Rides a Hero

Heather Graham

Rides A Hero

(Slater Bros #2)

PROLOGUE

May 30th, 1865

Kentucky

The Road Home

"It's him, I tell you. It's Captain Slater! Captain Malachi Slater!" The young man seated on the wagon that blocked the road could hardly control his excitement. "We done got him, Bill," he cried.

Startled, Malachi pulled back on the reins of the bay mare that had taken him through numerous battles, and stared ahead. Two young Union sentries were guarding the road that eventually led to his own home. The sight of the sentries here in Kentucky didn't surprise him. The war was over. The Yankees had won. Yanks were everywhere now, and that was the way it was.

At least he no longer had to be wary. His fighting days were over. He was going home. His unit had surrendered, and he had put his own signature on the paper, swearing an oath of allegiance to the Yankee flag. He should have been bitter, but right now he was just tired. He had seen the death toll, and he was just damned glad that it was all over.

So he didn't need to fear hostility from the sentries. And hell, seeing them, he couldn't feel much fear. The Yanks, it seemed, had been dipping into the bottom of the barrel as the war ended, almost as much as the Confederates had. These boys were teenagers, green-gilled, and he was certain that neither of them had ever shaved.

Except there was something…something about the way they said his name.

"Captain Slater, you just hold on there," the first boy said nervously.

They shouldn't have known his name. His rank, of course, was apparent from the worn gold braid on the shoulders of his gray wool cavalry greatcoat. But his name…

"You're under arrest," the second boy—the one called Billy—began, and then his mouth started to work hard as if he couldn't seem to remember the right words to say.

"Under arrest?" Malachi roared out in his best voice of command. "What in hell for? The war is over, boys. Haven't they told you yet?"

"You're a murderin' outlaw, Captain Slater!" the first boy said. Malachi frowned and the boy quickly added, "Sir!"

"Outlaw, murderer? I know that you don't give the Rebels much credit, but our cavalry fought as soldiers, same as yours."

"Captain, the poster that's out on you has nothing to do with the cavalry!" Billy said. "And that's a fact. You're wanted for murder in Kansas—"

"I've never been in Kansas!"

"It says right on the poster that you and your brothers are part of the Slater gang, and that you rode into Kansas and murdered private citizens. Yes. sir, you are under arrest!"

Kansas?

Hell.

He'd not been in Kansas for years. But his brother Cole had been in Kansas, and he bad waged a single-handed battle against the cutthroat who had murdered his first wife.

Malachi hadn't been anywhere near Kansas during that time, but that was only part of what was taking him aback. Cole was no murderer either. Someone must be out for them. The Slater gang indeed! That must mean that someone wanted his younger brother, Jamie, dead, too.

The Union boys were trying to ready thier breech-loading rifles. They were both so nervous they couldn't seem to rip open their powder bags, not even with their teeth.

Malachi's cavalry saber was at his side and he had a Colt stuffed into the holster beneath his greatcoat He had enough time to fill them both full of holes. "Listen to me, fellows. I am not going to let you put me under arrest," he said.

The boys looked green. They glanced his way, but they kept trying to get to their powder. When they did get to it, they spilled most of it trying to get it into the well of the gun. They glanced at him again with terror, but they still moved to their pouches for balls, and tried to ram them down according to proper military procedure.

"Confound it," Malachi said irritably. "Do your mothers know where you are?"

The boys looked up again. "Hank, you got him?"

"Hell, no, Billy, I ain't ready. I thought you were ready."

Malachi sighed deeply. "Boys, for the love of God, I don't want your deaths on my conscience—"

"There's a big, big bounty out on you, Captain Slater! A Mr. Hayden Fitz in Kansas is fierce and furious. Says if 'n somebody don't shoot you and your brothers, he's going to see you all come to justice and hang by the neck until dead."

"Oh, hell!" Malachi swore savagely. "Damn it!" He dismounted, sweeping his hat from his head and slamming it against his thigh as he paced back and forth before the two. "It's over! The war is over! I fought off the Kansas jayhawkers before the war, and then I fought all those damn years in the war, and I am tired! I am so damned sick and tired of killing people. I can barely stand it! The bounty isn't worth it, boys! Don't you understand? I don't want to kill you."

They didn't understand. He stopped and looked at them, and they might be still green, but they'd gotten their muskets loaded. Billy started to aim his.

Malachi didn't wait any longer. With a savage oath escaping him, he charged the boy, pulling out his saber.

But he was sick and tired of killing. As he leaped atop the wagon where the boys sat, he could have skewered them through, both of them. But he didn't. For some damned reason, he wanted them to grow old enough to have the wisdom not to pull such a stunt again.

He sliced his saber against the boy's musket and sent it flying.

"Run, Bill, run!" Hank suggested wisely.

But Hank was holding tight to his own rifle. Malachi swore at him and leaped from the wagon and hurried for the bay mare. He leaped on the horse and just barely nudged her. Like a true warrior, she soared forward like the wind, straight for the wagon.

She carried him up and up and they were sailing. But just as they were over the top of the wagon, a burst of pain exploded in his thigh.

Hank had apparently managed to shoot his rifle. Amazingly enough, he had struck his target.

Malachi didn't dare stop. He kept the bay racing, veering into the woods. She was a good old horse, a fine companion, and she had been with him through many a battle. When pain and exhaustion claimed him and he slunk low against her, she kept going, as if she, too, knew the road home, the long, long road home.

Finally the bay stopped before a stream. For a long moment, Malachi clung to her, then he fell and rolled until he could reach the water. He drank deeply before falling back. His leg was burning; his whole body was burning. Surely it wasn't such a deep wound. He needed to keep moving. He had to get to Cole as quickly as possible.

But it wasn't going to be that night. Despite the strength of his will, his eyes closed.

It seemed to him that a fog swirled up from the stream. Pain no longer tormented him, nor hunger, nor exhaustion. The stream was inviting. He stood and shed his worn uniform. Balancing his way out on the rocks, he dived in. The water was cool and beautiful, the day warm with a radiant sun, and birds were singing. There was no smell of burned powder near him, no screams of the dead or dying; he was far, far from the anguish of the war.

He swam through the coolness, and when he surfaced, he saw her.

An angel.

She was standing on the shore, surrounded by the mist, her hair streaming gold and red, sweeping down and around her back. She was a goddess, Aphrodite emerging from the sparkling beauty of the stream. She was naked and lithe and beautiful, with sultry sky-blue eyes and ink-dark lashes, ivory cheeks, and lush, rose-colored lips.

She beckoned to him.

And he came.

Looking at her, he knew that he must have her. Naked, he tried to hurry, thrashing through the water. He had to touch her. To feel the fullness of her breast beneath his hands, caress her with his whisper and his kiss. But even in the strange seduction of the dream, he knew she was familiar. She was his Circe, calling him with magical promises of unimaginable pleasure, but he also knew her.

Nearer, he drew nearer to her, nearer and nearer…

He started to cough. His eyes flew open.

The only Circe that awaited him was the faithful bay mare, snorting now upon his soaking cheek. Malachi staggered to his feet and looked from his sodden clothing to the stream. He had fallen in, he realized, and nearly drowned.

He had been saved by a dream. The dream of a lush and beautiful woman with golden hair that streamed down her back, and eyes to match a summer's day.

He touched his cheek. At least the stream had cut his fever. He could ride again.

He should find attention for his leg, he thought. But he couldn't spare the time. He had to reach Missouri. He had to warn Cole.

"Come on, Helena," he told the mare, securing the reins and leaping upon her back. "We need to head on west. Home. Only we haven't got a home anymore. Can you believe that? All these damned years, and we still aren't at peace yet. And I get shot by a kid who still has to have his mother tell him to scrub behind the ears. And I dream about beautiful blond temptresses." He shook his head, and Helena whinnied, as if she doubted the sanity of her rider.

Maybe he wasn't sane anymore.

He grinned as he kept riding through the night. It had been a funny dream. Curious how his Circe had seemed so familiar. His sister-in-law, Kristin, was a beautiful blond, but it hadn't been Kristin…

Malachi was so startled that he drew in sharply on his reins and the bay spun around.

"Sorry, old girl, sorry!" Malachi told the horse. Then he went thoughtfully silent, and finally laughed out loud.

It hadn't been his sister-in-law in the dream, but it had been Shannon, Kristin's little sister. Kristin's obnoxious little sister! Willful, spoiled, determined, proud…obnoxious! He'd itched to take a switch to her from the moment they had first met.

But it had been Shannon in the dream. Shannon's eyes had beckoned him, sultry and sweet. Shannon's hair had streamed in a burst of sun and fire around the slender beauty of her form. Shannon's lips had formed to issue whispers of passion.

And he had thought when the dream ended that he had lost his temptress! he told himself dryly.

Well, he had not. He was riding toward the spitfire now, and he could almost guarantee that their meeting would not be sweet, nor would she beckon to him, or welcome him.

If he knew Shannon, she wouldn't be waiting with open arms.

She'd be waiting with a loaded Colt.

"Doesn't matter much, Helena," he told his horse. "Damn it!" he swore out loud to the heavens. "When will this war be over for me?"

There was no answer. He kept riding through the night.

CHAPTER ONE

June 3rd, 1865

The Border Country, Missouri

The McCahy Ranch

Someone was out there.

Someone who shouldn't have been out there.

Shannon McCahy knew it; she could feel it in her bones.

Even though the sunset was so deceptively peaceful!

It was peaceful, beautiful, quiet. Radiant colors soared across the sky, and sweetly kissed the earth. There was a silence and a stillness all around. A soft breeze just barely stirred, damp and sweet against the skin. The war was over, or so they said.

The night whispered tenderly of peace.

Peace…

She longed for peace. Just ten minutes ago she had come outside to watch the night, to try to feel the peace. Standing on the wide veranda, leaning idly against a pillar, Shannon had looked out over the landscape and had reflected on the beauty of the night.

The barn and stables stood silhouetted against the pink-streaked sky. A mare and her foal grazed idly in the paddock. The hills rolled away in the distance and it seemed that all the earth was alive with the verdance and richness of the spring.

Even Shannon had seemed a part of the ethereal beauty of the night. Elegant and lovely, her thick hair twisted into a knot at her nape, little tendrils escaping in wisps about her face. Tall and slim, and yet with curved and feminine proportions, she wore a luxurious velvet evening gown with a delicate ivory lace collar that fell over the artfully low-cut bodice.

She was dressed for dinner, though it seemed so very peculiar that they still dressed every evening. As if their pa was still with them, as if the world remained the same. They dressed for dinner, and they sipped wine with their meat— when they had wine, and when they had meat—and when their meal was over, they retired to the music parlor, and Kristin played and Shannon would sing. They clung so fiercely to the little pleasures of life!

There hadn't been much pleasure in years. Shannon McCahy had grown up in the shadow of war. Long before the shots fired at Fort Sumter signaled the start of the Civil War in April 1861, Missouri and Kansas had begun their battling. Jayhawkers had swooped in from Kansas to harass and murder slave owners and Southern sympathizers, and in retaliation, the South had thrown back the bushwhackers, undisciplined troops who had plundered and killed in Kansas. Shannon McCahy had been only a child when John Brown had first come to Missouri, but she remembered him clearly. He had been a religious man, but also a fanatic, ready to murder for his religion. She had still been a child when he had been hanged for his infamous raid on the arsenal at Harper's Ferry.

So she really couldn't remember a time of real peace.

But at least the thunder now no longer tore at the earth. Rifles and pistols no longer flared, nor did swords clash in fury. The passion of the fight was over. It had died in glorious agony and anguish, and now every mother, sister, lover and wife across the nation waited…

But Shannon McCahy hadn't come outside to await a lover, for she had the questionable luxury of knowing that her fiance lay dead. She even knew where he was buried.

She had watched the earth fall, clump by clump, upon his coffin, and each soft thud had taken a bit more of her heart.

The war had robbed her blind. Her father had been brutally murdered in front of her by bushwhackers, a splinter group of Quantrill's infamous Raiders. And in the summer of 1862 Zeke Moreau and his bushwhackers had returned to the McCahy ranch to take her sister, Kristin. But that had also been the day that Cole Slater had walked into their lives, his guns blazing. He had saved them from being murdered and eventually married Kristin. After that his name kept them safe from the bushwhackers, but the war had still gone on. And ironically, she and Kristin had then been arrested by the Yankees for giving aid and succor to Cole, just because once upon a time Cole had briefly ridden with Quantrill.

But Shannon had fallen in love with the Yankee officer who had pulled her from the wreckage of their prison when the faulty old building had literally fallen to pieces. For a brief time, she had believed in happiness.

Until Robert Ellsworth had been slain by the bushwhackers.

In the end, Zeke Moreau and his bushwhackers had come back to the ranch one last time. Cole had ridden in with his brothers and their Confederate cavalry company, and Shannon's brother, Matthew, had brought his Union compatriots. For one sweet moment, there had been no North, and no South, just a fierce and valiant stand against injustice.

But the war was over now.

No…never. Never in her heart, she thought. Then she stiffened, suddenly alert and wary.

There was a movement out by the stables. She blinked and stared again, and felt a quickening in her stomach, a streak of cold along her spine.

Now she was sure.

Someone was out there.

Someone who shouldn't have been out there.

Someone furtive, stealthy, sneaking around the stables.

"Cole? Kristin?" she whispered. She cleared her throat and called their names again a little louder.

Where were her brother-in-law and sister? They should have been in the house, but no one was answering her. She bit into her lower lip, wondering what she should do. There was a pair of Colt six-shooters over the cabinet just inside the hallway; Cole had set them up the very night they heard the war was over.

After that last fight, Malachi and Jamie Slater had ridden back to the war, not knowing that it was already over. Matthew McCahy had known it was over before he left, for he had stayed until his injury had healed, but then he had left also, to return to his Union Army unit. The war might be over, but he knew that peace was yet to be assured. The aftermath of the war would follow them.

And Cole Slater knew that he would eventually have to flee Missouri. He had ridden with Quantrill, although only briefly, and certain Yanks with power might consider him ripe for hanging. But Cole intended to wait for Matthew to return home before leaving the ranch. It wouldn't be safe to leave Kristin and Shannon alone. He had friends who would warn him if danger threatened.

Meanwhile, Cole had hung the Colts and had given Shannon some stern advice. "Most of the men coming home will be good ones," he had told her, hammering nails into the wall. "Yep, lots of good men, both blue and gray. Those who have fought with heart and soul for their ideals. And all that those men want to do now is come home. They want to pick up their plows again, open their shops again, start up their businesses once more. They want to hold their wives, and kiss their children, and lick their wounds and try to find a future. They'll come through here. They'll want water, and they'll want meals. And we'll help them when we can, both Union and Confederate."

"So what are the guns for?" Shannon asked, not even wanting to think of helping Confederates, men like the bushwhackers who had killed Robert.

"Because there are men whom the war has maimed, Shannon. Not in body but in mind. Dangerous men. Deserters and vultures. And I can assure you that as many of that type fought for the Union as for the Confederacy. Mind your step, Shannon. You know how to use these guns. Use them well. If anyone threatens you at all, be ready to defend yourself."

"Yes. I will. I can shoot."

"The bad guys, Shannon. Not just some poor farmer in a gray uniform."

"Cole, I have fed and cared for the Rebels passing this way."

"Yes, you have. But not with a great deal of pleasure."

"You make me sound cruel and unreasonable—"

She saw a strange light of pity in his eyes as he answered. "I don't think that, Shannon. The war has done things to all of us."

But he shook his head as he walked away, and she could tell that he really did think she was heartless. He knew that she could never forgive what had happened, even now that the South had been broken. She would never, never forget Robert Ellsworth, his gentle love, his simple honor. Nor could she ever forget his death. She had seen him buried. He had never been laid out in a proper wake, for there had not been enough of him left for the undertaker to prepare. The brutality had made her hard, and very cold.

Cole was wrong, though, if he thought she could no longer feel. She could still feel way too much, it seemed at times. But it was so much easier to be cold, and it was easier to hate. Cole was wrong if he thought she would kill just any Rebel soldier, but she could very easily gun down the men who had so callously gone out and brutally slaughtered Robert and his men. She thought she could have faced it if Robert had died in battle, but what the bushwhackers had done to him had been worse than murder.

