon regained her place and sang "John Brown's Body."

"Shannon McCahy, you are a brat," Malachi told her.

"And you're a rodent," Shannon replied sweetly.

"Children, children!" Jamie protested with a sigh.

But Shannon said something, and though Kristin could see that Malachi was striving for patience, he replied sharply, and the battle was on once again.

Kristin rose and left them bickering. She went upstairs and was surprised to find that Cole was already in bed. She thought he was asleep, but when she crawled in beside him, trying not to disturb him, he turned over and took her in his arms. She tried to study his eyes in the darkness, but she could see only their silver glow. She tried to speak, but he silenced her with a kiss. Tenderly at first, and then with a growing passion, he made love to her. When it was over, he held her close, his bearded chin resting against the top of her head. He didn't speak, and neither did she. She knew he lay there awake for a long time, and she wished she could reach out to him, wished she knew what to say to him. She could not apologize, for she had done nothing wrong. She kept silent.

Eventually Kristin fell asleep.

Sometime later, something woke her. She didn't know what it was at first. She heard something, some hoarse, whispered words that she didn't understand. Struggling to free herself from the web of sleep, she opened her eyes, just as Cole's arm came flying out and slammed against her shoulder.

She sat up in bed, calling out his name. He didn't answer her, and she fumbled for a match to light the oil lamp on the bedside table. The glow filled the room and fell on Cole.

The bare flesh of his shoulders and chest was gleaming with sweat. The muscles there were tense and rigid and knotted. His fingers plucked at the sheet that lay over him.

His features contorted, his head tossing from side to side, he screamed, "No!" His entire body was stiff and hard.

"Cole!" Kristin pleaded, shaking him. "Cole —"

"No!" he screamed again.

She straddled him, took him by the shoulders and shook him hard, determined to wake him.

His eyes flew open, but he didn't see her. He called out again, and then he struck out at her, and the force sent her flying to the floor. He jerked upright as she fell. Stunned, Kristin sat on the hard floor, rubbing her bruised behind.

"Kristin?"

He whispered her name slowly, fearfully.

There was something in his voice that she had never heard before, a frightened tone, and it touched her deeply.

"I'm here," she whispered ruefully.

He looked over the side of the bed and swore. He leaped swiftly from the bed, and took her in his arms. She felt the pounding of his heart, felt the tremors that still racked him as he laid her down on the bed again.

"I hurt you. I'm so sorry."

His voice was deep, husky. She felt her own throat constrict, and she shook her head, burrowing more deeply against his naked chest. "No. You didn't hurt me. I'm all right, really."

He didn't say anything. He didn't even move. He just held her.

She wanted to stay there, where she was, forever. She had never felt so cherished before. Desired, admired, even needed. But never so cherished.

"You had a nightmare," she told him tentatively.

"Yes," he said.

"I wish you would tell me —"

"No."

It wasn't that he spoke so harshly, but that he spoke with absolute finality. Kristin stiffened, and she knew he felt it. He set her from him and rose. She watched as he walked over to the window, and as he stood there in the moonlight a dark web of pain seemed to encircle her heart. He walked with a pride that was uniquely his. He stood there for a long time, naked and sinewed and gleaming in the moonlight, and stared out at the night. Kristin watched as his muscles slowly, slowly eased, losing some of their awful rigor.

"Cole —" she whispered.

He turned back to her at last. He walked across the room, and she was glad when he lifted the covers and lay beside her again, drawing his arm around her and bringing her head to his chest. He stroked her hair.

"Cole, please —"

"Kristin, please. Don't."

She fell silent. His touch remained gentle.

"I have to leave tomorrow," he said at last.

"Where are you going?"

"East."

"Why?"

He hesitated for a long time. "Kristin, there are things that you probably don't want to hear, and there's no good reason for me to tell you."

"No questions, no involvement," she murmured. He didn't answer her, but she felt him tighten beneath her.

"It's late," he said at last. "You should —"

She rose up and touched his lips with her own, cutting off his words. She wondered if she should be angry, or at least cool and distant. Nothing had changed. He had married her, but he still didn't want any involvement.

That didn't matter to her. Not at that moment. She only knew that he was leaving, and that in these times any man's future was uncertain at best. She ceased the flow of his words with the soft play of her tongue and leaned the length of her body over his, undulating her hips against his groin and the hardened peaks of her breasts against his chest. She savored the sharp intake of his breath and the quick, heady pressure of his hands upon her back and her buttocks.

Now it was her turn to inflame him. She nuzzled her face against his beard, and she teased his throat and the hard contours of his shoulders and chest. She tempted him with her tongue and with her fingertips and with the entire length of her body. She moved against him, crying out again and again at the sweet feel of their flesh touching. She teased him with her teeth, moving lower and lower against him. He tore his fingers into her hair and hoarsely gasped out her name. She barely knew herself. She was at once serene and excited, and she was certain of her power. She took all of him without hesitation. She loved him until he dragged her back to him and kissed her feverishly on the lips, then drew her beneath him. There was a new tension etched into his features, and a new blaze in his eyes. Taut as wire, he hovered above her. Then he came to her, fierce and savage and yet uniquely tender.

She thought she died just a little when it was over. The world was radiant, painted with shocking strips of sunlight and starlight, and then it was black and she was drifting again.

He held her still. He didn't speak, but his fingers stroked her hair, and for the moment it was enough. His hand lay over her abdomen. Tentatively she placed her fingers over his. He laced them through his own, and they slept.

But in the morning when she awoke, he was gone.

Three days later, Kristin was pumping water into the trough when she looked up to see a lone rider on the horizon, coming toward the house. For a moment her heart fluttered and she wondered if it might be Cole returning. Then she realized it couldn't be him. It wasn't his horse, and the rider wasn't sitting the horse the way he did.

"Malachi!" she called. He and Jamie would be with her for another few days. She frowned and bit her lip as she watched the approaching rider. It wasn't Zeke, she knew. Zeke never rode alone. Besides, there was no reason for her to be afraid of Quantrill's boys. Cole had gone through with the wedding to protect her, and anyway, Quantrill was supposed to be moving south for the winter. There was no reason to be afraid.

She was afraid anyway.

"Malachi —" she began again.

"Kristin?" He appeared at the door to the barn, his thumbs hooked in his belt, his golden brows knit into a furrow. He hurried over to her and watched the rider come. His eyes narrowed.

"Anderson," he murmured.

"Who?"

"It's a boy named Bill Anderson. He's… he's one of Quantrill's. One of his young recruits."

"What does he want? He is alone, isn't he?" Kristin asked anxiously.

"Yes, he's alone," Malachi assured her.

Jamie appeared then, coming out of the barn, his sleeves rolled up, his jacket off. He looked at Malachi. "I thought Quantrill was already on his way south. That's Bill Anderson."

Malachi nodded. "He seems to be alone."

The rider came closer and closer. He was young, very young, with a broad smile. He had dark, curly hair and a dark mustache and beard, but he still had an absurdly innocent face. Kristin shivered, thinking that he was far too young to be going around committing murder.

He drew his horse up in front of them. He was well armed, Kristin saw, with Colts at his waist and a rifle on either side of his saddle.

"Howdy, Malachi, Jamie."

"Bill," Malachi said amiably enough. Jamie nodded an acknowledgment.

"Cole's headed east, huh?" Anderson asked. He smiled at Kristin, waiting for an introduction. "You his new wife, ma'am? It's a pleasure to meet you."

He stuck out his hand. Kristin thought about all the blood that was probably on that hand, but she took it anyway and forced herself to smile.

"I'm his new wife," Kristin said. She couldn't bring herself to say that it was a pleasure to meet him, too. She could barely stand there.

"Kristin Slater, this is Bill Anderson. Bill, what the hell are you doing here? There's a lot of Union soldiers around these parts, you know," Malachi said.

"Yep," Jamie agreed cheerfully. "Lots and lots of Federals in these parts. And you know what they've been saying about you boys? No mercy. If they get their hands on you they intend to hang you high and dry."

"Yeah. I've heard what the Union has to say. But you've been safe enough here, huh, Malachi? And you, too, Jamie."

"Hell, we're regular army," Jamie said.

Anderson shrugged. "They have to catch us before they can hang us. And I'm not staying. I just had… well, I had some business hereabouts. I've got to join Quantrill in Arkansas. I just thought maybe I could come by here for a nice home-cooked meal."

Malachi answered before Kristin could. "Sure, Bill. Jamie, why don't you go on in and ask Delilah to cook up something special. Tell her we've got one of Quantrill's boys here."

Jamie turned around and hurried to the house. Delilah was already standing in the doorway. As Kristin watched, Shannon's blond head appeared. There was a squeal of outrage, and then the door slammed. Jamie came hurrying back to them.

"Malachi, Delilah says she needs you. There's a bit of a problem to be dealt with."

Malachi lifted an eyebrow, then hurried to the house. Kristin stood there staring foolishly at Bill Anderson with a grin plastered to her face. She wanted to shriek, and rip his baby face to shreds. Didn't he understand? Didn't he know she didn't want him here?

Men using Quantrill's name had come here and murdered her father. Men just like this one. She wanted to spit in his face.

But he had evidently come for a reason, and Malachi seemed to think it was necessary that he be convinced that Kristin was Cole's wife and that this was Cole's place now.