Cole was disappearing around the corner, and she longed to call out to him. She did love him, even if he was a Rebel. He had saved Kristin and Shannon from certain rape and probable death, and he was as dear to her as her blood brother, Matthew. But she didn't call out. It wasn't something she could explain.

Cole's first wife had been killed by Kansas jayhawkers, yet now he seemed to have come to terms with life. Maybe Kristin had taught him forgiveness. But Shannon didn't know how to forgive, and it wasn't something she thought she could learn. She just knew that she still lived with the anguish of the past, and she could not put it behind her.

For Cole's sake, though, she would bite her lip and hand out water to the Rebs heading home. This was Missouri; most of the state was Confederate. She might have been a Rebel herself, since the ranch stood on the border between Kansas and Missouri, and the McCahys actually had leaned toward the South at first. But then Pa had been murdered. Matthew had joined up with the Union Army, and everything that followed after that had conspired to make Shannon an avowed Yankee, through and through.

But that didn't matter now.

Over the past days they had been handing out water and meals to boys in blue and to boys in gray. She reminded herself that Matthew was still out there somewhere. Maybe some Reb girl was giving him a cup of water or a piece of bread.

Shannon had handed out water and hot soup without a word. She had bandaged up Rebs, just as she had done on the day when the two cavalry units—Matthew's Federals and the Slaters' Confederates—had joined forces and beaten Zeke Moreau's marauders. For Matthew's sake, she cared for the weary soldiers who passed the house. Somewhere out there, he would be wandering the countryside. And Cole's brothers, too. Perhaps some young woman was being kind to them.

Shannon hoped that someone would deal gently with Jamie.

But if Malachi passed by some strange farmhouse, well, then, she hoped they gave him salt water!

Both Cole's brothers were Rebels. Jamie she could tolerate.

Malachi, she could not.

From the time they had first met, he had treated her like a bothersome child. She didn't know quite what it was that lurked between them, she only knew that it was heated and total and combustible. Every time they met, sparks flew and fury exploded.

She tried. She tried very hard not to let him creep beneath her skin. She was a lady. She had great pride, and tremendous dignity. But Malachi had the ability to strip her quickly of both. She would be pleased with her composure and the calmness of her temper, but then he would say just one word and she would lose all poise and restraint and long to douse him with a pail of water. And when she lost her temper at his needling, he would taunt her all over again, pleased that he had proven her to be a child, and a brat at that

Not so much now, she assured herself. And it was true. She had grown colder since Robert Ellsworth had died. No one could draw much of a reaction from her anymore.

She thought Jamie might return soon. But Malachi wouldn't.

Malachi had probably thought to join up with General Edmund Kirby-Smith and fight to the bitter finish. But even Kirby-Smith had surrendered now. Maybe Malachi would head for Mexico, or for Central or South America. Good riddance to him. It was difficult to forget the last time they had met. It had been on the day when all hell had broken loose, when Moreau's band had been broken. Even then, in the midst of chaos, Malachi had managed to annoy her. In the thick of it all, he had ordered her around and they had very nearly come to blows. Well, she had slapped him, but Kristin and Cole had been there, and Malachi had been forced to calm his temper. Shannon hoped the Federals had picked him up and placed him in a prison camp. It would be good for him to-cool his heels for a while. He was going to have to accept the truth.

The Confederacy was bested and broken, and the Glorious Cause was lost.

It was over.

But not yet ended. Some drifter was crawling around in the stables.

Shannon didn't stop to think a moment longer. She stepped back through the doorway to the entry hall and plucked one of the Colts from its crossed position. She reached into the top drawer of the secretary beneath it for the shells and quickly loaded the gun.

"Kristin! Cole! Samson, Delilah, someone!" she called out.

But the house was silent. Where were they all? She didn't know. She was on her own.

Shannon slipped back onto the porch.

The colors of the night were growing darker, deeper and richer. The sky seemed to have turned a deep purple; the land itself seemed to be blue. The outline of the stables stood black against the horizon, and the two loft windows looked like dusky, evil orbs, staring at her menacingly.

Her heart was beating hard, she realized. The coldness remained near her spine.

She should not be afraid. She had been under attack in one form or another several times now. She should have learned courage.

She was still frightened.

But not frightened enough that she would sit like a wounded lamb and wait to be assaulted, she assured herself. No, she would turn the tables. No honest man skulked and loitered in stables. No sincere fellow, Reb or Yank, hid, waiting for the coming of darkness.

She raced from the porch to the paddock, then paused, breathing fast. She listened intently, and heard nothing, but still, she knew. Someone was there. She could feel it in the air now. She could sense the danger.

She leaned against the paddock fence. She was good with a Colt. Damned, deadly good. Cole claimed that she could hit the eye of a fly from a distance of a hundred feet, and that wasn't far from the truth. As long as she held the weapon, she would be safe.

Don't ever tarry, Cole had warned her once. Make your decisions quickly. And if you decided to shoot, shoot to kill.

It shouldn't be too hard, she thought. She had lived through so many years of hell; she had grown up under the fire. In the world she knew, it was kill or be killed, hurt or tortured. She could manage any situation. She always had.

Shannon drew in a deep breath and pushed away from the paddock fence. Where was Cole? He had been born with a sixth sense. He should have known that there was trouble by now, yet he wasn't here. She couldn't depend on Cole. She had to depend on herself.

Shannon raced for the door to the stables. It stood as dark as the windows in the coming night, gaping open like a dark pit.

And she could feel the evil lurking and waiting inside.

She gritted her teeth and carefully flattened herself against the paneling by the stable door, then swiftly, flush against it, she stole inside.

The darkness was complete. For several long moments she stood where she was, her heart thundering, her ringers like steel around the Colt, her breath coming too fast and seeming to rasp more loudly than a twister. He would hear her, she thought. He would hear her, and find her.

She forced herself to be calm; she was not as loud as she thought. But she had to adapt to the darkness, or she would accomplish nothing.

One horse whinnied and a second one snorted. She tried to envision the place with light. The stalls were large and well constructed; there were fifteen of them across from her, but only nine of the horses would be in their stalls, for the men were still out on the range after the cattle. The tack room was to her immediate right, and to her left was a pile of fresh hay and the grain bags. There was more hay up in the loft above her head.

She caught her breath suddenly, barely daring to breathe.

That's where he was—in the loft.

She wasn't in a very good position if the intruder lurked right over her head.

She cocked her Colt and sank low to the floor, then began inching toward the bales of hay. They could provide her with some cover, and make her position a mystery in this stygian darkness, too.

But even as she moved, she heard the soft, careful shuffling above her. A board creaked, and then the building was still again.

Shannon waited.

There was no further movement. Time seemed to tick on endlessly.

All of a sudden she realized what she had to do. Move the ladder.

She ran for it with an impetuous burst of speed, determined to capture the intruder atop the loft.

"Hold!" a voice commanded.

She ignored it and continued racing for the ladder, then wrenched it away from the opening. It rattled to the ground, leaving no means of escape from the loft above.

A shot rang out. It whizzed high over her head and was imbedded into the wall far behind her. Was it a warning shot? Or did the man in the loft have extremely bad aim?

She shot back, aiming for the voice. She heard a low rasp of swearing, and knew then where her target was.

If you shoot, she had been warned, shoot to kill.

She had seen blood and death in wanton numbers…

And still she hesitated. The man was trapped in the loft. What could he do?

Even as she asked the question of herself in silence, the answer came to her, and in a most unexpected manner.

He leaped from the loft like a phantom in the night and landed softly in the hay.

Shannon screamed, whirling around and lifting her Colt, aiming toward the bales of hay. She could not see him. He had landed hard, but he had rolled in a flash, and now he hid behind the many bales.

She took aim and fired at the first bale. The shot exploded, loud and crystal clear, in the night.

Why had nobody come from the house? Surely they had heard the shots. But perhaps the noise was muffled by the barn walls and the hay.

And neither could she seem to hear anything from the house or from beyond the stables. She was pitched into a desperate world where she was on her own.

No noise had come from the intruder. No thud, no cry, no gasp of fear or anger or dismay. There was nothing at all.

Had she killed the man?

Shannon stepped forward, moving as silently as she could upon the earthen floor. She moved slowly, pausing with each step. She must have killed him. She heard nothing, nothing at all.

She took another step toward the hay, peering around the side of the tied bale. There was nothing there. She thought she heard something from the stalls. She swung around and realized that it was only the horses moving restlessly.

Then she sensed a movement in the corner. But that was impossible. No one could have gotten by her, not even in the darkness…

It was a mouse in the corner. A mouse, and nothing more. She had shot and probably killed the intruder, and he lay there, somewhere in the hay.

Shannon moistened her lips and tried to still the fear that swept along her spine. She still sensed danger. He wasn't dead. He was hiding, lurking in the darkness. She wanted to shriek and scream and turn and flee in terror. She didn't dare. She had to find him before he found her.

She turned once again and hurried to the next stack of hay, piled higher than the first. She looked to the rear and each side of it…and then a rustle came from just above her head.

She inhaled and jerked back, looking up, trying to aim her Colt. It was too late.

He leaped upon her.

They fell to the ground together. Shannon's Colt went flying through the darkness. He fell hard upon her and she was assailed with the scent of leather and fine pipe tobacco. His hard-muscled arms held her and a wire taut body covered her. A scream bubbled and rose within her.

His hand clapped hard over her mouth.

"Stop," he hissed.

She interrupted him with a savage kick.

He swore in the night, but his hold went slack.

She shoved against him with all her might, and found her escape. She leaped to her feet and dashed toward the door, inhaling for a loud, desperate scream.

"No!" The voice thundered behind her. He caught her by an elbow, wrenching her around. Her scream died in her throat as they crashed to the ground again. This time, he held her with force. He thrust his frock coat back and straddled her prone and dazed form. Shannon lashed out madly with her fists, thudding them furiously against his chest.

"Stop it, Shannon!"

His use of her name did not register in the raw panic that had seized her. She had not come this far to be raped and murdered in her own stables. She gasped for breath to scream again and raked out with her nails, seeking his eyes.

"Stop it!" He caught her wrists and pulled them high above her head. She started to scream, and he secured her with one hand, clamping the other hard over her mouth. She bit him. He swore in a white rage, but did nothing more than grip her jaw so hard between his thumb and forefinger that she could scream no more for the pain that it caused her.

"For the love of God, will you stop it, brat!"

She froze. She wondered how it was that she had not recognized his voice until he used that particular term.

Malachi!

Malachi Slater had come home.

CHAPTER TWO

She stopped struggling and looked up at him. The moon must have come out, for some light was now filtering into the stable. He leaned very close against her, and she began to make out his features.

They were handsome features. She would grant Malachi that much. He was a striking man. His forehead was high and broad, his eyes were large, cobalt blue, sometimes nearly as black as the darkness that now surrounded them. His mouth was full and well defined, his jaw square beneath the gold and red sweep of his mustache and beard, and his nose and cheekbones chiseled in strong, masculine lines. He was a tall man, made lean by the war, and made hard by it, too.

With his face so close to hers, she realized that his beard was not so neatly clipped as it had always been before. There were shadows beneath his eyes. The rough wool of his Confederate uniform was tattered and torn in many places, and the gold braid, the insignia of his rank in the cavalry, was nearly worn away.

She should have known him much sooner. They had tangled often enough. She knew the strength of his arms and the deep tenor of his voice, and the bullheaded determination of his anger. She should have known him.

But he was different tonight. He was still Malachi, but more fierce than ever. Tonight, he seemed brutal. Tension lived and breathed and seethed all around him.

"You gonna be quiet now, brat?" he asked her harshly.

Shannon gritted her teeth. She could not begin to answer him. The gall of the bastard! He had known that it was her. He must have known that it was her from the moment she had entered the stables, and he had knocked her down and dragged her around—twice!—and had no apology for it.

She squirmed hard against him, fighting his hold. His hand pressed more tightly upon her, his breath warmed her cheeks, and she felt a new wave of his ruthless determination.

"Well?" he repeated. His teeth flashed white in the darkness as he smiled with a bitter amusement. "Shannon, are you going to be quiet now?"

He lifted his hand from her mouth. Her lips felt bruised and swollen from his casual disregard.

"Quiet!" she said, and her tone was soft at first, deceptively soft. She knew she should use some restraint. At the best of times, he had little patience with her.

Well, she had no patience with him. Her temper ignited like a fuse. "Quiet?" Her voice rose, and then it exploded. "Quiet? You scurvy, flea-ridden son of a jackass! What the hell do you think you're doing? Get off me!"

His lips tightened grimly and his thighs constricted around her hips.

"Miss McCahy, I'll be happy to do so. Just as soon as you shut that lovely little mouth of yours."

"Get off!" she whispered furiously.

"Shh!"

He was too close to her. His eyes were like pits of blue fire boring into hers, and she was acutely aware of him as a man. He leaned so close that his beard brushed her face. His thighs were hot and tight around her, and his arms, stretched taut across her as he maintained a wary grip upon her wrists, were as warm and threatening as molten steel.

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, I am waiting."

She closed her eyes and ground her teeth. She waited, feeling her heart pound, feeling the seconds pass. Then she smiled with savage sarcasm, but remained silent.

Slowly, he eased his hold. He released her wrists and sat up. He still straddled her hips, but he was no longer pinning her with his touch. Shannon tried counting to keep her smile in place. She longed to explode and shove him far, far away from her.

And still he kneeled there. He crossed his arms over his chest, and watched her through narrowed eyes.

She waited. She could stand it no longer.

"I have been quiet! Now get the hell off me!"

In a flash, his hand landed on her mouth, and he was near her again, so near that this time the warm whisper of his breath touched her cheek, and sent hot, rippling sensations seeping throughout the very length of her. He was tense, so tense that she wondered if she really knew the man at all, and she was suddenly afraid.

"I have been fighting blue bellies a long, long time, and you are the worst of them. Now, I am not going to wind up in prison or swinging from a rope at the end of this because of you. I do swear it. Shut up, Shannon—"

"Don't you threaten me!"

"Threaten! I'll act, and you know it!"

She didn't realize until it pulled and hurt that he had a grip upon her hair. She clenched her teeth, swallowed and tried to nod. Even for Malachi, this was strange behavior.

It was the war, she decided; he had finally gone insane.

"I'll be quiet!" she mouthed.

"Do so, Shannon, I'm warning you."

She nodded again.

He seemed to realize that he was hurting her. He stared at his hand where he gripped her hair, and he dropped it as if it were a golden fire that truly burned. He sat back again, then watched her.

"No sudden movement, no screams."

"No sudden movement," she repeated in a solemn promise. "No screams."

Seeming satisfied at last, he rose, finding his plumed cavalry hat on the floor nearby and dusting it off upon his thigh. He swept it low before her, and Shannon curiously caught her breath.

He was a charismatic man, a tall and arresting one. She knew he rode with elegance and finesse, as if he had been born to it. It sometimes seemed that he embodied some spirit of chivalry, something of a certain gallantry that had belonged to a sector of the deceased, prewar South. He had grace, and he had courage, she did not deny him those. He would never think of personal safety if something threatened someone he loved. He was loyal and devoted to his brother, and to her sister, Kristin.

He also seemed to have gone quite mad, and she needed desperately to escape him at the first opportunity. She didn't know whether to be terrified or furious.

"Miss McCahy," he murmured, reaching for her hand. "Please accept my hand. I admit, my manners were poor…"

It was too much. He had wrestled her to the ground twice, threatened her, bullied her and acted as if he belonged in an asylum. Now he was acting like the last of the cavaliers. She wanted no part of him; she had to escape.

She stared at his hand, creeping away on her elbows and haunches. "You must be completely out of your mind," she told him flatly. Then she leaped to her feet and spun around to run.

"Damn you!"

The oath left him in a fury. This time, when he caught her and dragged her back, he did not throw her to the floor. He curved one hand over her mouth and brought her flush against his chest with the other, his fingers taut beneath her breast. He whispered against her ear.

"Shannon, I am tired, I am bone tired. It has been my belief since I first had the pleasure of your acquaintance that a switch in the barnyard would have done you a world of good. Now, I am going to ask you one more time to behave, and then I am going to take action against you, as I see fit."

Rage and humiliation boiled inside her. "Malachi Slater, don't you ever talk to me like that, ever!"

"Don't push it."

She brought her heel against his leg with a vengeance. It wouldn't do much damage against his boot, she thought regretfully, but it did incite him further.

She gasped as he swung her around to face him, locking her against his body, his arms around her, her fingers laced tightly through his and held taut at the small of her back, as if they were involved in a close and desperate waltz. She opened her mouth to protest, but something in his eyes silenced her, and she stared at him in stony silence instead.

So much for dignity. So much for pride. She did manage to lift her chin.

"Shannon, behave," he said, then paused, watching her. Then he said with a trace of amazement, "You really meant to kill me!"

She inhaled, and exhaled, and tried to count. She tried to stop the trembling in her body, and the thunder in her heart. She was going to speak softly, and with bold, sheer reason. She could not stand being this close to him. She despised her vulnerability, and she hated the shivers that seized her and the way her blood seemed to heat and steam and sizzle throughout her. She hated the hardness of his body, like warm, living rock that she could lean against, when he was every inch the enemy.

"You would have!" he repeated. "You would have shot me. I wonder, did you or did you not know who I was?"

"Malachi, I'd love to shoot you. In both kneecaps, then right between the eyes. But you are Cole's brother, and because of that fact alone, I would never seek to take your miserable life. Besides, you lost, Malachi. I won." She paused, savoring the words. "The war, Malachi. I am the victor, and you, sir, are the loser."

He grinned, slowly, and shook his head. He leaned closer so that his eyes streaked blue fire straight into hers. His lips were almost against hers, the hair of his mustache teased her flesh, and she felt his words with every nerve of her body. "Never, Shannon. You'll never, never be the victor over me."

"You've already lost."

"We've yet to play the game."

"Malachi, you're hurting me!"

"You were trying to kill me."

"I was not! Every deserter and drunk and cutthroat and thief across the country thinks that this is playtime. I didn't know who you were! It's your fault. You should have come straight to the house. You shouldn't have been skulking around in the stables. I wouldn't have come out here if—" She broke off, frowning. "You Reb bastard!" she hissed. "You knew that it was me! You knew that it was me, but you jumped me anyway."

"You were wandering around with a Colt. I know what you are capable of doing with one, Miss McCahy."

"You could have called out—"

"Hell, ma'am, now how did I know that you wouldn't have been damned pleased to use the thing against me, and with such a good excuse."

She smiled, savagely gritting her teeth, trying to elude his hold. He would not release her. "Pity I don't have it now. I could be tempted."

"But you don't have it, do you? My point exactly."

"Malachi Slater—"

"Stop, Shannon. I told you. I'm exhausted. I'm bleeding and starving and exhausted and—"

"Bleeding?" Shannon interrupted, and then she wondered irritably why she cared. "Why didn't you come straight to the house?"

He twisted his jaw, watching her suspiciously. ' 'I thought there might be a Yank patrol there."

"You saw that it was me—"

"Yes. But I didn't quite take the chance that you wouldn't just be thrilled to tears, little darlin', to turn me over to a patrol."

"Why, Captain Slater, you sound as if you believe I hate you."

"Miss McCahy, I am just fully aware that the sisterly love you offer to my brother does not extend to me. So you see, Shannon, at first I had to take care that you did not shoot me with pleasure, then I had to assure myself that you did not have a pack of blue-belly friends awaiting me in the house."

"My brother is a blue belly, you will recall," Shannon told him acidly.

"I said a patrol, and that's what I meant."

"A Yank patrol?" Startled, Shannon quit struggling and spoke curiously. "Why? Matthew isn't even back yet. Why would there be a Yank patrol at the house?"

He stiffened, his hold easing on her a bit. "You mean…you haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

He stared at her for a moment longer and pulled her even closer.

"Swear to me, Shannon, that you're on the level. That you're not going to scream, or ran, or try to shoot me again."

"If I had meant to shoot you, Malachi Slater, believe me, you'd be dead right now."

"Shannon, I'm going to let you go. If you scream or move or cause me another problem, I promise, you will live to regret it with all of your sweet heart. Do you understand?''

"There is no bloody patrol at the house!" she told him. Then she lowered her eyes and sighed. "I swear it, Malachi. You're safe for the moment."

Then she gasped, suddenly realizing that Cole's behavior had been a bit strange that afternoon. A friend of his had stopped by, and after that Cole had mentioned very casually that he might have to leave for a day or two to find a hiding place. Just in case, he had assured them. Just in case of trouble. Had Cole known something? It was his nature to be quiet and not alarmist. And he would have played any danger down for fear that Kristin would insist on accompanying him. He would just slip away, and then hurry back once he knew he could keep her safe…

"What?" Malachi demanded sharply.

"There's no patrol. It's just that…an old friend of Cole's stopped by today. And then Cole began to act strangely. Perhaps he does know something he's not telling us." Her heart felt as if it were sinking. Perhaps Cole was already gone. He could have slipped away already, looking for a place to take them. He had wanted to head to Texas before, but he wouldn't leave them for that length of time, Shannon knew. If he had gone off, it would be just for a few days, to find a hiding place deeper into Missouri.

Malachi tilted his head, watching her curiously, but he seemed to believe her. He released her and turned aside. With an uncanny agility in the darkness, he went to the door and found the lantern that hung there and lit it, bringing the flame down low.

And Shannon saw that Malachi was in worse shape than she had at first imagined.

His coat was indeed tattered, his braid frayed. He was very lean, and his handsome features were taut with fatigue. A deep crimson bloodstain marred his trousers high on the inner left thigh.

"You've been hit!" she cried, alarmed. "Oh, my God, I did hit you in the hay—"

He shook his head impatiently, sinking down upon one of the bales of hay. "You didn't hit me. A Union sentry hit me when I passed through Kentucky." He paused, and a gray cloud of memory touched his eyes as he stared into the shadows at nothing. "I could have taken them down," he mused, "but it didn't seem to make any sense. I thought that I could outrun them. They were just kids. They couldn't have been more than seventeen. More killing just didn't seem to make much sense."

None of it was making sense. He must have been in terrible pain, and yet he made his spectacular leap from the loft despite his injury. He must have been desperate indeed.

Curious, Shannon moved carefully over to him. "Malachi, the war is over. Why were they—"

"You really don't know?"

"Know what?" she demanded, exasperated.

"It isn't over. It isn't over at all." He hesitated. "Cole went into Kansas, you know. He killed the man who killed his wife."

Shannon nodded. "I know," she said stiffly. Malachi kept staring at her. "So?" she asked. "Cole knows that he's going to have to leave Missouri for a while. When Matthew comes home, Cole and Kristin will head for Texas."

Malachi leaned against the hay. He winced, and she thought that his leg must be hurting him very badly for him to display even a hint of pain. "Cole can't wait for Matthew to come home. He hasn't got the time. They've got wanted posters up on him. You see, the man he killed has a brother. And the brother seems to own half the property in Kansas. He virtually controls his part of the state. Anyway, he's calling Cole a murderer. He wants him brought in, dead or alive. And he's got enough influence—and money—to see that things are done his way."

Shannon felt weak. She wasn't terribly sure that she could stand. She staggered. She couldn't believe it. Cole had fought long and hard for a chance. He had battled a million demons, and now he had found his peace. He had Kristin and the baby, and with them the promise that there could be a normal life.

And now he was branded outlaw—and murderer.

"He's going to have to head out and hide, Shannon, right away," Malachi said softly. "They'll know to come for him here."

She nodded, thinking that this was what Cole had heard earlier. He had quite possibly left already. But in a second, she was going to go back to the house to check. She would at least have to tell Kristin that the world of peace and happiness that she had just discovered was being blown to bits by the thunder of revenge.

"Why—why were they shooting at you? You weren't in Kansas with Cole,'' Shannon said.

Malachi grinned, a lopsided, caustic grin. "Why, darlin', I'm the man's brother. A Slater. According to the powers that be, I ran with Quantrill, and I butchered half the population of Kansas."

"But you were never with Quantrill. You were always regular cavalry," Shannon said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn't think that you would rush to my defense."

"I wouldn't," Shannon said coolly. "Facts are facts."

Malachi shrugged, leaning wearily back again. "Well, it doesn't matter much anyway. You go on up to the house and get Cole. We'll ride out tonight. You seen Jamie?"

Shannon was sorry to have to shake her head. She liked Jamie. He was always calm and quiet. The peacemaker of the three brothers, she thought. The Slaters were close; she could understand that. She and Kristin were close. Too many times, Kristin had been all that she had had left.

Too many times…

In the days after Robert had died, she had wanted to die herself. She had lain there without eating, without speaking, without the will to move. Kristin had been there. Kristin had given her the desire to survive again.

She lowered her head, almost smiling. Malachi had even helped her then. It had been unwitting, of course. He had never allowed her the peace of silence, or the chance to dwell in self-pity. Since she'd met him he'd been demanding, a true thorn in her side. But his very arrogance and his endless determination to treat her like a wayward child had brought out her fury, and with that her passion to live.

"I'm sorry. I haven't seen Jamie," she told him softly.

"Well," Malachi said softly to the lamp. "Jamie is no fool. He'll lay low. He'll find us."

His words were a lie, Shannon thought. He was worried sick. She didn't say so, though, for there was nothing that either of them could do.

"You were in the same company," she said. "Why aren't you together?"

"Jamie set out a day or two before I did. He wanted to stop by to see some old friends who had lost a son." He gritted his teeth. "We've got to run. He'll know how to lie low."

"You're not running anywhere, not the way that you are," Shannon told him. She couldn't bear seeing the blood on his leg. She didn't know why. Most of the time she thought that not even the Comanches could think up a cruel enough death for Malachi. But tonight the sight of his blood disturbed her.

"What do you mean?" he asked her warily.

"Your leg."

"I can find a doc south of here to take out the ball—"

"The ball is still in it?" Shannon said.

He stiffened as he held his breath for several seconds, watching her. "Yeah, the ball is still in it."

Shannon whirled around and headed for the tack room. They kept some rudimentary surgical supplies there; it was a necessary precaution on a cattle ranch.

"Shannon!" he called to her. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'll be right back."

She found the surgical box in the lower left hand drawer of the desk. She paused. They had no morphine; nothing for pain. Nobody did, not in Missouri. Not in most of the South.

She pulled open the next drawer and found a bottle of Kentucky whiskey. It would have to do.

Then, as she came out of the tack room, she paused, wondering why she was thinking of doing this for Malachi Slater.

Maybe she didn't hate him so much.

No…she hated him. He was Cole's brother, and if his leg wasn't fixed up, he might slow Cole down. That was it, surely.

She swept back to his side and kneeled down. She opened up the box and found a pair of scissors. She needed to slit his pants and find the extent of the wound.

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

"I'm going to cut your pants."

"If you think that I'm going to let you anywhere close—"

"The wound is in your thigh, you fool. Here.'' She handed him the whiskey. "Drink some of this."

He didn't hesitate to swallow a good shot of the whiskey. He closed his eyes, wincing when he was done. "That was good. It was an inestimable piece of kindness from a Yank to a Reb. Now forget it, I'll find—"

"Sit still, Malachi, and quit whining."

"I'll be damned if I'm whining. Shannon! Shannon, stop!"

He clenched his teeth, but when he went to grip her wrists, he was too late. He hesitated. She already had the shears snipping at his pants, and to make a move might have been dangerous. He inhaled sharply.

She paused and met his eyes. She smiled sweetly. "Sit back now, Captain Slater. Relax."

"You move carefully there, Miss McCahy, or I swear, I'll make you sorry this very night!"

"Why, Captain Slater, I would take great care with those silly threats of yours at this particular moment."

He caught her arm and her eyes once again. "Shannon, I don't make silly threats. Just promises."

"You aren't in any position to make… promises, not at this moment, captain."

"Shannon—"

"Trust me, Malachi."

"The way I would a black widow, Shannon."

She smiled and stared at his fingers, which were still locked around her arm. She looked at him again. His eyes

remained clear and deep and blue upon hers. Slowly, he eased his fingers, releasing her.

She felt him inhale as she carefully snipped at the bloodstained wool. Seconds later, she pulled the material away from the wound. She could see the ball. It was sunk in just far enough that a man wouldn't be able to remove it himself. One swift slice with a scalpel and a quick foray with the forceps and it would be gone. Then she could douse it with some of the liquor and bind it, and his chances of a clean recovery would be very good indeed.

"Take another swig of the whiskey," she told him, staring at the wound because she didn't dare look into his eyes. "I'll just get the scalpel—"

His hand landed hard upon her wrist, and her eyes were drawn to his. "I don't trust you with a scalpel, Shannon."

She smiled sweetly. "You have to trust me. You have no choice."

"You bring it too close to any part of my anatomy that I consider near and dear, and you will regret it until your dying day."

"Alas, the ladies would be heartbroken!" she taunted in turn. "I will take the gravest care."

He released her wrist, but continued to watch her. There was a warning sizzle in his eyes that brought tremors to her heart. She had to steady her hands. "What the hell," she muttered. "Mr. Ego Reb. Were I to wound anything near and dear there's a likelihood that nobody would even notice."

It was a good thing that the knife had yet to touch his flesh. He caught her wrist again, pinning it, drawing her eyes to his once more. "Sometime, darlin', I just might let you find out."

She jerked away. "Darlin', don't even dream of it. Not in your wildest thoughts."

"Couldn't handle it, huh?"

"I'll handle it right now, if you're not careful, Captain Slater."

"Is that a promise, Miss McCahy?"

"No, a threat."

"Your hands better move with the skill of an angel, got that, Miss McCahy?"

His grip on her wrist was tight. But it wasn't the pain that gave her pause. It was his agony, for all that he concealed it so well.

She nodded. "Give me the bottle."

"What for?"

"To clean the scalpel." She doused the small sharp knife with the alcohol, and then he took the bottle back from her. He swallowed heartily. "Ready?" Shannon asked him.

"You are eager to take a blade against me," he said.

"Right."

"I can't wait to take one against you." His speech was slurred just a bit. When she glanced his way, she saw his grin, lopsided, heartstopping. She closed her eyes tightly against it, against the searing cobalt of his eyes, and the charisma of that smile. He was making her tremble tonight, and she couldn't falter.

She brought the scalpel against his flesh, holding his thigh to keep it steady. He didn't start or move at the swift penetration of the knife, but she felt his muscles jump and contract, and the power was startling.

He didn't make a sound. He just closed his eyes and clamped down on his jaw, and for a moment she wondered if he was conscious, and then she hoped that he was not. She quickly finished her cut, and brought the small forceps out. She had cut well. She quickly secured the ball and dug it from his flesh, then liberally poured whiskey over the wound and began to bind it with linen bandages. There weren't enough to finish the job. She glanced at his face, then lifted her skirt and tore her petticoat.

One of his eyes opened and he looked at her. "Thanks, darlin'." He wasn't unconscious.

"I don't want you getting Cole killed," she said flatly. She came up on her knees, and wrapped the linen around his thigh, moving higher and higher. Both his eyes were open now. She wished that her elegant bodice weren't cut quite so low. He was staring straight at her cleavage, and he was making no gentlemanly move to look away.

"Quit that," she ordered him.

"Why?"

"You're supposed to be a Southern gentleman," she reminded him.

He smiled, but the smile held pain. "The South is dead, haven't you heard? And so are Southern gentlemen. And you be careful right now, Miss McCahy. You're moving real, real close."

She was. She pulled her fingers back as if she had been burned.

"You did a good job," he told her, tying off the bandage.

"Because everything is intact?" she said caustically.

"I do appreciate that. But then, you wouldn't have dared do me injury, I'm certain."

"Don't be so certain."

A soft, husky chuckle escaped him. "Some day, I promise, I'll make it all worth your while."

"What does that mean?"

"Why, we'll have to wait and see, won't we?"

"Don't hold your breath, Captain Slater. And besides—" she widened her eyes with a feigned and sizzling innocence "—I'm just a child, remember? The McCahy brat."

She started to turn away. He caught her arm and pulled her back. She almost protested, but he moved with a curious gentleness, lifting a fallen tendril of hair, smoothing it. And his eyes moved over her again, over the rise of her breasts beneath the lace of her bodice, to her flushed cheeks, to the curve of her form where she knelt by his feet.