Kristin heard an outraged scream from the house. She bit her lip. Shannon obviously realized that one of Quantrill's men was here, and she didn't intend to keep quiet. She certainly didn't intend to sit down to a meal with him.

Anderson looked toward the house, hiking a brow.

"My sister," Kristin said sweetly.

"Her baby sister," Jamie said. He smiled at Kristin, but there was a warning in his eyes. They had to make Bill Anderson think Shannon was just a little girl.

And they had to keep her away from him.

Apparently that was what Malachi was doing, because the screams became muffled, and then they were silenced.

Malachi — the marks of Shannon's fingernails on his cheek — reappeared on the front porch. "Come on in, Bill. We'll have a brandy, and then Delilah will have lunch all set."

Bill looked from Malachi to Kristin and grinned. "That came from your, uh… baby sister, Mrs. Slater?"

"She can be wild when she wants," Kristin said sweetly. She stared hard at Malachi. He touched his cheek and shrugged. Kristin walked by him. "Too bad they can't send her up to take on the Army of the Potomac. We'd win this war in a matter of hours. Old Abe Lincoln himself would think that secession was a fine thing just as long as Shannon McCahy went with the Confederacy."

"Malachi!" Kristin whispered harshly. "You're talking about my sister!"

"I ought to turn her over to Bill Anderson!" he muttered.

"Malachi!"

Anderson turned around, looking at them curiously. "Where is your sister?" he asked.

"The baby is tucked in for her nap," Malachi said with a grin. "We don't let her dine with adults when we have company in the house. She spits her peas out sometimes. You know how young 'uns are."

Kristin gazed at him, and he looked innocently back at her. She swept by him. "Mr. Anderson, can we get you a drink? A shot of whiskey?"

"Yes, ma'am, you can."

Kristin took him into her father's study and poured him a drink. As he looked around the room, admiring the furnishings, Malachi came in and whispered in her ear.

"Shannon's in the cellar."

"And she's just staying there?" Kristin asked, her eyes wide.

"Sure she's just staying there," Malachi said.

Soon they sat down to eat. Sizzling steaks from the ranch's own fresh beef, fried potatoes, fall squash and apple pie. Bill Anderson did have one big appetite. Kristin reminded herself dryly that he was a growing boy.

He was polite, every inch the Southern cavalier, all through the meal. Only when coffee was served with the pie did he sit back and give them an indication of why he had come.

"Saw your husband the other day, ma'am."

Kristin paused just a second in scooping him out a second slice of pie. "Did you?" she said sweetly.

"Sure, when he came to see Quantrill. He was mighty worried about you. It was a touching scene."

She set the pie down. "Was it?" She glanced at Malachi. His eyes were narrowed, and he was very still.

"He used to be one of us, you know."

"What?"

Despite herself, Kristin sat. She sank right into her chair. "What?" she repeated.

Jamie cleared his throat. Malachi still hadn't moved.

Bill Anderson wiped his face with his napkin and smiled pleasantly. "Cole is one of the finest marksmen I ever did see. Hell, he's a one-man army, he's so damned good. It was nice when he was riding with us."

Kristin didn't say anything. She knew all the blood had fled from her face.

Bill Anderson forked up a piece of pie. "Yep, Cole Slater was just the same as Zeke Moreau. Just the same."

Malachi was on his feet in a second, his knife at Anderson's throat. "My brother was never anything like Zeke Moreau!"

Jamie jumped up behind him. He was so tense that Jamie couldn't pull him away. Kristin rushed around and tugged at his arm. "Malachi!"

He backed away. Bill Anderson stood and straightened his jacket. He gazed at Malachi, murder in his eyes. "You'll die for that, Slater."

"Maybe I'll die, but not for that, Anderson!" Malachi said.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Kristin breathed, using her softest voice. "Please, aren't we forgetting ourselves here?"

It worked. Like most young men in the South, they had both been taught to be courteous to females, that a lack of manners was a horrible fault. They stepped away from each other, but their tempers were still hot.

"You came here just to do that, didn't you?" Malachi said quietly. "Just to upset my sister-in-law. I'm willing to bet Zeke Moreau asked you to do it."

"Maybe, and maybe not," Anderson said. He reached over to the sideboard for his hat.

"Maybe she's just got the right to know that Cole Slater was a bushwhacker. You want to deny that, Malachi?"

Kristin looked at Malachi. His face was white, but he said nothing.

Anderson slammed his hat on his head. He turned to Kristin. "Mighty obliged for the meal, ma'am. Mighty obliged. Cap'n Quantrill wants you to know that you should feel safe, and he's sorry about any harm that's been done to you or yours. If he had understood that your loyalties lay with the Confederacy, none of it would have come about."

It was a lie, a bald-faced lie, but Kristin didn't say anything. Anderson turned around, and she heard the door slam shut as he left the house.

Delilah came in from the kitchen. The old grandfather clock in the parlor struck the hour. They all stood there, just stood there, dead still, until they heard Bill Anderson mount his horse, until they heard the hoofbeats disappear across the Missouri dust.

Then Kristin spun around, gripping the back of a chair and staring hard at Malachi. "Is it true?"

"Kristin —" he began unhappily.

"Is it true?" she screeched. "Is Cole one of them?"

"No!" Jamie protested, stepping forward. "He isn't one of them, not now."

She whirled around again, looking at Jamie. "But he was! That's the truth, isn't it?"

"Yes, damn it, all right, he was. But there was a damned good reason for it."

"Jamie!" Malachi snapped.

"Oh, God!" Kristin breathed. She came around and fell into the chair. Malachi tried to take her hand. She wrenched it away and jumped to her feet. "Don't, please don't! Can't you understand? They are murderers! They dragged my father out and they killed him!"

"There are a lot of murderers in this war, Kristin," Malachi said. "Quantrill isn't the only one."

"It was Quantrill's men who killed my father," she said dully. "It was Quantrill's men who came after me."

Malachi didn't come near her again. He stood at the end of the table, his face pinched. "Kristin, Cole's business is Cole's business, and when he chooses, maybe he'll explain things to you. He's asked us to mind our own concerns. Maybe he knew you'd react just like this if you heard something. I don't know. But you remember this while you're busy hating him. He stumbled into this situation. He didn't come here to hurt you." He turned and walked to the door.

"He rode with Quantrill!" she whispered desperately.

"He's done the best he knows how for you," Malachi said quietly. He paused and looked back at her. "You might want to let your sister go when you get the chance. I tied her up downstairs so she wouldn't take a trip up here to meet

Bill Anderson. He might not have liked what she had to say very much… and he might have liked the way that she looked too much."

He went out. The clock suddenly seemed to be ticking very loudly. Kristin looked miserably at Jamie.

He tried to smile, but the attempt fell flat. "I guess I can't tell you too much of anything, Kristin. But I love my brother, and I think he's a fine man. There are things that maybe you can't understand just yet, and they are his business to discuss." He paused, watching her awkwardly. Then he shrugged and he, too, left her.

It wasn't a good day. She sat there for a long time. She even forgot about Shannon, and it was almost an hour before she went downstairs to release her. When she did, it was as if she had let loose a wounded tigress. Shannon cursed and ranted and raved and swore that someday, somehow, if the war didn't kill Malachi, she would see to it that he was laid out herself.

She would probably have gone out and torn Malachi to shreds right then and there, but fortunately he had ridden out to take a look at some fencing.

Shannon was even furious with Kristin. "How could you? How could you? You let that man into our house, into Pa's house! After everything that has been done —"

"I did it so that Quantrill would leave us alone from now on! Maybe you've forgotten Zeke. I haven't!"

"Wait until Matthew comes back!" Shannon cried. "He'll take care of the Quantrill murderers and Malachi and —"

"Shannon," Kristin said wearily, "I thought you were going to take care of Malachi yourself?" She was hurt, and she was tired, and she couldn't keep the anger from her voice. "If you want to kill one of the Slater brothers, why don't you go after the right one?"

"What do you mean?" Shannon demanded.

"Cole," Kristin said softly. She stared ruefully at her sister. "Cole Slater. The man I married. He rode with Quantrill, Shannon. He was one of them."

"Cole?" Shannon's beautiful eyes were fierce. "I don't believe you!"

"It's the truth. That's why Bill Anderson came here. He wanted me to know that I had married a man every bit as bad as Zeke Moreau."

"He's lying."

"He wasn't lying. Malachi admitted it."

"Then Malachi was lying."

"No, Shannon. You two have your differences, but Malachi wouldn't lie to me."

Shannon was silent for several seconds. Then she turned on Kristin. "They are Missourians, Kristin. They can't help being Confederates. We were Confederates, I guess, until… until they came for Pa. Until Matthew joined up with the Union. And if Cole did ride with Quantrill, well, I'm sure he had his reasons. Cole is nothing like Zeke. You know that, and I know that."

Kristin smiled. Shannon was right, and so was Malachi. Cole was nothing like Zeke, and she knew it. But she was still hurt, and she was still angry. She was angry because she was frightened.

And because she loved him.

"Maybe you're right, Shannon," she said softly.

"Cole would never do anything dishonorable! He wouldn't!" Shannon said savagely. "And —"

"And what?"

"He's your husband, Kristin. You have to remember that. You married him. He's your husband now."