"Well, brat, it was a long war. I think that, maybe, you've begun to grow up."

"I had no choice," she said, and she was suddenly afraid that she would start to cry. She gritted her teeth and swallowed the tears harshly. She felt his eyes upon her, reading her thoughts and her mind and her heart.

"I was very sorry about your Captain Ellsworth, Shannon," he said. "I know what it did to you. But be careful. If you're not, you'll have scars on your soul, like Cole did when the jayhawkers killed his wife."

"Malachi, don't—"

"All right, Miss McCahy, I won't talk about sacred territory." He smiled, a devilish smile, taunting her, leading her away from the memory of pain. "You are maturing, and nicely. Thank you, Shannon." He paused, his eyes searching her, his smile deepening with a sensual curve to his lips. She thought that he was going to say something else, but he repeated himself. "Thank you, you did a good job. Your touch was gentle, nearly tender."

"I told you—"

His knuckles brushed her cheek. "Definitely growing up," he murmured softly.

She didn't know what to say. It should have been something scathing, yet she didn't feel that way at all, not at that moment. She just felt, curiously, as if she wanted to be held. As if she wanted to burst into tears and be assured that yes, indeed, the war was over, and peace had come. She wanted to feel his arms around her, the heat of his whisper as he caressed her tenderly and assured her that all was well.

But she had no chance to respond at all.

For at that moment, the quiet of the night beyond the stables was shattered. The thunder of hoofbeats sounded just outside, loud, staccato, a drumroll that promised some new portent of danger. Even through the closed door, she could feel the beat she knew well.

Shannon rose quickly, the blood draining from her face.

"Riders, Malachi! Riders coming to the house!"

As if in answer to her worried exclamation, she heard a faint scream of horror from the house. Shannon ran to the door, wrenching it open. The scream came again. Shrill now, then higher and higher.

"Kristin!" Shannon cried. "It's—it's Kristin! Oh, my God, it's Kristin!"

"Wait!" Malachi called.

Shannon barely heard him. Horses had come galloping down upon the ranch again. Numerous horses. The sound of those hoofbeats told her that the uneasy peace that had so briefly settled over the ranch would now be shattered once again.

She started to run.

"Shannon!" Malachi thundered.

She ignored him, unaware that he was behind her, swearing, raging that she should stop.

"Damned fool brat!" he called. "Wait!"

She didn't wait. She burst into the night, staring at the house. In the glow of the light from the house she could see twenty or so horses ranged before the porch. Most of them still carried their riders. Only a few of the men had dismounted.

"No!" Shannon breathed, but even as she ran, she saw her sister. A tall husky man with unruly dark whiskers was coming out of the house with Kristin tossed over his shoulder.

Kristin was dressed for dinner, too, in a soft blue brocade that matched the color of her eyes. Her hair had been pinned in a neat coil, but now it streamed down the giant's back, like a lost ray of sunshine.

Stunned, Shannon stopped and stared in horror.

"I've got her!" the man said sharply. "Let's get the hell out of here!"

"What about Slater?" someone asked.

Shannon couldn't hear the reply, but her heart seemed to freeze over. If Cole wasn't gone, then he was dead. If there was a single breath left in his body, the burly man wouldn't have his hands on Kristin.

Kristin was screaming and fighting furiously as the man walked hurriedly to his horse. Kristin bit him, hard.

He slapped her in return, harder. Swearing. Then he tossed a dazed Kristin onto his horse, and mounted behind her.

"No!" Shannon shrieked, and she started to run in a panic toward the house once again. She leaped one of the paddock fences in a shortcut to the house. She had to stop them. She had to save her sister.

Her feet flew over the Missouri dust, and her heart thundered. She had no thought but to reach the man before he could ride away with her sister. In terror, she thought only to throw herself at the man in a whirlwind of fury.

Suddenly, she was, in truth, flying. Hurtling through the air by the force of some rock-hard power behind her, and falling facedown into the red dust at her feet. Stunned, she inhaled, and dirt filled her lungs. Dizzy and gasping, she fought against the force now crawling over her, holding her tight. Panic seized her. It was one of the men, one of them…

"Stop it, Shannon!"

No! It was Malachi again. Damn Malachi. He was holding her down, holding her prisoner, when the men were about to ride away, ride away with Kristin…

"Let me go, you fool!"

He was lying over her, the length of his body flat on hers, hard and heavy. His chest lay on her back, and his hands were flat upon hers, pinning them down. She could barely raise her head to see.

She could only feel the tension and heat of his whisper as he leaned low against her in warning.

"You fool! You're not—"

"Damn you! Get off of me! He has my sister!" She couldn't even begin to fight; she couldn't twist away from him.

"Shannon! He has twenty armed men! And you're running after him without so much as a big stick!"

"He has—"

"Shut up!" One of his hands eased from hers, but only to clamp over her mouth. He kept them down, almost flat upon the earth. A trough lay before them. It hid them from view, Shannon realized, while they could still see the men and the house two hundred yards away.

"He has Kristin!" Malachi agreed. "And if you go any closer, he's going to have you, too! And if you don't shut up, he'll be after the two of us. We could try shooting down twenty men between us without killing your sister in the fire, but we'd still need our weapons—those wood and steel things back in the hay—to do it with!"

She went still, ceasing to struggle against him.

"My only hope is to follow them. Carefully," he said hoarsely. He eased his hand from her mouth. He did not lift his weight from hers, but pinned her there with him with a sure pressure.

She hated him for it.

But he was right. She had no weapon. She had panicked, and she had run off with nothing, and she could do nothing to help Kristin.

She would only be abducted, too.

"No!" she whispered bleakly, for the horses were moving. The men were all mounted, and the horses were beginning to move away.

With the same speed and thunder, they were racing away, into the night.

And red Missouri dust rose in an eerie fog against the darkness of the night…

And slowly, slowly settled.

CHAPTER THREE

When the horses were gone, Malachi quickly stood and reached down for Shannon. She would have ignored his hand and risen on her own, but he didn't give her a chance. All the while, he kept his eyes fixed on the house. As soon as she was standing, he dropped her hands to start limping for the porch. He climbed over the paddock fence.

"Where are you going?" Shannon demanded, following him.

He didn't seem to hear her. He kept walking.

"Malachi!" Shannon snapped. He stopped and looked back at her as if she was a momentary distraction—like a buzzing fly. "Malachi! We have to get guns and horses; we have to ride after them. You're wasting time! Where are you going!"

"I'm going to the house," he said flatly. "Excuse me." He started walking again.

She ran after him and caught his elbow, wrenching him around to face her. Stunned, frightened and furious, she accosted him. "What? You're going to the house. Just like that. Sure, we've got all the time in the world! Let's take a rest. Can I get you dinner, maybe? A drink? A cool mint julep, or something stronger? What the hell is the matter with you? Those men are riding away with my sister!"

"I know that, Shannon. I—"

"You son of a bitch! You Rebel…coward! Good God, I wish to hell that you were Cole! He rode in here all alone

and cleaned up a small army on his own! You didn't even fire a shot. You yellow-bellied piece of white trash—"

"That's it!" He stepped back, and his arm snaked out. He caught her wrist and held her in a bruising grip, speaking with biting rage. "I'm damned sorry that Cole isn't here, Miss McCahy. And I'm damned sorry that I didn't have the time to dig through the hay to find my gun or your gun or even my saber. If I had had my gun, I probably could have killed a few of them before they gunned me down. So I'm real, real sorry that I don't feel like dying like a fool just to appease your definition of courage. And, Miss McCahy—" he paused for a breath "—as for Cole, I really, honest to God can't tell you just how much I'd like to see his face. And that, to tell the truth, is what I'm trying to do right now. Those men are riding away with your sister. Well, my brother was in that house, and I—"

He paused again, inhaling deeply. Shannon had gone very pale and very still. She had forgotten Cole in her fear for Kristin. Malachi had not.

He dropped her arm, pushing her from him. "I want to find out if Cole is alive or dead," he said flatly, and he spun on his heels.

It took Shannon a few seconds to follow him, and when she did so, she did in silence. Dread filled her heart. She hoped Cole had left already. But the second that she learned something about her brother-in-law she would be gone. Maybe Malachi could let those men ride away with Kristin— she could not.

He heard her following behind. He spoke without turning around. "I am going after Kristin. If you don't mind, I will arm myself first."

"As soon as we…as soon as we find Cole," Shannon said. "I'll get everything we need. We can leave—"

"We aren't leaving. I'm leaving."

"I'm coming with you."

"You're not coming with me."

"I am coming—"

"You're not!"

Shannon opened her mouth to continue the argument, but she didn't get the chance. The porch door swung open again as Delilah came running out. Tall, black and beautiful, with the aristocratic features of an African princess, she was more family than servant, and no proclamation had made her free. Gabriel McCahy had released both her and her husband, Samson, years before the war had ever begun.

Now her features were wretchedly torn with anguish.

"Shannon!" she cried, throwing out her arms. Shannon raced to Delilah, accepting her embrace, holding her fiercely in return. Delilah spoke again, softly, quickly. "Shannon, child, I was so afraid for you! They dragged Kristin from here so quick—"

"Delilah," Malachi said harshly, interrupting her. His voice was thick. "Where is my brother? What happened? Cole would never—Cole would never have allowed Kristin to be dragged from his side."

Delilah shook her head, trying to get a grip on her emotions. "No, sir, Captain Slater," she said softly, "Cole Slater never would have done that. He—"

"He's dead," Malachi said, swallowing sickly.

"No! No, he isn't dead!" Delilah said with haste.

Relief flooded through Shannon. She couldn't stand any longer. She staggered to the porch and sank down on the lowest step. "Where is Cole, Delilah?"

"He rode out before—"

"When?" Shannon cried. "I didn't see him go!"

"Let's come inside. You both look as if you could use a little libation," Delilah said.

Shannon shook her head and stood with an effort. "I'm going after Kristin—"

"You're not going after anyone," Malachi said. "I'm going, and I'll do so as soon as I'm ready."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Malachi Slater!"

He walked over to her, his eyes narrowed, his irritation as apparent as his limp. "Shannon McCahy, you are a willful little fool, and you will get us both killed, as well as your sister. I will tell you what to do, and if you don't listen to me, I'll lock you in your room. No, that wouldn't do, knowing you, you'd come right through the window. I'll tie you to your bed. Are we understood?"

She wasn't going to get into another test of strength with Malachi, not at that moment.

Nor was she about to listen to him.

But she inhaled and raised her chin with what she hoped was a chilling dignity. She walked up the steps to the porch and paused before the door. "Yes, let's do go in. I'll get Malachi some of Cole's breeches, and we'll all have a shot of whiskey. Delilah, you can tell us what happened. We do need to move quickly. Malachi needs to get going."

She smiled at him sweetly. She saw his lashes fall as his eyes narrowed, and she saw the cynical curl of his lips beneath his mustache. He didn't trust her. Not a bit. It didn't matter.

She entered the house with a serene calm, walking quickly through the Victorian parlor toward the office. It had been her pa's office; recently, she had begun to think of it as Cole's office. One day, she hoped, Matthew would reclaim it. The country would rebuild after the war, and Matthew's children would come and crawl on his lap while he went over accounts or the payroll.

Delilah and Malachi followed her. She opened the bottom drawer of the desk and drew out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. With steady hands she found the shot glasses on the bookcase and poured out three servings, then handed one to Delilah and one to Malachi. She took her father's place behind the desk. "All right, Delilah, what happened?"

Malachi was watching her. He perched on the edge of the desk, waiting.

Delilah didn't sit. She swallowed the bourbon neat, and paced the floor.

"Cole left here about an hour ago. He came to speak with Samson and me, explaining that he thought things were going to get hotter a lot sooner than he expected. Some guy called Fitz wanted revenge. Cole didn't think that this Fitz would want to hurt the McCahys—but he knew that Fitz wanted all the Slaters, and just to be safe, he wanted to move Kristin and the baby right away. He didn't want to say anything to Kristin until he had a place to take her and little Gabe, and, well, you know your sister, Shannon, she wouldn't have let him get away. She'd have risked anything, herself and even little Gabe, I think. He meant to come back within a day or two. He didn't want her risking that child or herself." She paused.

"Go on, Delilah," Malachi prodded her. He leaned over the desk and opened the top drawer, reaching for a cigar. "Excuse me," he said to Shannon, smiling politely. She didn't care for the slant of his smile, nor for the touch of blue fire that sparkled in his eyes.

He was, indeed, watching her. And he wasn't about to trust her.

"I gave Cole some food. He gave me a kiss on the cheek, and said that he'd be back, and that everything would be fine. He also said that I shouldn't be surprised to see you coming here mighty soon, Captain Malachi, and that Jamie might be on his way, too. And he left a letter to Kristin on his desk. I brought it up to Kristin right away. She had guessed that he was gone. She ripped the letter open and read it quick, and then she let it drop to the floor. She just sat there, staring at me with her pretty face white as a sheet."

Delilah sighed, slumping down into the leather-covered sofa before the desk. "Then finally she started to cry. 'I knew that he'd have to run, but we meant to run together. He must be desperate, to have gone without me, without the baby! He knew, he knew…that I would follow him anywhere. But he was afraid that they might hurt me or the baby to get to him. Oh, Delilah!' she cried. She cried out my name, just like that. It hurt so bad to hear. I told her that he'd be back for her, just as soon as he could find a place…"

Shannon nodded. So she had been right. Cole had been gone all along. Cole would have heard Malachi in the barn. He would have heard the shots. He would have come to her. Not that it mattered now.

Delilah paused, shaking her head, staring blankly at the desk before her. "Then the horses came."

"And the Red Legs took Kristin?"

"They swept right in here. But Kristin was so glad to tell them that they were too late. Cole was gone, long gone. Then that bearlike bastard brought his knife so tight against her throat that he drew blood. Thank God he didn't seem to know anything about the baby."

"The baby!" Shannon and Malachi cried in unison, jumping up in alarm.

Delilah smiled. If there was one thing in the world that Malachi and Shannon could agree upon, it was their nephew, Gabriel. They both doted on him, and their alarm was clearly written upon their faces. "Gabe is just fine. He's upstairs sleeping with my boy in my room. They fell asleep on the bed together, and so I left them there. I don't think those men even know that he exists." She stared straight at Shannon. "They know about you, though, missy. They were going to look for you, tear the place apart for you, but the dark-haired fellow with the beard said that they should hurry, they had Kristin Slater, they didn't need anyone else."

Shannon inhaled and exhaled slowly. She looked down at her hands. Maybe she had been lucky. If she hadn't been out at the stables with Malachi, she might have been taken, too.

Or she might be dead now, because she would have tried to fight them. She might have shot some of them down, but there had been an awful lot of them. Red Legs…

She jumped to her feet, staring at Malachi in renewed horror. "Red Legs! They were Red Legs!"

Malachi shrugged. "The Red Leg units are all part of the army now, Shannon. Lane and Jennison were stripped of their commands long ago."

His words didn't help her much. Shannon had learned to hate the Southern bushwhackers, but she'd always had the good sense to despise the jayhawkers as they had butchered and plundered and murdered and robbed and raped and savaged the people and the land with every bit as much—if not more—ruthless energy than the bushwhackers.

The Red Legs, as the men were called, were infamous for their brutality. She had seen the uniforms worn by the men in front of the house. But in the darkness, she had not realized who they were. But Malachi had seen them clearly, and he had known right away. He had good reason to know them. A unit of Red Legs had killed his sister-in-law, Cole's first wife.

"We have to get Kristin back," she said.

Malachi rose, too. "I will get Kristin back, I promise you."

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, damn it, you cannot come."

"I'm an ace shot, and you know it."

"And you also panicked just a little while ago. You started racing after them with your mouth wide open and your hands bare. Shannon, the only way I'm going to get Kristin away from those men is to sneak her out of their camp. I can't go in with guns blazing—they will kill her if I even try it."

"Malachi, please just let me—"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm going to say!"

"Shannon, you listen. Stay here. Take care of Gabe. Wait, maybe Cole will come back, or will try to get a message through to you, or maybe Matthew will come home. Who knows, Matthew just may have some influence with these people. He fought long and hard in the Yank army. If he can get to the right authorities, maybe he can get Kristin back through legitimate means."

She gritted her teeth, staring at him. "Meanwhile they could kill, torture, rape or maim my sister."

He sighed, hands on his hips, and gritted his teeth in turn.

"Shannon, you may not come with me."

She lowered her head quickly, trying not to let him see her eyes. She was going about this all wrong. She knew Malachi. He was as stubborn as a worn-out mule. He wasn't going to say yes, and she was an idiot to argue it out.

She should let him leave and then follow his trail. He didn't ever have to know that she was near him. And if he didn't manage to get Kristin away from the band of Red Legs, she'd find a way herself.

"Well," she said, "let me go and get you a pair of Cole's breeches."

"Never mind," he told her. "I know where the room is." He turned on his heel and started out of the room.

"Captain Malachi, you'd better have some supper in you before you leave," Delilah said. "You wash up and dress and come on down, and eat something first. And I'll pack you up a little something for your saddlebag."

"Thanks, Delilah."

"He needs to hurry, Delilah," Shannon said sweetly.

Malachi's eyes met hers across the room, sharp and icy and blue, and he smiled. That chivalrous slant of a grin across his features might have been heart-stopping, she thought, if he had just been some other man.

"Oh, I think I have time to grab a bite," he said.

"Certainly. We wouldn't want you to go off hungry."

"I'm sure that you wouldn't."

He kept staring at her, so she kept smiling pleasantly. "You go on then, Malachi. I'll help Delilah see to some dinner."

"Fine," he said. "Thanks." He tipped his hat to her. The brim fell over his eyes, and she wondered once again what he was thinking. But he was quickly gone. She listened to the sound of his boots hitting the parlor floor, then moving up the stairway.

Delilah stood up quickly, eyeing Shannon warily. "What you got on your mind, missy?"

"Nothing that you need to worry about, Delilah."

"Oh, I'm worried," Delilah assured her. "I'm plenty worried." She rolled her eyes Shannon's way.

Shannon ignored her. "Let's go see to something to eat," she said hastily.

Delilah sniffed. "There's plenty to eat out there. Cold roast, cold potatoes and cold turnip greens. Not very nice anymore, but there's plenty. I'll set a plate over the fire. You come pack up some food for Captain Malachi."

Shannon followed Delilah from the office through the elegant little parlor and past the entry to the stairway. She paused, looking up the steps. Malachi would be changing. Then he would eat and leave. She would have to follow quickly. She wouldn't have time to change her clothing. She'd have to roll up a pair of trousers and a cotton shirt, grab a hat and be on her way.

"Shannon?" Delilah looked at her from the doorway to the dining room. "You comin'?"

"I'm right behind you, Delilah," she said, and meekly walked through the dining room to the kitchen. "Is the smoked meat in the pantry?"

"Yes'm, it is," Delilah said, slicing roast beef on the counter and watching Shannon from the corner of her eye. Shannon ignored her and pulled two clean cloths from the linen drawer. She found strips of smoked beef and pork and began to wrap them carefully. Delilah had just baked bread, so there were fresh loaves to pack, too. She turned around just as she was finishing. Delilah was leaning against the door frame, watching her.

"And what are you doing?"

"Packing food."

"I can see that. You're packing up two bundles."

"Malachi is a very hungry person."

"Um. And you're going to give him both of those bundles, right?"

Shannon exhaled slowly. "Delilah—"

"Don't you wheedle me, Shannon. You've been wheedling me since you came up to my knees. You're grown now. I know what you're going to do."

"Delilah, I have to go after Kristin—"

"Malachi will go after Kristin."

"And what if he fails?"

"You think that it will help Kristin if they take you captive, too?"

"Delilah—"

Delilah threw up her hands. "Shannon McCahy, I can't stop you. You're a grown woman now."

"Thank you, Delilah."

"Anyway," Delilah said with a sly smirk, "I don't need to stop you."

"Oh?"

"No, missy, I sure don't. I don't need to at all."

"And why is that?"

"Why, darlin', he's gonna stop you, that's why."

"Don't you dare say anything to him, Delilah."

"I won't. I promise you that I won't. And I can tell you this, it ain't gonna matter none!"

Without waiting for a reply, Delilah turned her back on Shannon, and went to work making up a plate for Malachi, humming as she did so.

Shannon wrinkled her nose at Delilah's back. She knew darned well that Delilah couldn't see, but she might have done so, her next words came so quickly.

"You've got hay in your hair, Shannon McCahy. Lots of it. And hay stuffed right into your cleavage, young woman. You might want to do something about that before dinner."

Instinctively, Shannon brought her hand to her hair, and she did, indeed, pluck a piece of hay from it.

"I thought you weren't terribly partial to Captain Malachi?" Delilah said sweetly.

Shannon found the hay sticking from her bodice. She plucked that out, too, spinning on her heels and walking toward the door. "I'm not, Delilah. I'm definitely not."

"Hm."

She didn't have to defend herself to Delilah. She didn't have to defend herself to anyone.

Then why was she doing so?

"We had an accidental meeting in the stables, and that is all, Delilah. You were right—I'm not at all partial to Captain Slater."

Lifting her chin, she swept out of the kitchen. She paused, biting her lower lip as she heard Delilah's laughter following her. She shook her head and pushed away from the door. She needed to hurry.

She went up the stairs to her room. Beneath her bed she found a set of leather saddlebags. Dragging them out, she quickly stuffed one side with clean undergarments, a shirt and sturdy cotton breeches. The other side she would save for food and ammunition. She made a mental note to bring plenty of the latter, then shoved the saddlebags under the bed.

She stood quickly and hurried to her washstand, pouring clean water into the bowl. She washed her face and hands and realized that she was trembling. She dried off quickly, then moved to the mirror to repair her fallen and tumbling hair. Swearing softly, she discovered more hay. She brushed it out quickly and redid her hair in a neat golden knot at the nape of her neck.

When she was done, she stepped back. Subdued? Serene? She wondered. That was the effect she wanted. It wasn't to be. Her cheeks were very red with color, her eyes were a deep and sparkling blue, and despite herself, she felt that she looked as guilty as hell.

"I'm not guilty of anything!" she reminded herself out loud. "They've taken my sister…"

That thought was sobering. Where was Kristin now? Had they stopped to rest yet? They were heading for Kansas, she was certain. Surely they would keep her safe—until they had Cole. And Cole was no fool. When he heard that they had Kristin, he would take care, of course he would…

Her eyes gazed back at her, very wide and misty now. She blinked and stiffened. She needed to find strength. She couldn't possibly sit around and wait. She had to do something to bring Kristin home again.

There…not too bad. She folded her hands before her, and a mature young woman with wise blue eyes and a slender face and soft wisps of blond hair curling around her face gazed back at her. A serene young woman, soft and feminine—with no more hay protruding from the bodice of her elegant dinner gown. She was ready.

Shannon started to run swiftly down the stairs, then she realized that Malachi was standing at the foot of them, waiting for her. She quickly slowed her pace, and her lashes swept low over her eyes as she tried to gaze at him covertly. He had that twisted grin of his again, that cocky, knowing grin.

"Miss McCahy, I was waiting to see if you were joining me for supper. We're all set, and all alone, so it seems. Delilah has gone out back to wait for Samson."

She had come to the foot of the stairs. He was very close, watching her face. She swept by him. "Of course, Malachi."

He followed behind her and pulled out her chair. Delilah had already set their dishes on the table. When Shannon sat, Malachi pushed her chair in to the table. He hovered behind her. She wished that he would sit.

He did not. He reached over her, pouring her a glass of burgundy. She look up at him.

"What is dinner without a fine red wine?" he said lightly. Then he gazed at the bottle, and she saw his handsome features grow taut. "I haven't had any in quite some time," he murmured.

Shannon quickly looked away, feeling that she intruded on some intimate emotion. He did not seem to remember that she was there, but if he had, she thought he would not want her watching.

He poured his wine and sat across from her. He sipped it and complimented the fine bouquet. He cut off a large bite of roast beef, and chewed it hungrily and cut another.

"You're not eating," he told Shannon.

"And you're eating too slowly," she muttered.

He looked up, startled, and smiled. "Shannon, I will catch up with them. I'm probably going to have to follow them for several days to learn their ways and find the best time to sneak in among them. Don't begrudge me one hot meal. I haven't had one in ages."

She felt a twinge of guilt. She knew that the Rebel soldiers had been down to bare rations at the end of the war, moldy hardtack and whatever they could find on the land. She lifted her wineglass to him. "Enjoy," she said softly.

Malachi paused in the midst of chewing, lifting his glass to hers, suddenly mesmerized by the girl before him.

Woman. It had been a long war, and she had grown up during the painful duration of it.

And in the soft candlelight, she was suddenly every bit the glorious image he had seen in his dream. Her lips were softly curled, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were a crystal and beautiful blue, soft and inviting. Golden strands of hair escaped the knot at her nape and curled against the porcelain clarity and softness of her cheeks, down the length of her slender neck and over her shoulders. Her breasts pushed against the low bodice of her elegant gown. She might have been a study of wisdom and innocence, for her smile was soft and young, but her eyes seemed ancient.

Malachi swallowed a sip of wine. She was still smiling. The little wretch. She was up to something. She planned on following him.

He raised his glass in return. "To you, Shannon."

"Why, thank you, sir."

Just as gracious as a Southern belle. He was definitely in trouble if Shannon was being charming.

"You're welcome." His eyes were warm as he gazed at her. He lowered his head, hiding a smile, then he allowed his hand to fall upon hers. She almost jumped a mile.

"Did I thank you for treating my leg?"

"It was my pleasure."

"Oh, I'm sure it was."

Shannon didn't know quite what he meant by that, but she was determined not to argue.

It might be nice not to do so, she thought suddenly.

He was such a striking man. He had washed quickly, and his hair was slightly damp, and he had trimmed his mustache and beard. He had donned a pair of Cole's gray trousers, and a clean cotton shirt, which lay open in a V at the neck, displaying a hint of the bronze flesh of his chest, and the profusion of red-gold hair that grew there. He was achingly masculine in the muted glow of the candles, and she was stunned that his wry smile could bring about a curious beating in her heart.

She had not thought of any man as really attractive…

As sexually attractive…

Not since Robert had died. Then she had dreamed.

For so long those dreams had seemed like dust in the tempest of the wind. She could barely remember Robert's kisses now, or the excitement they had elicited within her. She could scarcely recall the lovely satin and lace gown that Kristin had made for her. Kristin had laughed with mischievous pleasure, assuring her that it would be the perfect gown for her wedding night…

She had ripped the gown to shreds.

When Robert had died, she had ceased to lie awake at night and ponder the things between a man and a woman. The soft, exciting stirrings within her had died.

She had thought that they had died.

But with Malachi's hand so softly atop hers, his eyes with their devil's sparkle so close, his knee brushing hers, she was suddenly feeling them again.

Her cheeks flamed crimson, and she jerked her hand from beneath his, nearly knocking over her wineglass. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and it seemed to her that he was still secretively smiling.

"Something wrong, darlin'?"

"I'm not your darlin'."

"Excuse me. Is something wrong, Miss McCahy?"

Wrong? It was horrid. And on a night when Kristin had been so savagely taken…

Kristin, remember Kristin, she told herself. That was why she was here, trying to be charming.

"No," she said quickly. "No, nothing's wrong. I'm just so tired. I mean, it's been such a long day. No, no, nothing is wrong at all. What am I saying? Everything is wrong!"

"Hey!" He leaned across the table and caught her chin with his forefinger. She sensed a tremendous warmth within him that she had never seen before, and it touched her, and embraced her. She didn't pull away when he held her, or when he sought out her eyes.

"I will find her, Shannon. I will find her. They—they aren't going to hurt her—"

"They are a Red Legs unit."

"They aren't going to hurt her. Fitz wants her alive. Why do you think they took Kristin?"

"Because they want Cole."

"Right. So they won't hurt her, or else they won't have her to use against my brother. It's going to be all right."

Shannon nodded. He released her, but his eyes stayed on her with a curious speculation, and it seemed that he had to force himself to return his attention to his meal. And she had to force herself to forget his haunting touch.

"Is—is everything good?" she asked him.

"Delicious," he said briefly.

"I do hope so. More wine?"

"Thank you, Miss McCahy."

"My pleasure."

He sat back, sipping the wine that she had poured. He lifted his glass, and the speculation remained in his eyes. "No, my pleasure, Miss McCahy." He sighed, finished the wine, set his glass down and rose. She jumped up along with him.

"You're going now?"

"I'm going now."

"I'll get your food. And your coat and cavalry jacket" She paused. "You probably shouldn't ride into Kansas with that jacket. Do you want another one?"

He took his jacket and coat from her. "Why, haven't you heard, Miss McCahy? The war is over. Or so they say."

"Or so they say," Shannon echoed.

He grinned. He touched her cheek, and she quickly turned away. "I'll get your food."

"Thanks,'' he drawled, but when she started to walk away, he caught her hand and pulled her back.

He had put his plumed hat atop his head, and his Confederate greatcoat lay over his shoulders. His eyes were heavy-lidded and sparkled with a lazy sensuality and humor.

"It was a nice dinner, Miss McCahy. You were a beautiful companion. I enjoyed it. Whatever comes, I want you to know that. I enjoyed it"

It was very peculiar talk, coming from Malachi. She nodded nervously and pulled away from him. "I'll…I'll just get your food."

"I'll meet you out front. I want to take a last peek at Gabe, and tell Delilah goodbye."

"Fine."

She fled to the kitchen. She hurriedly secured his bundle of food, adding a bottle of her father's old Irish whiskey from the cupboard. Then she went outside and nervously waited.

Soon he passed by her on the porch. "Just need to get the bay," he told her.

"Of course."

She watched him walk to the stable, a tall figure, dominating the night, with his greatcoat falling from his shoulders and his plumed hat touching the sky.

He was swallowed up by the darkness.

Moments later he reappeared, a masterful horseman, cantering toward her on the bay.

He reined in before he reached the porch and waited as she approached him with the bundle of food and the liquor.

"Is your leg all right?" she asked him with a little pang of guilt. He should have had some rest, but he seemed to be doing well with the wound. As long as infection didn't set in, he should be fine.

But it was true that he should have rested.

"The leg feels good, thanks." He buckled the food into his saddlebag. The bay mare shuffled nervously, wanting to be gone.

Shannon stepped back. Malachi nodded to her, lifting the reins. "Take care of Gabe. I'll be back with Kristin as soon as I can. I hope Cole will hear of this and come back, but we can't rely on that. Be ready. We'll have to take her somewhere. She'll have to hide now, too, or they'll come after her again."

Shannon nodded. "I'll be ready."

"I'll bet you will. Goodbye."

She lifted a hand and waved. He saluted, swung the bay around and rode into the night.

Shannon could barely stand still. The second he was out of sight, she swung around and raced up the steps. She burst into the house and ran up the stairway. She didn't pause to change, but wrenched her saddlebags from beneath the bed and tore down the stairs again and into the kitchen.

Delilah was there. Shannon ignored her as she packed her own food, then she hurried over and hugged Delilah fiercely. "Take good care of Gabe, Delilah."

"Shannon, Shannon, you shouldn't be going! I thought that he would know, I thought that he would stop you—"

"No one can stop me, Delilah. You know that. Please, please, promise to take good care of the baby!"

"You know that I will, missy, you don't need to say a word."

"I know that. Oh, Delilah, you and Samson were God sent! I don't know what we'd ever have done without you."

"You might not be able to run off like this."

"Delilah, she's my sister. I have to go for her."

Shannon kissed Delilah quickly on the cheek, swept up her bags and left the kitchen.

In the hallway she plucked the second Colt from the wall and stuffed her bag full of ammunition. Delilah hovered behind her.

"Shannon, you take care, young lady. Don't go off impetuously and get yourself in trouble, you hear?"

Shannon nodded and threw the door open. She started to hurry out, and she hurried straight into Malachi's waiting arms.

"Malachi!"

"Shannon!"

He set her back on her feet, a broad, smiling barrier in the doorway. He took her saddlebags from her hands. "Going somewhere tonight, Miss McCahy?"