"I'll give him a chance to explain," was all that Kristin said. She would give him a chance. But when? He was gone, and winter was coming, and she didn't know when she would see him again.

Two days later Pete and the hands returned from the cattle drive, and Jamie and Malachi prepared to ride back to the war. Kristin was sorry she had argued with Malachi, and she hugged him tightly, promising to pray for him. She kissed Jamie, and he assured her that since his unit was stationed not far away he would be back now and then to see how she and Shannon were doing.

Shannon kissed Jamie — and then Malachi, too. He held her for a moment, smiling ruefully.

Then the two of them rode away.

Kristin stood with Shannon at her side, and they watched until they could no longer see the horses. A cool breeze came up, lifting Kristin's hair from her shoulders and swirling around her skirts. Winter was on its way. She was very cold, she realized. She was very cold, and she was very much alone.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Winter was long, hard and bitterly cold. In December Shannon turned eighteen and in January Kristin quietly celebrated her nineteenth birthday. They awaited news from the front, but there was none. The winter was not only cold, it was also quiet, ominously quiet.

Late in February, a Union company came by and took Kristin's plow mules. The young captain leading the company compensated her in Yankee dollars which, she reflected, would help her little when she went out to buy seed for the spring planting. The captain did, however, bring her a letter from Matthew, a letter that had passed from soldier to soldier until it had come to her.

Matthew had apparently not received the letter she had written him. He made no mention of her marriage in his letter to her. Nor did he seem to know anything about Zeke Moreau's attack on the ranch after their father's murder.

It was a sad letter to read. Matthew first wrote that he prayed she and Shannon were well. Then he went into a long missive on the rigors of war — up at five in the morning, sleeping in tents, drilling endlessly, in the rain and even in the snow. Then there was an account of the first major battle in which he had been involved — the dread of waiting, the roar of the cannons, the blast of the guns, the screams of the dying. Nightfall was often the worst of all, when the pickets were close enough to call out to one another. He wrote:

We warn them, Kristin. "Reb! You're in the moonlight!" we call out, lest our sharpshooters take an unwary lad. We were camped on the river last month; fought by day, traded by night. We were low on tobacco, well supplied with coffee, and the Mississippi boys were heavy on tobacco, low on coffee, so we remedied that situation. By the end of it all we skirmished. I came face-to-face with Henry, with whom I had been trading. I could not pull the trigger of my rifle, nor lift my cavalry sword. Henry was shot from behind, and he toppled over my horse, and he looked up at me before he died and said please, would I get rid of his tobacco, his ma didn't know that he was smoking. But what if you fall? he asks me next, and I try to laugh, and I tell him that my ma is dead, and my pa is dead, and that my sisters are very understanding, so it is all right if I die with tobacco and cards and all. He tried to smile. He closed his eyes then, and he died, and my dear sisters, I tell you that I was shaken. Sometimes they egg me on both sides— what is a Missouri boy doing in blue? I can only tell them that they do not understand. The worst of it is this — war is pure horror, but it is better than being at home. It is better than Quantrill and Jim Lane and Doc Jennison. We kill people here, but we do not murder in cold blood. We do not rob, and we do not steal, nor engage in any raping or slaughter. Sometimes it is hard to remember that I was once a border rancher and that I did not want war at all, nor did I have sympathy for either side. Only Jake Armstrong from Kansas understands. If the jayhawkers robbed and stole and murdered against you, then you find yourself a Confederate. If the bushwhackers burnt down your place, then you ride for the Union, and the place of your birth doesn't mean a whit.

Well, sisters, I do not mean to depress you. Again, I pray that my letter finds you well. Kristin, again I urge you to take Shannon and leave if you should feel the slightest threat of danger again. They have murdered Pa, and that is what they wanted, but I still worry for you both, and I pray that I will get leave to come and see you soon. I assure you that I am well, as of this writing, which nears Christmas, 1862. I send you all my love. Your brother, Matthew.

He had also sent her his Union pay. Kristin fingered the money, then went out to the barn and dug up the strongbox where she kept the gold from the cattle sales and the Yankee dollars from the captain. She added the money from Matthew. She had been feeling dark and depressed and worried, but now, despite the contents of Matthew's letter, she felt her strength renewed. She had to keep fighting. One day Matthew would come home. One day the war would be over and her brother would return. Until then she would maintain his ranch.

By April she still hadn't been able to buy any mules, so she and Samson and Shannon went out to till the fields. It was hard, backbreaking labor, but she knew that food was growing scarcer and scarcer, and that it was imperative that they grow their own vegetables. Shannon and she took turns behind the plow while Samson used his great bulk to pull it forward. The herd was small, though there would be new calves soon enough. By morning Kristin planned the day with Pete, by day she worked near the house, and supper did not come until the last of the daylight was gone. Kristin went to bed each night so exhausted that she thought very little about the war.

She didn't let herself think about Cole, though sometimes he stole into her dreams uninvited. Sometimes, no matter how exhausted she was when she went to bed, she imagined that he was with her. She forgot then that he had been one of Quant rill's raiders. She remembered only that he was the man who had touched her, the man who had awakened her. She lay in the moonlight and remembered him, remembered his sleek-muscled form walking silent and naked to her by night, remembered the way the moonlight had played over them both…

Sometimes she would awaken and she would be shaking, and she would remind herself that he had ridden with Quantrill, just like Zeke Moreau. She might be married to him now, but she could never, never lie with him again as she had before. He was another of Quant rill's killers, just like Zeke. Riding, burning, pillaging, murdering — raping, perhaps. She didn't know. He had come to her like a savior, but Quant rill's men had never obeyed laws of morality or decency. She wanted him to come back to her because she could not imagine him dead. She wanted him to come back to her and deny it all.

But he could not deny it, because it was the truth. Malachi had said so. Malachi had known how the truth would hurt, but hadn't been able to lie. There was no way for Cole to come and deny it. There was just no way at all.

Spring wore on. In May, while she was out in the south field with Samson, Pete suddenly came riding in from the north pasture. He ignored the newly sown field, riding over it to stop in front of Kristin.

"He's back, Miz Slater, he's back. They say that Quantrill is back, and that Quantrill and company do reign here again!"

• • •

The house was still a long way off when Cole reined in his horse and looked across the plain at it. Things looked peaceful, mighty peaceful. Daisies were growing by the porch, and someone — Kristin? Shannon? — had hung little flowerpots from the handsome gingerbread on the front of the house.

It looked peaceful, mighty peaceful.

His heart hammered uncomfortably, and Cole realized that it had taken him a long time to come back. He didn't know quite why, but it had taken him longer than necessary. He hadn't been worried at all, at least not until he had heard that Quantrill was back. He didn't understand it. All through the winter, all through the early spring, he'd had dreams about her. He had wanted her. Wanted her with a longing that burned and ached and kept him staring at the ceiling or the night sky. Sometimes it had been as if he could reach out and touch her. And then everything had come back to him. The silky feel of her flesh and the velvety feel of her hair falling over his shoulders. The startling blue of her eyes, the sun gold of her hair, the fullness of her breasts in his hands…

Then, if he was sound asleep, he would remember the smell of smoke, and he would hear the sound of the shot, and he would see his wife, his first wife, his real wife… Running, running… And the smoke would be acrid on the air, and the hair that spilled over him would be a sable brown, and it would be blood that filled his hands.

It hurt to stay away. He needed her. He wanted her, wanted her with a raw, blinding, burning hunger. But the nightmares would never stay away. Never. Not while his wife's killer lived. Not while the war raged on.

He picked up the reins again and nudged his mount and started the slow trek toward the house. His breath had quickened. His blood had quickened. It coursed through him, raced through him, and it made him hot, and it made him nervous. Suddenly it seemed a long, long time since he had seen her last. It had been a long time. Almost half a year.

But she was his wife.

He swallowed harshly and wondered what his homecoming would be like. He remembered the night before he had left, and his groin went tight as wire and the excitement seemed to sweep like fire into his limbs, into his fingertips, into his heart and into his lungs.

They hadn't done so badly, he thought. Folks had surely done worse under the best of circumstances.

When the war ended…

Cole paused again, wondering if the war would ever end. Those in Kansas and Missouri had been living with the skirmishing since 1855, and hell, the first shots at Fort Sumter had only been fired in April of '61. Back then, Cole thought grimly, the rebels had thought they could whomp the Yankees in two weeks, and the Yankees had thought, before the first battle at Manassas, it would be easy to whip the Confederacy. But the North had been more determined than the South had ever imagined, and the South had been more resolute than the North had ever believed possible. And the war had dragged on and on. It had been more than two years now, and there was no end in sight.

So many battles. An Eastern front, a Western front. A Union navy, a Confederate navy, a battle of ironclads. New Orleans fallen, and now Vicksburg under siege. And men were still talking about the battle at Antietam Creek, where the bodies had piled high and the corn had been mown down by bullets and the stream had run red with blood.

He lifted his hands and looked at his threadbare gloves. He was wearing his full dress uniform, but his gold gloves were threadbare. His gray wool tunic and coat carried the gold epaulets of the cavalry, for though he was officially classified a scout he'd been assigned to the cavalry and was therefore no longer considered a spy. It was a fine distinction, Cole thought. And it was damned peculiar that as a scout he should spend so much of his time spying on both sides of the Missouri-Kansas border. He wondered bleakly what it was all worth. In January he'd appeared before the Confederate Cabinet, and he'd reported honestly, as honestly as he could, on the jayhawkers' activities. Jim Lane and Doc Jennison, who had led the jayhawkers — the red-legs as they were sometimes known because of their uniforms — were animals. Jim Lane might be a U.S. senator, but he was still a fanatic and a murderer, every bit as bad as Quantrill. But the Union had gotten control of most of the jayhawkers. Most of them had been conscripted into the Union Army and sent far away from the border. As the Seventh Kansas, a number of jayhawkers had still been able to carry out raids on the Missouri side of the border, plundering and burning town after town, but then Major General Henry Halleck had ordered the company so far into the center of Kansas that it had been virtually impossible for the boys to jayhawk.

As long as he lived, Cole would hate the jayhawkers. As long as he lived, he would seek revenge. But his hatred had cooled enough that he could see that there was a real war being fought, a war in which men in blue and men in gray fought with a certain decency, a certain humanity. There were powerful Union politicians and military men who knew their own jayhawkers for the savages they were, and there were men like Halleck who were learning to control them.

No one had control of Quantrill.

By that spring, General Robert E. Lee had been given command of the entire Confederate Army. When he had met with that tall, dignified, soft-spoken man, Cole had felt as if the place he had left behind could not be real. War was ugly, blood and death were ugly, and screaming soldiers maimed and dying on torn-up earth were ugly, too. But nothing was so ugly as the total disregard for humanity that reigned on the border between Kansas and Missouri. Lee had listened to Cole, and Jefferson Davis, the Confederate president, had listened long and carefully to him, too. Judah P. Benjamin, secretary of war, had taken his advice and when Quantrill had demanded a promotion and recognition, his request had been denied.

Cole wondered briefly if the violence would ever stop. He wondered if he would ever be able to cleanse his own heart of hatred.

Suddenly he forgot the war, forgot everything.

He could see the well to the left of the house, near the trough, and he could see Kristin standing there. She had just pulled up a pail of water.

Her hair was in braids, but a few golden strands had escaped from her hairpins and curled over her shoulders. She was dressed in simple gingham — no petticoats today — and she had opened the top buttons of her blouse. She dipped a handkerchief into the bucket and doused herself with the cool water, her face, her throat, her collarbone, then flesh bared by the open flaps of her blouse. Hot and dusty, she lifted the dipper from the pail and drank from it. Then she leaned back slightly and allowed the cool water to spill over her face and throat.

Cole's stomach tightened, and he felt his heartbeat in his throat, and he wondered what it was about the way she was standing, savoring the water, that was so provocative, so beguiling, so sensual. He nudged his horse again, eager to greet her.

He came in at a gallop. She spun around, startled. The water spilled over her blouse, and the wet fabric outlined her young breasts. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, first with panic, he thought, then with startled recognition. He drew up in front of her and dismounted in a leap. Her blouse was soaked, and her face was damp. Her lips were parted, and her face was streaked with dust. She was beautiful.

"Cole…" she murmured.

He pulled her hard against him. He found her lips, and he kissed her deeply, and she tasted even sweeter than he remembered. She was vibrant and feminine. He choked out something and touched her breast, feeling her nipple hard as a pebble beneath his palm. She melted against him. She gasped, and she trembled beneath his touch. Her lips parted more fully, and his tongue swept into the hot dampness of her mouth.

Then, suddenly, she twisted away from him with another choking sound. Startled, he released her. She shoved hard against his chest, backing away from him, wiping her mouth with her hands as if she had taken poison. Her eyes remained very wide and very blue. "Bastard!" she hissed at him. She looked him up and down.

"Stupid bastard! In a Confederate uniform, no less! Don't you know this whole area is crawling with Yankees?"

"I'll take my clothes right off," he offered dryly.

She shook her head stubbornly. She was still trembling, he saw. Her fingers worked into the fabric of her skirt, released it, then clenched the material again. Her breasts were still outlined by her wet blouse, the nipples clearly delineated. He took a step toward her. "For God's sake, Kristin, what the hell is the matter with you? You're my wife, remember —"

"Don't touch me!"

"Why the hell not?"

"You're a bushwhacker!" she spat out. "You're his — you belong to Quantrill, just like Zeke."

That stopped him dead in his tracks. He wondered how she had found out. A haze fell over his eyes, a cool haze of distance. It didn't really matter. He'd had his reasons. And though he wasn't with Quantrill anymore, if he'd found the right man when he had been with him, he would have been as savage as any of them.

"A friend of yours stopped by here right after you left in the fall," Kristin informed him. "Bill Anderson. You remember him? He remembered you!"

"Kristin, I'm not with Quantrill any longer."

"Oh, I can see that. You got yourself a real Reb uniform. It's a nice one, Cole. You wear it well.

But it doesn't cover what you really are! Who did you steal it from? Some poor dead boy?"

His hand slashed out and he almost struck her. He stopped himself just in time.

"The uniform is mine, Kristin," he said through clenched teeth. "Just as you're my wife."

He didn't touch her. Her face was white, and she was as stiff as a board. He started to walk past her, heading straight for the house. Then he spun around. She cringed, but he reached for her shoulders anyway.

"Kristin —" he began. But he was interrupted by a man's voice.

"You leave her alone, Johnny Reb!"

Cole spun around, reaching for his Colt. He was fast, but not fast enough.

"No!" he heard Kristin scream. "Matthew, no, you can't! Cole, no —" She threw herself against his hand, and he lost his chance to fire. She tore her eyes from his and looked over at the tall man in the Union blue coming toward them with a sharpshooter's rifle raised. Kristin screamed again and threw herself against Cole. He staggered and fell, and he was falling when the bullet hit him. It grazed the side of his head. He felt the impact, felt the spurt of blood. He felt a sheet of blackness descend over him, and wondered if he was dying. As he railed against himself in black silence for being so involved with Kristin that he never heard or saw the danger, Cole heard the next words spoken as the man

who had called to him, the man who had shot him, came forward.

"Oh, no! Oh, my God —"

"Kristin! What's the matter with you? I'm trying to save you from this jackal —"

"Matthew, this jackal is my husband!"

As he slowly regained consciousness, Cole realized he wasn't dead. He wasn't dead, but he'd probably lost a lot of blood, and it seemed as if he had been out for hours, for it was no longer daylight. Night had fallen. An oil lamp glowed softly at his side.

He was in the bedroom they had shared, the bedroom with the sleigh bed. Everything was blurred. He blinked, and the room began to come into focus. He could see the windows and a trickle of moonlight. He touched his head and discovered that it had been bandaged. He drew his fingers away. At least he couldn't feel any blood. Someone had stripped off his uniform and bathed the dust of the road from him and tucked him between cool, clean sheets.

Someone. His wife. No, not his wife. Kristin. Yes, his wife. He had married her. She was his wife now.

She had stopped him from killing the man.

But she had stopped the man from killing him, too.

A sudden pain streaked through him. He was going to have one terrible headache, he realized. But he was alive, and he was certain that the bullet wasn't embedded in his skull. It had just grazed him.

He heard footsteps on the stairs, and then on the floor outside his door. He closed his eyes quickly as someone came into the room. It was Delilah. She spoke in a whisper. "Dat boy is still out cold." She touched his throat, then his chest. "But he's living, all right. He's still living, and he don't seem to have no fever."

"Thank God!" came in a whisper. Kristin. Cole could smell the faint scent of her subtle perfume. He felt her fingers, cool and gentle, against his face. Then he heard the man's voice again. Matthew. She had called him Matthew. Of course. The brother. The one he had told her to write to just so that this wouldn't happen.

"A Reb, Kristin? After everything that happened —"

"Yes, damn you! After everything that happened!" Kristin whispered harshly. "Matthew, don't you dare preach to me! You left, you got to go off and join up with the army! Shannon and I didn't have that luxury. And Zeke came back —"

"Moreau came back?" Matthew roared.

"Shut up, will you, Matthew?" Kristin said wearily. She sounded so tired. So worn, so weary. Cole wanted to open his eyes, wanted to take her into his arms, wanted to soothe away all the terrible things that the war had done to her. He could not, and he knew it.

She probably didn't want him to, anyway. She would probably never forgive him for his time

with Quantrill. Well, he didn't owe anyone any apologies for it, and he'd be damned if he'd explain himself to her. And yet…

"Kristin," Matthew was saying huskily, "what happened?"

"Nothing happened, Matthew. Oh, it almost did. Zeke was going to rape me, and let every man with him rape me, and then he was probably going to shoot me. He was going to sell Samson and Delilah. But nothing happened because of this man. He's a better shot than Shannon or me. He's even a better shot than you. He happened by and it was all over for Zeke."

"Zeke is dead?"

"No. Zeke rode away." A curious note came into her voice. "You see, Matthew, he won't murder a man in cold blood. I wanted him to, but he wouldn't. And after that, well, it's a long story. But since he's married me, none of them will harm me, or this place. They're — they're afraid of him."

"Damn, Kristin —" He broke off. Cole heard a strangled sound, and then he knew that brother and sister were in one another's arms. Kristin was crying softly, and Matthew was comforting her. Cole gritted his teeth, for the sound of her weeping was more painful to him than his wound. I will never be able to touch her like that, he thought. He opened his eyes a fraction and took a good look at Matthew McCahy. He was a tall man with tawny hair and blue eyes like his sisters. He was lean, too, and probably very strong, Cole thought. He was probably a young man to be reckoned with.