"Yes!"

She tried to snatch the bags from him. His smile faded from his face, and he tossed the saddlebags on the floor of the porch. The sound reverberated, but neither of them heard it. Their eyes were locked.

"Malachi Slater—"

"You aren't coming, Shannon."

"Damn you, you can't—"

"I am sorry, Miss McCahy, but what I can't do is let you get yourself killed."

"Malachi—" She cried out in soft and wary warning. He stepped forward anyway and dipped low, catching her in the midriff and throwing her over his shoulder.

"Put me down, you damn Reb!" she ordered him. He just kept walking. She pummeled his back. "Malachi, Slater, you—"

"Shut up, Shannon."

"Scurvy bastard—"

His hand landed firmly upon her derriere. "This is such a delectable position!" He laughed, his footsteps falling upon the stairs.

She burst out with every oath she knew, beating savagely against his shoulders. He didn't seem to feel a thing, protected as he was by the heavy padding of his greatcoat.

Despite her wild fight, they came quickly to the second floor. His long strides brought them down the corridor to her room. He pushed the door open, and a second later tossed her hard upon her bed. Her skirts and petticoats flew around her, and she scrambled first for some dignity, pressing them down.

"Temper, temper, Shannon," he murmured.

"Temper!" She jumped to her knees, facing him. He arched a brow but didn't take a single step back. He seemed to be waiting for her next move, just waiting.

Shannon smiled and sank down on her pillows, comfortably crossing her arms over her chest. "Go ahead. Lock me in."

"I intend to."

"Aren't you forgetting?" she said sweetly. "This is so very foolish. The second that you're really gone, I will crawl right through that window. Now, it would just make so much more sense if you would be a reasonable man and—what are you doing?"

Shannon sat up, tensing, for he had turned away from her and was prowling through her drawers.

"Malachi?" She rose to her knees again, then leaped from the bed, accosting him. She pulled his hand out of her top drawer. A pair of her knit hose dangled from his hands.

"You're letting me come?" she said curiously. Then she realized from the grim determination on his features that he had no intention of letting her come. She still wasn't sure just what he meant to do.

Then he reached for her, sweeping her off her feet and plopping her down on her bed once again.

"Malachi, no!"

"Shannon, darlin', I'm sorry, yes!"

She let out a spate of oaths again, struggling fiercely against him. She didn't have much chance. He quickly had a grip on her wrists. No matter how she swore and raged and resisted, he tied them to the bedposts with her own knit stockings.

"I'll get you for this, Malachi Slater!"

"Maybe you will."

"I hope that your leg rots and falls off. Then I hope that the infection spreads, and that everything else rots and falls off."

Leaning over her, securing the last of the knots, he smiled. "Shannon, I don't think that was a very ladylike comment."

She narrowed her eyes. "This is no gentlemanly thing to do."

When he was done, he sat back, satisfied. She stared at him in trembling fury. A frightening and infuriating vulnerability drove her to try to kick him. He laughed and inched forward. He touched her cheek gently, almost tenderly.

"You're not coming, Shannon. I tried to warn you."

"Don't you dare touch me. Let me loose."

"You look lovely in bed."

"Get off my bed!"

"All that passion! It's quite—stirring, by God, Shannon, it is. I hope it remains if I'm ever tempted to take you into my bed."

"Malachi Slater, I promise you," Shannon grated out, straining at the bonds that tied her wrists and staring at him with rage and tears clouding her eyes, "the only way you'd ever get me into your bed would be to knock me out cold and then tie me to it!" She jerked hard upon her wrist.

He laughed, rose and bowed to her deeply, sweeping down his plumed hat. Then he came very close, and suddenly teased her forehead with the briefest touch. It might have been a kiss.

"Miss McCahy, I promise you. If I ever decide to bring you to bed, no ties or binds will be needed."

She gritted her teeth. "Get out!"

He swept his hat atop his head and offered her his slanted, rueful smile.

"Take care, Shannon. Who knows? Maybe the possibilities are worth exploring." He paused for a second. "And I promise you, darlin', that I will not let anything rot and fall off."

With that, he turned and left her.

CHAPTER FOUR

"You can't just leave me tied like this!" Shannon called in amazement to him as the door closed in his wake. She bit lightly into her lower lip. "I could rot and fall off and die!"

She heard the husky sound of his easy laughter—and the twist of the key in the door. "Delilah will be up in a few hours. You won't die, Shannon." He seemed to hesitate. "And you might well do so if you were to come with me. Delilah isn't going to let you go until my trail is as cold as ice, so just behave."

"Malachi!"

It was too late. He had gone. She could hear his footsteps as he pounded down the stairs.

With a cry of pure exasperation, Shannon jerked hard upon her wrists, men slammed her head against her pillow. Tears formed in her eyes.

How could she have been so incredibly stupid?

She tried to breathe deeply, to regain a sense of control. She stared at her left wrist, then tried to free it. He was good with knots, she determined. The ties did not hurt her, but they seemed impossible to loosen.

She fell back in exasperation.

There had to be some way out of it. There had to be.

She stared at the ceiling for several long minutes. The best she could come up with was a fairly dirty trick, but she had to try it.

She waited. This time, she wanted to make sure that he was gone. She waited longer.

Then she screamed, high-pitched, long and hard and with a note of pure terror.

Within seconds, Delilah burst in upon her, her dark skin gray with fear. "Shannon! What is it?"

"Beyond my window! Right outside! There's someone here, oh, I know it, Delilah!"

Shannon lowered her lashes quickly. She wondered if God would ever forgive her for the awful scare she was giving Delilah, then she figured that most men and women who had survived the war had a few sins on their consciences—God was just going to have to sort them all out. He would understand, after all they had been through, that she had to go after her sister herself, come what may.

"Outside, now?" Delilah whispered.

"Let me up before someone gets in!" Shannon urged her. She was whispering, too, and she didn't know why. It didn't make much sense, not after her blood-curdling scream.

Delilah hurried over to the bed, clicking her tongue as she worked on Shannon's left-hand knot. "Lord, child, but that man can tie a good knot!"

"Get a knife. There's a little letter opener in my top drawer. It's probably sharp enough."

Delilah nodded, hurrying. She came back and started sawing away at the stocking. "Yes, he sure can tie a knot!" she murmured once again.

"I know," Shannon said bleakly. Then she looked up, and her eyes met Delilah's.

Delilah jumped back, dropping the letter opener and shaking her finger at Shannon. "Why, you young devil! This whole thing was a ploy!"

Delilah had nearly severed the knot. Shannon yanked hard and managed to split the rest of the fibers. The letter opener was within her reach on the bed. She grabbed it before Delilah could reach it, and quickly severed the second bind.

Then she was free.

"Shannon McCahy—"

"I love you, Delilah," Shannon said, quickly hugging her and giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Take care of Gabe."

"Shannon, don't you go getting yourself killed! Your death will be on my conscience! Oh, Lord, but your poor pa must be rolling over in his grave!"

"Pa would understand," Shannon said, then she hurried from the room. She had lost a lot of time. Malachi would ride hard at night. It wouldn't be easy to catch up with him. Not that she wanted to meet up with him tonight. She just wanted to find him so that she could follow along behind him.

She hurried down the stairs. Delilah had picked up her saddlebags from the porch and dragged them into the hallway. Shannon knelt and checked her belongings. She reached into the top drawer beneath the empty Colt brackets and found matches and added them to her bags.

Delilah had followed her downstairs. Once again, Shannon hugged her.

"Come home soon," Delilah said.

"If Matthew comes, you tell him what happened. Maybe, maybe Matt can do something if the rest of us fail."

"Shannon—"

"We're not going to fail." She gave Delilah a brief, hard hug and hurried out of the house.

Entering the stables seemed strange, even just seeing the hay bales where she had fallen beneath Malachi.

She was startled to discover that she had paused and imagined the two of them as they had been that night, so very close in the hay. A curious heat swept over her, because she was remembering him as a man. The touch of his hands, the curve of his smile. The masculine scent of him. The husky tones of his voice.

She pressed her hands against her cheeks with shame. She wasn't in love with Malachi Slater. She didn't even like him. She had hated him for years.

But that wasn't what disturbed her. What disturbed her was a sense of disloyalty. She had been in love. Deeply in love. So in love that when she had heard of Robert's death, she had wanted to die herself. She had ceased to care about the war; she had ceased to care about the very world.

And now her cheeks were heating because Malachi Slater had spent the night touching her…

In anger, she reminded herself.

But with laughter, too, and with a new tension. And he had teased and taunted her.

And promised her things.

He had whispered against her flesh, and his words had often been husky and warm. She had never denied him his dashing charm or, in her heart, his bold masculinity.

She had just never realized how deeply it could touch her as a woman.

Her breath seemed to catch in her throat and she emitted a soft sound of annoyance with herself. He was a Rebel, and he was Malachi, and she would never forgive him for being either. She needed him tonight. And she would find him.

She quickly assessed the horses in the stables. She chose not to take Arabesque, her own mare, for the horse was a dapple gray, a color that glowed in the moonlight. She patted the mare quickly. "Not this time, sweetheart. I need someone dark as the night, and fleet as a bullet. Hmm…"

She had to hurry.

Without wasting further time, she decided on Chapperel, a swift and beautiful animal, part Arabian, part racer, nearly seventeen hands high and able to run like lightning.

He was also as black as jet, as black as the night.

"Come on, boy, we're going for a ride," she told the gelding, as she quickly saddled and bridled him and led him from the stables.

She looked at the sky. There was barely a sliver of a moon, but the stars were bright Still, the trail would be very dark. It would be almost impossible for her to track Malachi.

But maybe it wouldn't be so hard to track the twenty horses that had raced before him. They had headed west— that much she knew for a fact.

And they would be staying off the main roads, she thought.

The Red Legs who had taken Kristin might still be a part of the Union army, and then again, they might not. No Union commander in his right mind was going to sanction the kidnapping of young women. No, these people had to be outlaws…

And they wouldn't be taking the main roads. They would be heading west by the smaller trails, and that was what she would do, too.

How much of a lead did Malachi have on her? An hour at most.

Shannon nudged the gelding, and he broke instantly into a smooth and swift canter.

And seconds later, he was galloping. The night wind cooled Shannon's face and touched her with the sweet fragrance of the earth. The darkness swept around her as she crossed the ranch and then the open plain.

Then it was time to choose a trail. She ignored the main road where the wagons headed west and where, over the past years, armies had marched by with their cannons and caissons. There was a smaller trail, rough and ragged and barely discernible, through the trees.

She reined in and dismounted and moved close to the ground, picking up a clump of earth. There were hoof marks all around.

She rose and felt a newly broken branch.

This was the trail she would take.

Malachi knew Missouri like the back of his hand.

He knew the cities, and he knew the Indian territories, and the farmlands and ranches. He could slip through Kentucky and Arkansas and even parts of Texas with his eyes nearly closed.

But these boys were moving west into Kansas. In another hour, they'd be over the border.

And he was an ex-Confederate cavalry captain, still wearing his uniform jacket.

He should have changed it. He should have accepted Shannon's offer of a civilian jacket, but somehow, he had been loathe to part with the uniform. He'd been wearing it for too many years. He'd ridden with too many good men, and he'd seen too many of them shot down in the prime of life, to forget the war. It was over. That was what they said. Abraham Lincoln had said that they must bind the wounds. "With malice towards none, with justice for all."

But then Old Abe had been gunned down, too, and in the blink of an eye, the South had begun to see what was going to be.

She was broken; she was laid to waste. Northern opportunists and plain old crooks swept down upon the fine manors and mansions, and liquor-selling con men were stirring up the ex-slaves to wage a new kind of war against their former masters. Homes and farms were being seized; men and women and children were starving in much of the devastated South.

No…

He probably shouldn't be heading into Kansas in a Confederate jacket. It was just damned hard to take it off. They didn't have a whole lot left. Just pride.

He had fought in the regular cavalry. Fought hard, and fought brilliantly. They had often hung on against impossible odds. They had a right to be proud, even in defeat.

And maybe, even in Kansas, he might have been able to ride through in his uniform if he wasn't who he was. If there hadn't been wanted posters out on him. But if he found himself picked up by the law because of his pride, he wouldn't be able to do Kristin any good, he would probably be hanged, and his pride would definitely be worthless stuff.

Tomorrow, he would pick up some clothes someplace.

He'd be much better off traveling as a simple rancher. Displaced, maybe. An ex-Reb. He wouldn't be so damned obvious. Not that he meant to be in Kansas long. He would get

Kristin and get out. There would be plenty of places, deep in Missouri, to hide out until he found Cole and Jamie and decided what to do.

A swift gray shadow seemed to fall over his heart.

They would probably have to leave the country. Head down to Mexico, or over to Europe. The thought infuriated him. The injustice of it was absurd, but no one was going to give any of the Slater brothers a chance to explain. That son of a bitch Fitz had branded them, and because they were Rebs, the brand was going to stick.

Malachi reined in suddenly. In the distance, far ahead, he could see the soft glow of a new fire.

The Red Legs had stopped to make camp for the night.

He nudged the bay mare forward once again. He had been riding hard for hours, and it was nearly midnight, but they still had a certain distance on him.

Carefully, warily, Malachi closed that distance.

When the crackling fires were still far ahead of him, he dismounted from the bay. He whispered to the horse and dropped the reins, then started forward on foot.

The Red Legs had stopped in a large copse right beside a slim stream. Coming up behind them through the trees, Malachi found a close position guarded by a large rock and hunkered down to watch.

There were at least twenty men. They were busy cooking up beans and a couple of jackrabbits on two separate spits. A number of the men had lain down against their saddles before the fire, but a number of them were on guard, too. Three men were watching the horses, tethered to the left of the stream. As he looked across the clearing, Malachi could see two of them against the trees.

They were armed with the new Spencer repeating rifles. They would be no easy prey.

Looking around again, he saw the worst of it.

Kristin was tied to a tree near the brook. Her beautiful blond hair tumbled around her face, but her skin was white and her eyes were closed. She was exhausted, and desolate…

And guarded by two men.

Even as Malachi watched, the situation changed. The tall, burly man who had taken her from the house was walking her way. He bent beside her. Her eyes flew open and she stared at him with stark hatred. The man laughed.

"Sweet thing, I just thought that you might be hungry."

"Hungry for the likes of you, eh, Bear?" shouted a tall, lean dirty blond with a scruffy mustache. He stood up and sauntered toward the tree. He leaned down by Kristin, too. "Sweet, sweet thing. My, my, why don't you come on over and have dinner with me? Roger Holstein, ma'am—"

Kristin spit at him. A roar of laughter went up, and the young man's face darkened with fury. He lunged for her.

The man he'd called Bear pulled him back. "You keep your hands off her."

"Why? We weren't even supposed to bring her back. We were supposed to find Cole Slater. So you tell me why I can't have the woman."

Another man by the fire stood up. "Why should you have her, Holstein? What's the matter with the rest of us?"

"No one's gonna have her, and that's the way I say it is!" Bear bellowed, and Malachi slumped against the rock, relieved. Bear took a step toward Roger Holstein, shaking his fist. "You listen, and you listen good. The woman is mine. I took her. And I'm still the law in this unit—"

"Hell!" Roger Holstein muttered. "We ain't no unit anymore. The war is over."

"We're a unit. We're a unit because we belong to Fitz, just like we always have. And I was there that day Cole Slater shot down Henry and half a troop. He ain't no fool. If he hears that she's already been abused by you pack of trash, he'll take his time. He'll come after us slow and careful. And he won't be alone. He's got a pair of brothers who can pick the eyes out of hummingbirds in the next damn state with their Colts." Bear hesitated, looking at Kristin. "We don't hurt the woman."

"Hell, Bear, I wasn't going to hurt her!" Roger complained. "I was gonna make her have a hell of a good time!"

"You don't touch her. Fitz decides what to do with her. By my mind, leaving the lady her tender flesh and sweet chastity will come in real handy as bargaining power."

For a moment, Malachi thought that fighting was going to break out right then. He prayed silently that it would not; he would never be able to slip away with Kristin if it did.

He didn't think that his prayers would be answered. The tension among the men was as thick as flies on a steer carcass. It escalated until every man in the place was silent, until only the sound of the crackling fires could be heard.