He shifted and opened his eyes wider. Sister and brother broke apart. Kristin bent down by him and touched his forehead. Her hair was loose, and it teased the bare flesh of his chest. "Cole?"

He didn't speak. He nodded, and he saw that her brow was furrowed with worry, and he was glad of that. She hated him for his past, but at least she didn't want him dead.

"Cole, this is Matthew. My brother. I wrote him, but the letter never reached him. He didn't know that — he didn't know that we were married."

Cole nodded again and looked over at Matthew. He was still in full-dress uniform — navy-blue full-dress uniform. As his gaze swept over Matthew, Cole couldn't help noticing that Matthew McCahy's uniform was in far better shape than his own, and in much better condition than that of the majority of the uniforms worn by the men of the South. The blockade was tightening. The South was running short of everything — medicine, clothing, ammunition, food. Everything. He smiled bitterly. The South had brilliance. Lee was brilliant, Jackson was brilliant, Stuart was brilliant. But when a Southerner fell in battle, he could not be replaced. Men were the most precious commodity in war, and the Confederacy did not have nearly enough.

The Union, however, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of soldiers, volunteers and mercenaries.

Cole knew a sudden, bleak flash of insight. The South could not win the war.

"Reb — Sorry, your name is Cole, right? Cole Slater." Matthew came around and sat at the foot of the bed. He swallowed uncomfortably. "You saved my sisters' lives, and I'm grateful to you. I wouldn't have shot you if I'd known. It was the uniform. I'm with the North." He said it defensively. It was not easy for a Missourian to fight for the North.

"You had just cause," Cole said. His voice was raspy, his throat dry. His mouth tasted of blood.

Matthew nodded. "Yes. I had just cause." He hesitated. "Well, I'm home on leave, and I guess that you are, too."

"Something like that," Cole said. Kristin made a little sound of distress, but she quickly swallowed it down. Cole didn't glance her way. He smiled at Matthew and reached for her hand. She was playing the loving wife for her brother, he knew, and he wondered how far she would go. She let him take her hand, let him pull her down beside him.

"We'll have to manage while we're both here," Matthew said. He stretched out a hand to Cole, and Cole released Kristin's long enough to take it. "Does that sound fair to you, Reb?"

"It sounds fine to me, Yankee."

Matthew flushed suddenly. "Well, maybe I'd best leave the two of you alone." He rose quickly.

Kristin was on her feet instantly. "No! I'm coming with you!"

Matthew's brow furrowed suspiciously. "Kristin —"

"Sweetheart…" Cole murmured plaintively.

"Darling!" Kristin replied sweetly, syrup dripping from her tone, "I wouldn't dream of disturbing you now. You must rest!"

She gave him a peck on the forehead, and then she was gone, practically running out of the room.

Matthew smiled at Cole. "Too bad there's a war on, ain't it?"

"Yeah. It's too damn bad," Cole agreed.

"She's stubborn," Matthew said.

"Yeah. I've noticed."

"Just like a mule."

"Well, I guess I agree with you there, Yankee."

Matthew laughed, then left and closed the door behind him.

Three days later. Cole was feeling damned good, and damned frustrated. Kristin had managed to elude him ever since his return, sweetly pleading his weakened condition. She had spent her nights in her own room, leaving him to lie there alone. But as night fell on his third day back, Cole jerked awake from a doze to realize that Kristin had come into the room.

He heard her breathing in the darkness, each breath coming in a little pant. Her back was against the door, and she seemed to be listening. She thought he was sleeping, he realized.

Cole rose silently and moved toward her in the dark. He clamped a hand over her mouth and pulled her against the length of his naked body. She gave a muffled gasp and stiffened, then began to struggle to free herself.

"Shush!" he warned her.

She bit his hand, and he swore softly.

"Let me go!" she whispered.

"Not on your life, Mrs. Slater."

"Bushwhacker!"

His mouth tightened grimly. "You're still my wife, Kristin."

"Try to rape me and I'll scream. Matthew will kill you. You don't even have a gun up here!"

"If I touch you, Kristin, it wouldn't be rape," Cole assured her.

"Let go —"

He did not let go. He kissed her, plunging his tongue deep into her mouth, holding her so firmly that she could not deny him. He caught her wrists and held them fast behind her back, pressing his naked body still closer to hers. She wore a thin white cotton nightgown buttoned to the throat. It was so thin that he could feel all the sweet secrets her body had to offer.

He raised his lips from hers at last, and she gasped for breath. He pressed his lips to her breast and took the nipple into his mouth through the fabric, savoring it with his tongue.

"I'll scream!" she whispered.

"Scream, then," he told her. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, searching feverishly for the hem of the gown. He found it and pulled it up, and then they were together, bare flesh touching bare flesh. He seared the length of her with his lips, and she raged against him with husky words and whispers. But then she rose against him. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled his head down to hers and kissed him again. And then she told him he was a bastard, but she gasped when he caressed her thighs, and she buried her face against him when his touch grew intimate and demanding.

"Scream," he whispered to her. "Scream, if you feel you must…"

He thrust deep into her. She cried out, but his mouth muffled the cry, and then his tongue filled her mouth.

It had been so very long, and she had dreamed of him so many times.

He stroked and caressed her insides until she was in a frenzy. Then he drove into her with all the force he possessed, and she felt the familiar sweetness invade her once, and then again and again. Then, suddenly, he was gone from her. She was cold, and she was lost, but then he was kissing her again, her forehead, her cheeks, her breasts, her thighs… He turned her over gently, and his lips trailed a path of fire down her spine. Then she was on her back again, and his silver-gray eyes were upon her and she swallowed back a shriek of pleasure as he came to her again…

The night was swept away.

Later, as she lay awake in the ravaged bed, Kristin berated herself furiously for her lack of principles. She reminded herself again that he had been with Quantrill, and she fought back tears of fury.

She slept with her back to him, and he did not try to touch her again. In the morning, she avoided him. At dinner she was polite, though she wanted to scream. She was disturbed to see that her brother and Cole talked about the cattle and the ranch easily, like two old friends. Shannon had talked to Matthew, and Shannon thought Cole was a hero, no matter what.

He's a bushwhacker! she wanted to shriek to her brother, but of course she could not. Matthew would want to kill Cole, if he knew. And Kristin had never seen anyone as talented with a gun as Cole. No one. If Matthew tried to kill him, Matthew would be the one who died.

Later that evening, when it was time for bed, Matthew walked upstairs with them, and Kristin had no choice but to follow Cole into her parents' bedroom. When the door closed behind them, Kristin stared at it. Cole was behind her, so close that she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck.

"I hate you," she told him.

He was silent for a long time. She longed to turn around, but she did not.

"I don't think you do, Kristin," he said at last. "But have it however you want it."

He stripped off his clothes and let them lay where they fell, and he crawled into bed. She stayed where she was for a long time. She heard him move to blow out the lamp, and still she stood by the door. Then, finally, she stripped down to her chemise and climbed gingerly into the bed. She knew he was still awake, but he did not try to touch her. She lay awake for hours, and then she drifted off to sleep. While she slept, she rolled against him, and cast her leg over his. Their arms became entwined, and her hair fell over him like a soft blanket.

They awoke that way. Her chemise was up to her waist, her shoulders were bare, and her breast was peeking out. She gazed over at Cole and saw that he was awake and that he was watching her. Then she felt him, felt him like a pulsing rod against her flesh. He moved toward her, very, very slowly, giving her every chance to escape. She couldn't move. Her flesh was alive, her every nerve awake to shimmering sensation, and when he came inside her she shuddered at the pleasure of it, of having him with her, of touching him again, of savoring the subtle movement of his muscles, of feeling the hardness of him as he moved inside her.

And yet, when it was over, she could still find nothing to say to him. She rose quickly and dressed, aware all the while of his brooding eyes upon her.

"Where have you been?" she demanded at last.

"In Richmond."

"Not with —"

"You know I wasn't with Quantrill. You saw my uniform."

Kristin shrugged. "Some of them wear Confederate uniforms."

"I wasn't with Quantrill."

Kristin hesitated, struggling with her buttons. Cole rose and came up behind her, and she swallowed down a protest as he took over the task. "How long are you staying?"

"I've got another week."

"The same as Matthew," she murmured.

"The same as Matthew."

"And where are you going now?"

"Malachi's unit."

She hesitated. Liar! she longed to shout. Tears stung her eyes. She didn't know if he was lying or not.

He swung her around to face him. "I'm a special attache to General Lee, Kristin. Officially, I'm cavalry. A major, but the only man I have to answer to is the grand old man himself. I do my best to tell him what's going on back here."

Kristin lifted her chin. "And what do you tell him?"

"The truth."

"The truth?"

"The truth as I see it, Kristin."

They stared at one another for a moment, enemies again. Hostility glistened in her eyes and narrowed his sharply.

"I'm sorry, Cole," Kristin said at last. "I can't forgive you."

"Damn you, Kristin, when did I ever ask you to forgive me?" he replied. He turned around. He had dismissed her, she realized. Biting her lip, she fled the room.