Then Roger Holstein backed down.

"Have it your way, Bear. We'll see. When we get back to Fitz, we'll see."

"Damned right, we will," Bear agreed.

Malachi looked at Kristin. Her eyes were closed again. She was silent and probably grateful that the situation had calmed.

Thank God it was Kristin there and not Shannon. Shannon was incapable of keeping silent She would be raging and fighting and biting and kicking and creating complete disaster.

Malachi sank against the rock, closing his eyes, exhaling slowly. He wondered what had made him think of Shannon.

The whole damned night had been filled with Shannon, he reminded himself wryly. But she was safe. Delilah would just be releasing her sometime around now. And she would know that there would be no way in hell to follow a trail that cold.

Thank God it wasn't Shannon? he queried himself. Hmph! If it had been Shannon, he wouldn't be here now. He wouldn't be sneaking into Kansas in his Confederate uniform. He'd be headed south. If it had been Shannon kidnapped, he would have pitied the damned Red Legs.

No, she surely hadn't been a Circe this evening. She had been a complete spitfire, stubborn, willful and…

Beautiful.

Just like the woman in his dream, the sweet vision who had brought him from the brink of death. She was beautiful, perhaps even more beautiful than Kristin, for she was a searing flame, with a life so vibrant that her golden hair was touched by the fire, as were her eyes, brilliant, sparkling, searing. Her voice was like a lark's, sweet and pure…even when she yelled.

Actually, he wasn't thinking about her eyes.

He was thinking about her hands, and the tenderness in her fingers when she had cleansed and bound his wound.

No…

He wasn't even thinking about that.

He was thinking about the provocative swell of her breasts when she leaned over him, when she brushed against him. He was thinking of the lithe and shapely heat of her body, the slimness of her waist, the softness of her flesh, the full sensuality of her lips.

Shannon had grown up.

He slunk down into the rock, pulling his hat low over his forehead. She was still Shannon McCahy. The little brat who had been on his tail since he had first walked onto the McCahy ranch. She had fired at him that very first time, and she was firing at him still.

He smiled and leaned back.

He had kissed her once. To shut her up. They were all playing innocent when a Yank officer had come by the ranch, and Shannon, bless her sweet, sweet hide, would have gladly handed him right over.

And so he had kissed her.

It did seem to be the only way to shut her up.

But the kiss had been sweet. Her passion then had been that of anger, but passion nevertheless, and it had feathered against his senses until he had realized who she was, and what he was doing.

But now, tonight, he remembered that kiss.

He opened his eyes and clamped his teeth together. He knotted his fingers into fists and then slowly released them, suddenly aware that he wanted her. That he desired her, hotly, hungrily and completely.

Wanting a woman wasn't so strange, he reminded himself. Over the years, he had wanted a number of women, and, during the war, when lovers were quickly won and lovers quickly lost, many young women, like many men, were quick to seek the solace of the moment. The women he had wanted he had often had. The widow in Arkansas, the desolate, lonely farm woman in Kentucky, the dance-hall girl in Mississippi.

Once, it seemed like a long, long time ago now, there had been a girl he had loved. Ariel Denison. Ariel… He had even loved the sound of her name. They had been very young. The sight of him could bring a flush to her cheeks, and the warmth of her dark eyes upon him alone could bring forth all the ardor in his heart and soul. Her father had approved, and they were to have been married in June. They spent what May days they could together, hand in hand, racing down to the stream, daring to swim together, daring to come to the shore and lie naked in the sweet grasses, making love. He'd never known anything so deep, or so wonderful…

But by June, she was gone. A cholera epidemic swept through the countryside, and Ariel, smiling to the last, had died in his arms, whispering her last words of love with the last of her breaths. He had not cared then if he contracted the disease. He hadn't cared at all, but he had lived. Since then, he hadn't fallen in love again. He had given his passion to his land; his loyalty had been to his family and, once the war came, to the Confederacy.

He didn't remember much about love…

But no man lived long without desire. He was used to that. So it was strange to discover with what depth and fervor he desired Shannon.

The brat. His foremost enemy. The ardent, fanatical Unionist. The bane of his every trip to the ranch. Shannon…

"Hey!" came a sudden, loud shout. "Did you hear that?"

Malachi turned around, looking over the rock toward the camp. The guards by the horses were moving. Half the men had begun to settle down for the evening.

Now they were waking up.

Bear strode toward the guards. "What? What is it? I don't hear anything."

"There's something there. Something out in the bushes."

They had seen him. They had heard him, Malachi thought.

But they hadn't. The guard was pointing in the other direction.

"You scared of a bobcat or a weasel?" Bear sneered.

"It weren't no weasel!" the guard protested.

Bear paused, then shrugged. He looked at two of the men. "You, Wills, and you, Hartman, go take a look around. The rest of you, keep your eyes open."

Hell! Malachi thought. If they went snooping around too far, they would find the bay. He cursed whatever creature had been sneaking around the camp. If it was a weasel, he hoped some poor bastard ate the creature.

He sank against his rock. They weren't going to look for him there, not right beneath their noses. He was going to have to sit tight and wait. If they would just settle down for the night, even with the guards on duty, he would be able to reach Kristin. Once the camp was quiet, he would be able to circle around and come at her from the stream. He would have to kill the guards by the horses; he wouldn't have any choice.

Malachi frowned suddenly, feeling the earth beneath his hands. He lay against the ground and listened to the tremors of the earth.

Someone else was out riding that night. Not too far distant, a group of horsemen was coming toward them.

A Union patrol?

He thought they were still in Missouri, but they might have crossed over the border. They had really headed south as much as they had headed west. Not that it mattered much. Union patrols were everywhere.

But it could also be a Southern outfit, heading home.

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it did.

He tensed, waiting.

Then a shrill and furious scream caught his attention. He swung around, looking into the center of the Red Legs camp.

"Son of a bitch!" he swore beneath his breath, staring. "If they leave behind just a piece of her, I'm going to skin her alive!"

Shannon had just been thrown into the center of the camp. Hartman and Wills had brought her, and with laughter and gusto cast her with force into the den of rogues.

Wills was limping, swearing away.

"She shot off my toe!" he howled.

"Thank God she can't aim," Roger said, chortling.

"I did aim, you stupid ass," Shannon said with venom. "If I'd have wished it, I'd have shot out your heart."

Wills went silent; even Roger went silent. There was a chill around them all, as if they knew her words to be the truth.

"Get down there, witch!" Wills swore savagely. He shoved her down, hard.

She landed on her knees. She had changed clothing, and wore tight black trousers, a gingham tailored shirt and a pair of sturdy brown boots. She'd worn a hat, a broad-brimmed hat, but now it lay several feet from her in the dust. Her hair had been pinned, but the pins were strewn around her, and her hair was falling, like a golden sunrise, in delicate rays down her back.

Malachi bit hard into his lip as she raised her chin to face Bear, all her heat and fury and passion alive in her eyes. She shouldn't have changed. The perfection of her form was even more apparent in the tight breeches and man's shirt, and he was not the only one to notice. The Red Legs were all rising, one by one, creating a circle around her.

"My, my, my," Roger Holstein drawled. He moved his tongue over his lips. "What have we here?" He stepped out of the circle, coming toward her. Shannon struggled quickly to her feet. Malachi tensed, watching the sizzle in her eyes.

"Don't be stupid, Shannon!" he muttered to himself. "Be quiet, be good, let them tie you up and I can get you out… don't be stupid!"

But she was going to be stupid. Roger reached for her, and Shannon moved like lightning, sinking her teeth into his hand. He screamed with pain, then caught her with his backhand, sending her spiraling into the dirt. "Bitch!" he roared.

The men laughed like hyenas. "Least she didn't shoot you, Roge!" Wills said.

Roger came forward again, sucking at his sore hand.

"Get away from her," Bear ordered, coming into the center of the ring.

"Oh, no, you don't," Roger said with hostility. "That one is for Fitz. Fine. This one is mine."

"I'll die first, I swear it!" Shannon hissed from the ground. She seemed to sense that her only hope was Bear. Holding her cheek, she rose and raced behind him. "I'll kill you—"

"Yeah, watch it, man, the little lady will bite you to death!" someone jeered.

"Get out of my way, Bear!" Roger howled. "She's mine!"

"No!"

"You've got Slater's wife—"

"This is his sister-in-law, you idiot."

Roger paused to look from one woman to the other. It was impossible to miss the resemblance. "So they're sisters. So what of it?"

Kristin called out then. "You touch her, and I'll kill myself, you bastard! Then you'll have nothing, nothing at all—"

"Kristin!"

Shannon burst through the throng of men, racing for her sister. Bear caught her just before she could get to Kristin's side. He swept her up by the waist, laughing. "Little darlin'!" he exclaimed. "If you go to anybody, sweet pea, you go to old papa bear!"

He reached up with one of his great hands and clutched the front of her shirt, tearing. Shannon screamed and savagely swung a kick his way.

She did know how to aim.

With a tremendous groan, Bear dropped her and doubled over. Shannon pulled his gun from his holster and swung around, facing the men, who were all on their feet.

"Don't take a chance," she warned them, backing carefully toward Kristin. "I know what I'm doing with this thing."

"You can't kill us all," Roger told her, but he didn't take another step her way.

"I can castrate at least six of you," Shannon promised, and at least six of the men took a step backward.

"Now, all that I want is my sister," Shannon began. She kept talking, but Malachi no longer heard her words because there was movement behind her. One of the guards watching the horses had drawn his knife and was sneaking up behind her.

"Damn!" Malachi mouthed. He couldn't shoot at the man; Shannon was in the way. If she would move…just a hair.

She didn't. The guard came up behind her and slipped the knife around her quickly, right at her throat, against her jugular.

"Castrate us!" Roger chortled as she dropped the gun.

"Why, honey, we're all going to make you glad that you didn't—"

The man with the knife moved. Just enough.

Damn her, damn her, damn her, Malachi thought. They were probably all dead now. But he couldn't wait any longer.

He rose and he fired. He got the guard right between the eyes. The man fell.

Shannon reached down for the gun she had dropped. Confusion reigned as men rushed toward her, as men looked around, anxious to discover who had fired the shot.

Malachi kept shooting. He didn't have any choice. He tried to aim and focus and to keep a good eye on Shannon, too. Men fell, and men screamed, and dust flew. But there were too many of them, just too many of them.

Shannon had been holding her own. But in the midst of the melee, Bear stumbled to his feet. He staggered toward Shannon from the rear while another man approached her from the front. She aimed forward…

And Bear took a firm swipe against her arm, sending the gun flying. She turned to fight, and he punched her hard in the mouth. Her eyes closed and she slumped to the ground.

"Get him! Get that varmint in the woods!" Bear ordered.

"Varmint?" Malachi stood up, staring at Bear. "Excuse me, you jayhawking jackals. Captain Malachi Slater, late of Hunt's magnificent cavalry, and still, my friends, a Southern gentleman. Shall we?"

"It's a damned Reb!" one of the guards shouted.

"It's more than that. It's a damned Reb Slater!" Bear roared. "Kill him!"

Well, this is it, Malachi thought. Shannon had wanted him to die for honor, and he would just have to go down that way. He stood, firing again and again as the Red Legs raced toward him, trying to fire, but failing. He ran out of bullets as a pair of them charged over the rocks, but he had his saber with him, and he drew that. He charged in turn, and managed to kill the first two men, but more of them were coming for him, more and more…

He was engaged with one fighter when he noticed a carbine aimed his way. He wasn't even going to have time to ask forgiveness of his sins, he thought. No time to mourn…

A blast sounded.

It was the Yank holding the carbine who fell, and not Malachi. Amazed, he looked around.

Hoofbeats! He had heard the hoofbeats! And now the riders were upon them.

"It's a pack of Red Legs!" shouted a man leaping into the scene on a dapple gray stallion. "Red Legs! Bloody, bleeding, murderin', connivin' Red Legs!"

"Reg Legs!" came another shout.

And they all let out with a sound near and dear to Malachi at that moment.

A Rebel cry went up. Savage, sweet, beautiful to his ears.

He watched as the six horsemen charged the scene. They were in plumed hats and railroad coats, no uniforms, and yet he thought he knew who they were. He was sure that he recognized the young man on the dapple gray mare.

He did. These boys had been with Quantrill. He knew two of them. Frank and Jesse James. Jesse had been a bare kid when he had tasted his first blood, but then lots of boys had become men quickly in the war.

Now this little group was probably headed home, toward southern Missouri. They still seemed young. Even with the war over. But then, Quantrill had depended on young blood, youthful, eager, savage raiders.

Quantrill was dead now. Bloody Bill Anderson was dead, and Little Archie Clement was dead. Archie who had loved to scalp his enemies. Archie had been with the bushwhackers who had so savagely mowed down the contingent of Union officers sent to catch them, the contingent that had included Shannon's fiance"…

Well, Malachi didn't think much of bushwhackers, but these boys had come just in time. Maybe Shannon would accept rescue. Maybe she would keep her mouth closed. But he had to get to her.

He could barely see through the tangle of fighting men and horses, bushwhackers and jayhawkers. He rose, staring over the wavering light of the fires.

He heard a high-pitched scream, and his heart thudded painfully.

He looked between a pair of horses as they danced, a deadly dance for their riders. In the gap he could see Bear. The man was cutting Kristin loose from the tree and throwing her over his shoulder.

Roger Holstein broke away from the battle and joined Bear. Wills, with his bloody toe, ran after them, too.

"Damn it, no!" Malachi swore. Where was Shannon? He couldn't see her. Did the bushwhackers have her, too?

No, they didn't, not that group, anyway. Bear and Holstein and Wills had mounted and pulled away. They were heading fast for the trail, heading west.

"Damn it, no!" Malachi raged again, pushing his way through the warring bushwhackers and jayhawkers, racing toward the Union horses. Bear was gone with Kristin, long gone before he could reach them.

"Malachi!"

It was Shannon. He whirled around in time to see one of the James brothers racing along beside her and sweeping her up onto his mount.

"Hey, you got yourself a girl, Frank!" One of the other riders laughed.

"Not just a girl, Jessie! D'you know who this is?"

"Who?"

"That Yankee-lovin' McCahy brat! Had herself hitched up to one for a while, before we did him in—ouch!" he screamed, looking down at the girl thrown over his saddle, then up at his brother again. "She bites."

"Yellow-bellied bushwhackers!" Shannon screamed. But Malachi sensed something different in her screams, in the sound of her voice.

He heard the pain.

She knew now that these men had been there the day when Robert Ellsworth had been killed, and she would never ask for their mercy.

"Shannon!" he thundered her name over the clash of steel and the explosion of gunfire.

"Let's go!" Frank shouted. He fired a number of shots into the air.

Malachi had swung around, racing toward Frank, when one of the Red Legs jumped in front of him, his sword drawn.

He didn't have time for a fight!

The mounted bushwhackers were gathering together. They had come, they had done their damage. Now they were riding away.

The Red Legs with the sword lunged toward Malachi.

"Ah, hell!" Malachi swore, engaging in the battle. The fellow wasn't a bad swordsman. In fact, he did damned well.

He grinned at Malachi as their swords locked at the hilt. "West Point, class of '58."

"Good for you, ya bloody Yank!" Malachi retorted. He pulled away, parrying a sudden thrust, ducking another.

The riders were pounding farther and farther away, into the night.

"You're good, Reb!" his opponent called.

"Thanks, and you're in my way, Yank," Malachi replied.

"In your way? Why, you're almost dead, man!"

"No, sir, you are almost dead."

Always fight with a cool head…

It had been one of the first rules that Malachi had ever learned. His comment had provoked his opponent. It was the advantage he needed.

The Red Legs lifted his sword high for a smashing blow. Malachi thrust straight, catching the man quickly and cleanly through the heart.

He fell without a whimper.

Malachi pulled his sword clean and leaped away from his fallen foe, swinging to counter any new attack.

But he was alone.

Alone with a sea of corpses.

At least twelve of the Red Legs lay dead, strewn here and there over their camp bags, over their saddles, over then-weapons; some shot and some thrust through by swords. Only one of the raiders lay on the ground. A very young boy with a clear complexion.