She avoided him all that day. She was tense at dinner as she listened to the conversation that flowed around her. Matthew, puzzled by her silence, asked if she was unwell, and she told him she was just tired. She went up to bed early.

She went to bed naked, and she lay awake, and she waited.

When Cole came to bed, she rolled into his arms, and he thought she made love more sweetly than ever before, more sweetly and with a greater desperation.

It went on that way, day after day, night after night, until the time came for Matthew to ride away again.

And for Cole to ride away again.

And then they were standing in front of the house, ready to mount up, one man she loved dressed in blue, one man she loved dressed in gray. Both handsome, both young, both carrying her heart with them, though she could not admit that to the man in gray.

Kristin was silent. Shannon cried and hugged them both again and again.

Kristin kissed and hugged her brother, and then, because there was an audience, she had to kiss Cole.

Then, suddenly, the audience didn't matter. May was over. They had heard that Vicksburg had fallen, and Kristin thought of all the men who would die in the days to come, and she didn't want to let either of them go.

She didn't want to let Cole go. She couldn't explain anything to him, couldn't tell him that she didn't hate him, that she loved him, but she didn't want to let him go.

She hugged him fiercely, and she kissed him passionately, until they were both breathless and they both had to step away. His eyes searched hers, and then he mounted up.

Shannon and Kristin stood together and watched as the two men clasped hands.

Then one rode west, the other east. Cole to Kansas, Matthew deeper into Missouri.

Shannon let out a long, gasping sob.

"They're gone again!" Kristin said, and pulled her sister closer to her. "Come on. We'll weed out the garden. It's hot, and it'll be a miserable task, and we won't think about the men at all."

"We'll think about them," Shannon said. She was close to tears again, Kristin thought. Shannon, who was always so fierce, so feisty. And Kristin knew that if Shannon cried again, she would sob all day, too.

"Let's get to work."

They had barely set to work when they heard the sounds of hooves again. Kristin spun around hopefully, thinking that either her brother or her husband had returned.

Shannon called out a warning.

It was Zeke, Kristin thought instantly.

But it was not. It was a company of Union soldiers. At its head was a captain. His uniform was just like Matthew's. They stopped in front of the house, but they did not dismount.

"Kristin Slater!" the captain called out.

He was about Matthew's age, too, Kristin thought.

"Yes?" she said, stepping forward.

He swallowed uncomfortably. "You're under arrest."

"What?" she said, astonished.

His Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. You and your sister are under arrest, by order of General Halleck. I'm right sorry, but we're rounding up all the womenfolk giving aid and succor to Quantrill and his boys."

"Aid and succor!" Kristin shrieked.

She might have been all right if she hadn't begun to laugh. But she did begin to laugh, and before she knew it, she was hysterical.

"Take her, boys."

"Now, you just wait!" Delilah cried from the porch.

The captain shook his head. "Take Mrs. Slater, and the young one, too."

One of the soldiers got down from his horse and tugged at Kristin's arm. She tore it fiercely from his grasp.

The young man ruefully addressed his captain. "Sir…"

"My brother is in the Union Army!" Kristin raged. "My father was killed by bushwhackers, and now you're arresting me… for helping Quantrill? No!"

The soldier reached for her again, and she hit him in the stomach. Shannon started to scream, and Delilah came running down the steps with her rolling pin.

"God help us, if the Rebs ain't enough, Halleck has to pit us against the womenfolk!" the young captain complained. He dismounted and walked over to Kristin. "Hold her, men."

Two of them caught her arms. She stared at him.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said sincerely.

Then he struck her hard across the chin, and she fell meekly into his arms.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"Y'all have just the blondest hair! And I do mean the blondest!" Josephine Anderson said as she pulled Shannon's locks into a set of high curls on top of her head. She was a pretty young woman herself, with plump cheeks and a flashing smile and a tendency to blush easily. She never smiled when their Yankee captors were around, though. Josephine was a hard-core Confederate. She and her sister Mary had been brought in a week after Kristin and Shannon, and they all shared a corner of a big room on the second floor of a building in Kansas City. Josephine and Mary were both very sweet, and Kristin liked them well enough, despite their fanaticism. They had both wanted her and Shannon to meet their brother Billy — who turned out to be none other than Bill Anderson, the Bill Anderson who had stopped by the house to make sure that Kristin knew about Cole's position with Quantrill's raiders.

That was all right. At the very beginning, Kristin had sweetly told the girls that she did know their Billy. She also told them what had happened to her father — and that she wished that she were anything other than what she was: a citizen of a country whose people tore one another to shreds.

Josephine and Mary had turned away from her in amazement, but then the next day they had been friendly. They respected her right to have a passionate stand — even if it was a strange one.

And when Cole's name was mentioned, Mary acted just the way Shannon did. "Ooh! You're really married to him?" she gushed.

It seemed that Cole had been to dinner once at their house with Bill when he had first started out with Quantrill. But they didn't know very much about him, only that there was some deep secret in his past.

"He can be real quiet like, you know!" Mary said.

"But, oh, those eyes!" Josephine rolled her own.

"It's such a pity he left Quantrill!" Mary told her fiercely. "Why, he'd have cleaned out half of Kansas by now; I just know it."

Kristin assured them that Cole was still with the Confederate Army — in the cavalry, like his brothers. Then Shannon went on to tell them about their brother Matthew and how he had gone off to join up with the Union Army after their father's death.

Mary and Josephine thought that was a terrible tragedy, but they understood that, too. "I'm surprised he didn't become a jayhawker, because that's how it goes, you know! They say that old John Brown was attacked way back in '55, that one of his sons was killed. So he killed some Missourians, and some Missourians went up and killed some more Kansans. But you two — why, I feel right sorry for you! Missourians, with a brother in blue and your husband in gray. It's a shame, a damned shame, that's all."

It was a good thing they were able to come to an understanding. All summer long, General Ewing, the local Union commander, had women picked up so that their men couldn't come to them for food or supplies. There were a great many of them living at very close quarters. The authorities holding them weren't cruel, and the women weren't hurt in any way. A number of the young officers were remarkably patient, in fact, for the women could be extraordinarily abusive when they spoke to their captors. But though the men behaved decently toward their prisoners, the living conditions were horrid. The building itself was in terrible shape, with weak and rotting timbers, the food was barely adequate, and the bedding was full of insects.

Kristin wanted desperately to go home. At first she had been angry. She had fought and argued endlessly with various commanders, and they had all apologized and looked uncomfortable and shuffled their feet, but none of them had been willing to let her go. And finally she had become resigned.

She grew more and more wretched. She had often been sick in the first weeks of her captivity and she had thought it must be the food. She was still queasy much of the time, but, though she hadn't told anyone, she knew why now. She was pregnant. Sometime in February of the following year she was going to have Cole's baby. She had been stunned at first, but then she had taunted herself endlessly. Why should she be surprised, after all? Children were the result of a man being with a woman.

She wasn't sure how she felt. Sometimes she lay there and railed against a God that could let her have a baby in a world where its blood relations were destined to be its mortal enemies, in a world where murder and bloodshed were the order of the day.

Then there were nights when she touched her still-flat belly and dreamed, and wondered what the baby would look like. And then, even if she was furious with Cole, even if she had convinced herself that he was as evil as Zeke, she knew she loved him. And she did want his child. A little boy with his shimmering silver eyes. Or a girl. Or maybe the child would be light, with her hair and eyes. Whoever the child took after, it was destined to be beautiful, she was certain. Cole's baby. She longed to hold it in her arms. She dreamed about seeing him again, about telling him.

And then there were times when she sank into depression. Cole probably wouldn't be the least bit pleased. He probably intended to divorce her as soon as the war was over, she thought bitterly. She was imprisoned for being the wife of a man who intended to divorce her.

Then not even that mattered. She wanted the baby. She wanted the baby to hold and to love, and she wanted it to be born to peace. The war could not go on forever. She didn't care who won. She just wanted it to be over. She wanted her baby to be able to run laughing through the cornfields, to look up at the sun and feel its warmth. She wanted peace for her child.

And most of all, she wanted it to be born at home. She did not want to bear her baby here, in this awful, crowded place of degradation.

Kristin looked up from the letter she was writing to her brother asking if there was anything he could do to get the authorities to free Shannon and herself. The three other women in the room looked as if they were preparing for a ball.

Josephine stepped back. "Oh, Shannon, that just looks lovely, really lovely."

"Why, thank you, ma'am," Shannon said sweetly. Then she sighed. "I wish I could see it better."

Mary dug under her pillow and found her little hand mirror. "Here, Shannon."

Suddenly the room fell silent. One of the young Federal officers, a Captain Ellsworth, had come in. The women looked at him suspiciously.

His dark brown eyes fell on Kristin. "Mrs. Slater, would you come with me, please?"

She quickly set aside her paper and pen and rose, nervously folding her fingers in front of her and winding them tightly together.

A middle-aged woman called out to the captain, "Don't walk too hard on this here floor, sonny! Those Yankee boots will make you come right through it!"

He nodded sadly to the woman. "Sorry, Mrs. Todd. The place is awful, I know. I'm working on it."

"Don't work on it!" Mary Anderson called out gaily. "You tell them to let us go home. You tell them that my brother will come after them, and that he'll kill them all."

"Yes, miss," Captain Ellsworth said, staring straight at her. "That's the problem, Miss Anderson. Your brother already does come to murder us all." He bowed to her politely. Then he took Kristin's elbow and led her out of the room. He preceded her down the groaning staircase to the doorway of the office below. Kristin looked at him nervously.

"It's all right, Mrs. Slater. Major Emery is in there. He wants to talk to you."

He opened the door for her, and Kristin walked in. She had never seen Major Emery before. He was a tall, heavyset man, with thick, wavy, iron-gray hair and great drooping mustache to match. His eyebrows were wild and of the same gray, and beneath them his eyes were a soft flower blue. He seemed a kind man, Kristin thought instantly, a gentleman.

"Mrs. Slater, sit, please." Kristin silently did so. The major dismissed Captain Ellsworth, then smiled at Kristin. "Can I get you some tea, Mrs. Slater?"

"No, thank you." She sat very straight, reminding herself that, no matter how kindly he looked, he was still her captor. He smiled again and leaned back in his chair.

"Mrs. Slater, I'm trying very hard to get an order to have you and your sister released."

A gasp of surprise escaped Kristin. Major Emery's smile deepened, and he leaned forward again. "It will take a few days, I'm afraid."

Kristin and Shannon had been here almost three months. A few more days meant nothing.

"Because of my brother?" Kristin said. "Did Matthew find out that we were here? I didn't want to tell him at first because I didn't want him going into battle worrying, but I was just writing to him —"

"No, no, Mrs. Slater. I haven't heard anything from your brother at all."

"Oh, I see," Kristin murmured bitterly. "You've finally decided that a woman who had her father killed by some of Quant rill's men is not likely to give aid and comfort to the enemy, is that it?"

Major Emery shook his head. "No. Because of your husband," he said quietly.

"What?" Kristin demanded suspiciously. "Major, I'm in here because I'm married to Cole Slater. No one seems to believe me when I say that he isn't with Quantrill anymore."

Major Emery stood and looked out the window. Then he turned back to Kristin. "Do you believe it yourself, young lady?"

"What?" She was certain she was blushing, certain her face had turned a flaming red.

"Do you believe in him yourself, Mrs. Slater?"

"Why… of course!" she said, though she was not at all sure she did.

Emery took his seat again and smiled. "I'm not sure, Mrs. Slater, I'm not sure. But that doesn't really matter. You see, I do have faith in your husband. Complete faith."

Kristin stared at him blankly. She lifted a hand in the air. "Do go on, major. Please, do go on."

"I'm willing to bet I know your husband better than you do, Mrs. Slater. In certain ways, at least."

She tightened her jaw against his mischievous grin. He was a nice man, she decided, a gentle, fatherly type, but he seemed to be having a good time at her expense at the moment.

"Major…"

His smile faded. He looked a little sad. "He was a military man, you know. He went to West Point. He was in the same class as Jeb Stuart. Did you know that?"

Yes, he had said something to Shannon about it. To Shannon. Not to her.

"I know that he was in the military, yes."

Major Emery nodded. "Cole Slater was one of the most promising young cavalrymen I ever knew. He fought in Mexico, and he was with me in the West. He's good with the Indians —

fighting them and, more importantly, talking with them, making truces. Keeping truces. Then the war came."

"And he resigned," Kristin murmured.

"No, not right away. He didn't resign until they burned down his house and killed his wife."

"Killed? His wife?" She didn't realize that she had gotten to her feet until Major Emery came around the desk and gently pushed her back into her chair. Then he leaned against the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, smiling down at her kindly. "I reckoned you might not know everything. Cole is a closemouthed man. Tight-lipped, yes sirree. He was an officer in the Union Army when South Carolina seceded from the Union. That didn't matter none to the jayhawkers. He was a Missourian. And Jim Lane had sent out an order that anybody who was disloyal to the Union was to be killed. The boys got pretty carried away. They rode to his place and they set it on fire. Cole was out riding the range. I imagine he was giving his position some pretty grave thought. Anyway, Jim Lane's jayhawkers rode in and set fire to his place. His wife was a pretty thing, real pretty. Sweet, gentle girl from New Orleans. She came running out, and the boys grabbed hold of her. Seems she learned something about gunfire from Cole, though. She shot up a few of them when they tried to get their hands on her. Cole came riding in, and by then she was running to him. Only some fool had already put a bullet in her back, and when Cole reached her, she was dying. She was expecting their first child right then, too. She was about five months along, so they tell me. Of course, after killing his pregnant wife, none of the men was willing to let him live, either. Someone shot Cole, too, and left him for dead. But he's a tough customer. He lived."

"And he joined up with Quantrill," Kristin whispered. She swallowed. She could almost see the fire, could almost smell the smoke, could almost hear the screams. She suddenly felt ill. As if she were going to throw up.

"Oh, my God!" she whispered, jumping to her feet. Major Emery, too, was on his feet in an instant, yelling for a pail and some water.

To her horror, she was sick. Major Emery was a perfect gentleman, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth and then insisting that she have tea with lots of milk to settle her stomach. When it was over and they were alone again, he said to her, "You are expecting a child, Mrs. Slater?"

She nodded bleakly.

"Well, my point exactly. I just don't think you should be here anymore. And I don't think Cole is still with Quantrill, because it just isn't his style. Ma'am, I want you to know that I find our jayhawkers every bit as loathsome as the bushwhackers. They're all murderers, pure and simple. Cole isn't a murderer. I think he went with Quantrill to try to get the man who led the attack on his ranch, and only for that reason. Only he wasn't easy to find, because he retired along with Lane. Hell, Lane is a U.S. senator! But the man who attacked Cole's place is back in the center of Kansas, and like Lane, he owns a lot of things, and a lot of people. Cole knew he couldn't get to him, not with Quantrill. And he knew that what Quantrill was up to was murder. He's regular army now, all right."

Kristin swallowed some of her tea and nodded painfully. She hurt all over, inside and out. She had despised Cole, despite everything that he had done for her, just because Bill Anderson had told her that Cole had ridden with Quantrill. She desperately wanted to see him again. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to make him forget, if only for a moment, what had been done to him.

It made men hard, this war did. It had made her hard, she knew, and it had made him harder. She realized anew that he did not love her, and now, she thought, he never would. He had loved his first wife.

"Mrs. Slater?"

Kristin looked at the major. "Yes… yes, I think that he's in the regular army. That's — that's what he said."

The major frowned suddenly, his hands flat on his desk. He looked up at the ceiling.

Then Kristin felt it. There was a trembling in the floor beneath her, in the very air around her.

"Hellfire and damnation!" Major Emery shouted. He leaped to his feet, hopped over his desk and pulled her out of her chair. He dragged her over to the door and kicked it open, then

huddled with her beneath the frame, shielding her with his bulk.

Suddenly floorboards and nails were flying everywhere and great clouds of dust filled the room. Dirt flew into Kristin's mouth and into her eyes, and she heard screams, terrible screams, agonized screams.

The whole building was caving in. The awful place had been faulty structurally and decaying and now it was actually caving in.

"Shannon!" Kristin screamed. "Shannon!" She tried to pull away from the major, but she couldn't. He was holding her too tightly. The rumbling continued, and inside was chaos. Boards were falling and breaking and clattering on the floor. A woman's body fell right next to Kristin, who was able to pull away from the major at last to kneel down by the girl.

It was Josephine Anderson, and Kristin knew instantly that she was dead. Her eyes were wide open, glazed as only death could glaze them. "Jo!" she cried out, falling to her knees. She touched the still-warm body and closed the pathetic, staring eyes. Then she looked up from the body to the gaping hole above her. "Shannon!" she screamed. She twisted around to look at what had been the hallway and the stairs. Only the banister was left. Everywhere, the floor had crumbled. Tears and screams filled the air. "Shannon!"

"Mrs. Slater! You must remember your child!" the major urged her, grabbing her arm.

"Please!" She shook herself free and stumbled through the wreckage that littered the floor. She found Mary, her body grotesquely twisted beneath a pile of boards. "Mary!" After clawing away the debris, Kristin knelt and felt for the other woman's pulse. Mary was alive. She opened her eyes. "Jo?"

"It's Kristin, Mary. Everything… everything is going to be all right." She squeezed the girl's hand and turned around, searching for someone, anyone. "Get help here!" Kristin shouted, suddenly choking back tears. Where was Shannon? The girls had all been together.

Several young medics rushed in. Kristin moved away as they knelt over Mary. There were clanging bells sounding from outside, and the sound of horses' hooves was loud as a fire hose was brought around.

"Mrs. Slater!"

The major was still trying to get her out.

"Shannon!"

An arm was protruding from a pile of lumber. Kristin began to tear away the planks. This was the worst of it. The woman beneath was dead. Kristin inhaled on a sob and turned away.

"Kristin!"

She looked up. Shannon, deathly pale, was clinging to a board that looked as if it were just about to give way.

"Shannon! Hold on! Just hold on a little longer —"

There was a cracking sound. The board began to break. Shannon's toes dangled ten feet over Kristin's head. "Hold on!"

"No, Miss McCahy, let go now! I'm here. I'll catch you!"

It was Captain Ellsworth. He stepped in front of Kristin and reached out his arms to Shannon-Shannon still clung to the board. "Come down, now! Please, before it breaks!"

Kristin saw the problem. If the board broke, Shannon could fall on a splinter in one of the beams that had been exposed, and she would be skewered alive.

"Shannon! Where the hell is your courage? Jump!" Kristin called out. She watched as Shannon's eyes fell on the splintered beams below her. But then Shannon looked down at her and she grinned. "What the hell! We can't all live forever, now, can we? Thumbs up, Kristin. Say a prayer."

Shannon released her hold on the board. She fell, her skirts billowing out around her, and suddenly, Captain Ellsworth was falling, too. He had caught her and the impact had brought him down with her.

"Get them both out of here!" Major Emery shouted. He picked Kristin up bodily and carried her outside. Captain Ellsworth swept Shannon up and followed. When they were finally out in the street, Kristin and Shannon hugged each other, sobbing.

"Jo —"

"Jo is dead," Kristin said softly. Then they

stared at one another as they realized how lucky they were to be alive. And they just hugged one another again and sobbed, and listened to the chaos as more women were carried from the building, some alive, some injured… and some dead.

A week later, Kristin and Shannon were in the home of Captain Ellsworth's sister, Betty.

Four women besides Josephine Anderson had been killed. Rumor had it that Bill Anderson had gone berserk, foaming at the mouth, when he had heard that one of his sisters had been killed and the other had been seriously injured. Many Confederates were saying that General Ewing had purposely ordered that the women be incarcerated in the ramshackle building so that just such a tragedy might occur. There would be repercussions. To make matters worse, General Ewing had issued his General Order Number Ten, ordering all wives and children of known bushwhackers to move out of the state of Missouri.

That night, Major Emery rode out to the small house on the outskirts of the city with Captain Ellsworth beside him. It was quite apparent that an attachment was forming between Shannon and the captain, and Kristin didn't mind at all. After all, the young captain had come valiantly to her rescue. Kristin liked him herself. He was quiet and well-read and unfailingly polite. And Shannon was eighteen, a young woman who already knew her own mind.

But though both the captain and the major were charming in Betty's parlor, Kristin knew that something was very wrong. The major called her onto the porch.

He looked at the moon, twirling his hat in his hand. "Quantrill attacked Lawrence, Kansas, yesterday."

"Oh, God!" Kristin murmured.

"It was a massacre," Major Emery said grimly. "Almost the entire town was razed to the ground. At least one hundred men were killed… one twelve-year-old boy was shot down for being dressed up in an old Union uniform. And Quantrill only lost one of his boys. A former Baptist preacher named Larkin Skaggs. He was too drunk to ride away with Quantrill. An Indian found him and shot him dead, and then the survivors ripped him to shreds." Major Emery was silent for a moment. "What is it coming to? None of us, not one of us, it seems, is any better than a bloody savage."

Kristin wanted to say something to comfort him. A lot of good men were experiencing the same despair, she knew. But she could think of nothing to say.

He turned around and tipped his hat to her. "You're free, young lady. I'm going to see to it that an escort takes you and your sister home."

"But how —"

A grin tugged at his lower lip. "Someone got through to your brother, and he raised all kinds of hell with the higher-ups. And then…"

"And then?"

He shrugged. His eyes twinkled. "Well, you see, Kristin, I know Cole. And a lot of other cavalry boys know Cole, so we know damned well that he isn't any outlaw. But people who don't know him, well, they're still convinced that he's a bad 'un. At the moment, that's all right, because there's a rumor out that he's heard about you and Shannon being held up here and that he's steaming. After everything that's happened, well… we can't have troops everywhere. Some folks are afraid he might ride in here and destroy the town just to get to you. I decided not to dispute that with any of them. I thought you deserved the right to go home if that was what you wanted."

Kristin stared at him a long time. Then she kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you."

"You see Cole, you tell him I sent my regards. You tell him I miss him. I never did meet another man who could ride or shoot like him."

She nodded. "Thank you. Thank you so much. For everything."

"Be there for him. He probably needs you."

Kristin smiled ruefully. "He doesn't love me, you know. You see, he only married me because he felt he had to. To protect me."

"Love comes in a lot of ways, young lady. You give him a little time. Maybe this war will end one day."

He tipped his hat to her again, and then he was gone.

• • •

In retaliation for the attack on Lawrence, General Ewing issued General Order Number Eleven, which forced almost everyone in Missouri to leave. People were given fifteen days to leave their property. The exodus was a terrible thing to watch, one of the worst things Kristin had seen in all the years since the fighting had begun. Poor farmers were forced to leave behind what little they possessed, and others were shot down where they stood because they refused to leave. Because the McCahy ranch belonged to Matthew, a soldier serving in the Union Army, Major Emery was able to keep his promise and send Kristin and Shannon home, however.

The young lieutenant who escorted them was appalled by what he saw of the evacuation. Once he even told her that it was one of the cruelest measures he had ever seen taken. "This war will never end," he said glumly. "We will not let it end, it seems. The people who do not fight are ordered to leave, and the bushwhackers will come through here when they're gone, stealing whatever they leave behind!"

It was true, Kristin discovered. Even when they were home, when it seemed that they had returned to something like a normal life, Peter often came to her at night to tell her that he had seen another house burning somewhere, or that he had found cattle slaughtered, a sure sign that guerrillas had been in the area, living off the land.

In the middle of September they had a letter from Matthew. He was trying to get leave to come and see them, but so far he hadn't been able to manage it. He explained:

But the Rebels are in worse shape than we are. I think that perhaps by Christmas I will be able to come home. There was a battle fought in a little town in Pennsylvania called Gettysburg. Kristin, they say it was the most awful yet, but General Lee was stopped, and he was forced to retreat back to the South. Since then, there has been new hope that the war may end. Some of these fellows say that they will force the South to her knees. They do not know Southerners. I cannot imagine your husband on his knees, nor do I ever quite forget that I am a Missourian myself. But I pray for it to end. I watched another friend die yesterday of the dysentery, and it seems that we do not even have to catch bullets to drop off like flies. John Maple, who was injured in our last skirmish, had to have his leg amputated. Kristin, if I am caught at all by shot, I hope that the ball passes straight to my heart, for those operations are fearful things to witness. There was no morphine, but we did have some whiskey, and still, John screamed so horribly. Now we must all pray that the rot does not set in, else he will die anyway.

Kristin, forgive me, I wander again into subjects that do not fit a lady's ears, but you are my sister. I am still so grateful that you and Shannon are home. Every man who heard of the incident in Kansas City was appalled, and none was proud. That you might have been killed there chilled me to the bone, and I waited very anxiously for the news that you were safe.

As I said before, the Rebs are hurting badly. They have good generals, and good men, but those that die cannot be replaced. I am telling you this, aware that you must be worried for your husband. If you do not see him, you must not instantly fear the worst. They have probably refused to give him leave. They are desperate now to hold on to Virginia, and perhaps they are keeping him in the East.

Kristin set her brother's letter down and stared out the window. She wondered if Cole would come if she thought hard enough about him. Then she wondered, not for the first time, if he had been at the battle of Gettysburg. They talked of it constantly in Kansas City. It seemed that the death toll had been terrible there, but she had read the lists endlessly, looking for his name, and she had not found it. She had thought, too, that he might have been with John Hunt Morgan, along with Malachi, but she had read that Morgan had been captured in July, though what had become of his men was unknown. She had checked the lists of the dead again and again. Once her heart had nearly ceased to beat when she had read that a Slater had been killed, but it had been Samuel Slater from South Carolina, no relation, she hoped, to Cole.

Looking out the window would not bring Cole back to her. Wishing for him to appear would not help, either.

Every night she left a light burning in the window, hoping he would return. Even if he were to try, it would be hard for him to do so, she knew. The Union was getting a firm grip on the area. There were almost always patrols somewhere in the vicinity.

Every night she stood on the steps before going up to bed, and she lifted her chin, and she felt the breeze, and she waited. But it was all to no avail.

All to no avail…

Until one night in late September.

There had been no breeze all day, but there was the slightest whisper of one now. The night had been still, but now a tumbleweed lifted from the ground. Fall was coming, and in the pale glow of the moon the world was dark brown and pale gold and rich orange.

She thought she had imagined the sound at first. The sound of hoofbeats. But she had learned how to listen, and she closed her eyes, and she felt the wood beneath her feet shiver.

She stumbled out onto the porch and down onto the bare earth. She felt the hoofbeats more clearly. A rider was approaching, a single rider.

She needed to run into the house. She needed to grab one of the Colt six-shooters, or her rifle. The breeze was cool, and she was standing there barefoot on the cold ground, dressed only in a white cotton nightgown. The wind swept the gown around her and molded it to her breasts and hips and thighs. The breeze picked up the tendrils of her hair and sent them cascading behind her.

Then she saw the horse, and saw the rider, and she was exhilarated and incredulous and jubilant.

"Cole!"

"Kristin!" He reined in his horse, cast his leg over the animal's haunches and slid quickly to the ground. He frowned at the sight of her there, but she ran to him, laughing, and threw herself into his arms.

They closed around her.

Cole felt her, felt her soft and fresh and fragrant and clean, the way he had dreamed her, the way he had imagined her, the way he had feared he would never feel her again. The road home was always long and hard and dangerous. He had been riding for days, trying to avoid the Union patrols that were all over the place.