He groaned. Malachi stooped beside him, carefully turning him over. Blood stained his shirt. Malachi opened it quickly. There was no way the boy could live. He'd been riddled with shot in the chest Malachi pressed the tail ends of the shirt hard against him, trying to staunch the flow of blood. The boy opened his eyes.

"I'm going to die, captain, ain't I?"

He might have said something else, but the boy already knew. Malachi nodded. "The pain will be gone, boy."

"I can't die. I got tobacco in my pocket. Ma would just kill me. That's a laugh, ain't it? But she'd be awful, awful disappointed in me."

"I'll get that tobacco out, boy," Malachi said.

The youth's eyes had already closed again. Malachi thought that the boy had heard him, though. It seemed that his lip curled into a grateful smile just as the life left his eyes.

Malachi eased the boy to the ground. Someone would come, and someone would find him.

This was border country still. He might be sent to his home.

Malachi dug the tobacco out of the boy's pocket and tossed it over one of the older Red Legs. "Your ma won't find no tobacco, boy," he said softly. Then he stood and he looked around at the sea of dead again.

The clearing was absurdly silent and peaceful now. Its inhabitants all lay quiet, tumbled atop one another as if they rested in a strange and curious sleep. He walked among them quickly, cursing to himself, but he couldn't just leave a man if he was wounded, whether he was a Reb or a Yank.

He needn't have worried. Every one of the Red Legs in the clearing was dead. Dead, and growing cold

Malachi stepped from the clearing and looked down the road. He stared up at the night sky. The silence was all around him. The sound of horses' hooves had died away in the distance.

"Damn!" he swore.

The Red Legs had taken Kristin in one direction.

The raiders had taken Shannon the opposite way.

Which the hell did he follow?

He didn't take long to decide. He would get Shannon first. He could bargain with the James boys, he was sure. If Shannon could keep quiet for about two seconds he could get her back quickly. He would go after Shannon first.

Though for the life of him, he wasn't at all sure why.

CHAPTER FIVE

Shannon could not remember a more miserable night in her life.

The raider party traveled through what remained of it. Somewhere, at the beginning, she had said something that the men really hadn't liked—though she couldn't see where they would like anything that she had to say to them—and she had been bound hand and foot and gagged and tossed over the haunches of the horse.

Then they had begun to ride, in earnest.

They knew their territory. They followed no specific route. They traveled over plains and through tangles of bracken and brush.

They talked about going home, and they talked about the friend they had left behind.

"Willie was dead, shot in the chest, there wasn't nothing that we could do. He went down fighting."

"Yeah, he went down fighting. Well, the war's over. Someone ought to find him and give his body to his ma."

"Yeah, someone ought to find him."

"God help him."

"God help us all."

For a while, Shannon listened to their words, but she couldn't believe that they would try to invoke God's aid, and then, as they kept on quietly conversing, she began to weave in and out of reality. She couldn't understand them anymore. She knew who they were. The remnants of Quantrill's Raiders. They had ridden with Quantrill. They had ridden with Bloody Bill Anderson, and with little Archie Clement.

They might well have been with the raiders on a bloody awful day outside Centralia when the bushwhackers had massacred the small contingent of green recruits sent after them. When they had dismembered the corpses and the dying, scalped them and sliced off ears and noses and privates to be stuffed down their throats…

It was how Captain Robert Ellsworth had died. And as she lay trussed and tossed over the haunches of the horse, it made her feel faint, and it made her feel ill.

The night went on and on.

Then Shannon realized that it wasn't night anymore, it was day. They had traveled miles and miles without rest, or if they had paused to rest, she had been unconscious when they had done so.

It was no longer night. It was day. The sun streamed overhead, and the songs of larks could be heard on the air. Somewhere nearby, a brook bubbled and played.

They had come so far. So very far. She wondered bleakly where Kristin was. She had been so certain that when the Red Legs had settled down and slept, she would have been able to slip in and free her sister.

But then the men had come for her.

And now Kristin was being taken one way, and she was being taken another.

And where was Malachi? He had been there. She had seen him firing and fighting, and then he had disappeared. And then she had seen him again just when she had been swept up into the arms of the bushwhacker.

He had probably followed Kristin, she thought. He had gone for his brother's wife. And she was glad of it, Shannon thought. She was so glad of it, because the men might well hurt Kristin…

What were these men going to do with her?

The gag choked her, making her feel ill all over again.

They knew her. They knew that she was old McCahy's daughter, and that her sympathy had been with the North. They surely knew that she was Cole Slater's sister-in-law, but that probably wouldn't count for much. She had been engaged to marry a Union officer, she was the sister of a Union officer, and they knew that she hated them with every breath in her body.

What would they do to her?

And what could be worse than this torture she had already endured, hanging hour after hour over the horse this way, her face slamming against the sweaty flesh and hair and flanks of the animal? She ached in every muscle of her body. It would never, never end.

Then suddenly, at last, they stopped.

Hands wound around her waist, pulling her from the horse. Had she been able to, she would have screamed at the sudden agony of the movement; it felt as if her arms were breaking.

"There you go, Yank," the man said, setting her down beneath a tree. The others were dismounting. They formed a semicircle around her, all of them staring at her.

"What are we going to do with her, Frank?"

The man who asked the question stepped forward. His name was Jesse, Shannon knew that much. And he was Frank's brother. The two of them had spoken occasionally during the endless ride.

Neither of them was much older than she, but they both carried a curious coldness in their eyes. Perhaps they had ceased to feel; perhaps they had even lost a sense of humanity in all the violence of their particular war. She didn't know. And at that moment, she was so worn and exhausted, she wasn't even sure that she cared.

"I wonder what the Red Legs wanted with her," Jesse mused.

"Same thing any man would want with her, I reckon," someone spoke up from the rear. Shannon blinked, trying to see him. He was tall and dark-haired with a pencil-slim mustache, and he smiled at her in such a way that she felt entirely naked.

She closed her eyes. At that particular moment, she just wanted to die. Bushwhackers. The same men who had brutalized Robert might be about to touch her. Death would be infinitely better.

"Better loosen up that gag," the one named Jesse said. "We're losing her, I think. She's going to pass out on us."

Frank stepped forward, slipping the gag from her mourn. Shannon fought a sudden wave of nausea. He leaned over her and slit the ropes tying her wrists and ankles. Her blood started to flow again, but she could still barely move. She rubbed her wrists, backing against the tree, staring at the lot of them. There were five of them left. Jesse and Frank, Jesse with a round young face and dark, attractive eyes, Frank taller and leaner, older. There was the dark-haired man who taunted, and two smaller, light-haired men. Maybe they were brothers, too, she didn't know.

"What's your name?" Jesse asked.

She stared at him in furious silence. They seemed to know everything else. They ought to know her name.

"Shannon. Shannon McCahy," the tall, dark-haired one said. "She was picked up with her sister when the Federals decided to put all the families away. She was there when the house fell apart, when Bill's sister and those other girls were killed and wounded."

"Then she's a Southerner—" Jesse began.

Frank snorted and spit on the ground. "She ain't no Southerner, Jesse. You heard her. She's Yank through and through. Just like her blue-belly pa with the yellow streak down his back—"

Movement came back to her. She felt no pain. Like a bolt of lightning, Shannon flew at the man in a rage. She did so with such force that he went flying to the ground. "You murderers!" she hissed."You hideous rodents… murderers!'' Pummeling the startled man who couldn't seem to fight her fury, Shannon then saw the gun in his belt. She grabbed it and aimed it straight at his nose. The others had been about to seize her. She swung around with Frank's Colt, aiming it right at Jesse. He lifted his hands and backed away.

"We didn't kill your pa, little girl," Jesse said softly. "We weren't there. Zeke Moreau had his own splinter group. You know that."

She gritted her teeth, thinking about Robert, trembling inwardly at the depth of the hate that seared her. She could have pulled the trigger. She would have happily maimed or wounded or killed any one of them. When she thought about Centralia…

Jesse knelt in front of her, speaking earnestly. "You're just seeing one side of it, you know. One side. They came in— the jayhawkers, the Red Legs—they came in and ripped us all up really bad, too, you know. We all got farms burned down or kin slain. It always did work two ways—"

"Two ways!" Shannon exclaimed. "Two ways!" She was choking. "I never heard of anything as bad as Centralia. Ever. In the town, unarmed men were stripped and shot down. And outside the town, the things you people did to the Union men shouldn't have been done to the lowest of creatures, much less human beings—"

"You obviously haven't seen much of the handiwork done by your friends, the Red Legs," the tall, dark man said dryly.

"You ain't gonna change her mind," Frank said from the ground.

The dark-haired man moved closer, a wary eye on the Colt. "My name is Justin Waller, Miss McCahy. And I was there, at Centralia—"

"Bastard!" Shannon hissed.

"Justin—" Jesse warned sharply, but Shannon already had the gun aimed straight between Justin Waller's eyes. She pulled the trigger.

And she heard the click of an empty chamber.

"Son of a bitch!" Justin swore. He reached for Shannon.

She couldn't escape him quickly enough and he dragged her to her feet. She screamed as he twisted her arm hard behind her back.

"Justin—" Jesse began.

"That bitch meant to kill me!"

"Don't hurt her. We don't know what we're doing with her yet."

"I know what I'm gonna do with her," Justin growled savagely. His free hand played over her throat and the rise of her breasts, which had been left bare when the Red Legs had ripped her shirt. The little pink flowers and white linen of her corset were absurdly delicate against the tattered fragments of the man's ranch shirt.

Shannon recoiled, kicking out desperately. Justin pulled harder upon her arm and she choked back another scream of pain. He pressed her to her knees. "Get me some rope, Jesse. I'm too damned tired to truly enjoy what I intend to do with this little beauty. And she can't be trusted an inch."

Jesse lifted a length of rope from his saddle pommel, but he stared at Justin contemplatively as he walked toward him. "We ain't decided about her yet, Justin."

"We ain't decided what?" Justin had his knee in Shannon's back as he looped the rope around her wrists.

She gritted her teeth against the pain.

"She's kin to Cole Slater," Jesse said softly. "And I never did cotton to the idea of rape and murder, Justin."

"You rode with Quantrill."

"Quantrill didn't murder women."

"All right, Jesse. All right. I ain't gonna murder her."

"You're right, you ain't. I'm in control here."

"War's over, Jesse."

"I'm still in control here, you understand that."

Justin jerked hard on the rope, then shoved Shannon flat on the ground. She tasted dirt as he grasped her ankles and began looping a knot around them.

"Maybe we oughta just let her go," one of the light-haired men said. "Hell, Justin, we ain't supposed to rape our own kind—"

"She ain't our own kind. And if we just let her go, she'll have the law down on us so fast our heads will spin. That is, if she doesn't get hold of another gun. She shot at me, you fools. She meant to kill me. And you all say what you want, she's going to pay for that."

He jerked hard on the last of his knots. He reached for Shannon's shoulders and dragged her face up close to his. "Bitch, when I wake up, we're going to have some real, real fun."

Shannon spit at him.

Swearing, he wiped his face and tossed her down hard beneath the tree. He stared at the four others, who were looking his way. "And you all can watch, join in or turn the other way, I just don't give a damn."

Shannon watched Jesse James set his jaw hard. "I'm in control here, Justin. We agreed. Don't you forget that."

Justin ignored Jesse and went to his horse. He loosened his saddle and pulled it off and threw it beneath the tree next to Shannon. He fumbled through his saddlebags for a canteen. Looking furiously at the other men, he walked down a grassy slope to the fresh-running spring water of a stream.

"Water," Frank James muttered, following Justin.

Jesse remained, staring at Shannon. She didn't know what he was thinking. "Lots of people lost in this war," he told her quietly. "Hell, ma'am, I do not like half the things I learned to do, but I doubt that I'll ever forget them. We all want to remember the weddings and the christenings and the flowers in the fields on a Sunday. Hell, I never really wanted to get so damned good at killing. I just did." He paused. "You shouldn'ta shot at Justin. It was a mistake."

"He's an animal. He was there—at Centralia. You heard him."

"You still shouldn't have tried to kill him. You got his temper up way high."

He turned away from her. Justin was back, drinking water from his canteen. It spilled over his face and trickled down his jaw. It reminded Shannon just how desperately thirsty she was. He stared at her, and she saw he knew of her thirst. He smiled and drank more deeply.

She wasn't going to beg. Not of a man like that.

Frank James was back by then, too. He was drinking from a wooden Confederate-issue canteen with his initials engraved into the wood. He looked at her, then knelt by her, lifting her head.

"Don't give her no water!" Justin said irritably. "I'll give it to her." He smiled, nudging at Shannon's rump with an evil leer. "If she's good, if she's real good, she'll get some water. You'll see, my friends. Old Justin knows how to take a Yankee shrew."

Frank ignored him, lifting Shannon's head, allowing a trickle of water to cool her face and seep into her mouth. She drank it thirstily.

"Frank!" Justin swore.

Frank told Justin what he should do with himself, and Justin jumped to his feet. Shannon watched the two men with interest, her heart thundering. If they would just rip each other to shreds…

Jesse, who was now leaning against the tree, paring off a bite of dried beef from a strip he'd taken from his saddlebags, spoke sarcastically. "That's good, you two. Real good. Kill each other. She's enjoying every minute of it."

Both men stopped. They stared at her.

"Let's all get some sleep," Jesse said. "You want her that bad, Justin, the girl's yours. But don't kill her. I ain't no murderer of women and children, and I ain't ever gonna be."

He stretched out on the ground, leaning his head upon his saddle. Frank swore and chose another tree.

The two light-haired men found their own shade, and Justin smiled as he settled down beside Shannon. She stared at him, her face against the earth, hating him. He laughed and reached out, slipping his arm around her, twisting her over and pulling her close against him. She squirmed and struggled, choking on the tears that threatened to stream down her face. "Bastard, I swear I'd just as soon die!" she hissed vehemently.

Justin laughed at her futile efforts. Tied hand and foot as she was, she wasn't going to do anything.

His hand hooked beneath her breasts as he pulled her against his chest and the curve of his body. His fingers played over her breasts and rested there. He whispered against her ear. "Just a few hours of sleep, honey. I apologize for being so exhausted. But just a little bit of sleep…I wouldn't want to disappoint you. I want to hear you scream and scream and scream…" Laughing again, he leaned his head back against his saddle, seeking sleep.

Shannon closed her eyes and set her teeth. She gave him time to fall asleep, then tried to edge away from him.

His hand tightened around her like a clamp. "Not on your life, my golden Yank. Not on your life." His fingers moved through her hair. Shannon held her breath, praying that he would stop.

He did. He dug into his saddlebags for another length of rope and grimly tied her wrists to his own. Shannon watched him in bitter silence. When he was done, he smiled and touched her cheek. "You're a beautiful Yank-lover, you know that?"

She ignored him. He lay down to sleep again, chuckling.

Shannon lay awake in misery until absolute exhaustion overwhelmed her. Despite her hunger and thirst and discomfort, she closed her eyes, and sleep claimed her.

To the best of Malachi's knowledge, there was no one on the lookout for the James boys.

But they were riding as if their lives depended on getting into the heart of Missouri just as fast as possible.

And they were hard to track. By the time he'd reached his bay and found Shannon's big black gelding, the raiders were already well ahead of him.

And they knew where they were going. Thank God they had turned southward, deeper into Missouri. It was land he knew. If he hadn't been accustomed to the terrain, he'd never have managed to follow them. They cut a course right through forest lands, knowing unerringly where they could take shortcuts and pick up roads again and disappear back into the forests again.

By midmorning he realized that they were following the course of a small stream. Malachi stuck with it.

He was exhausted. His leg was aching, and he was afraid that the fever might be searing through him again. An hour's worth of sleep just might make it a bit better…

But he didn't dare take an hour. He knew Frank and Jesse James only slightly. He'd met them once in the short time that Cole had ridden with Quantrill, and he'd found them to be reckless, sometimes ruthless kids. He thought it might be the Younger brothers traveling with them, another set of reckless youths.

He didn't think that the James boys were especially cruel or brutal. They were still sane, at least, he thought. Like the Younger brothers. They were probably still sane, if nothing else.

But the other man…

His name was Justin. Malachi knew who he was. Cole had seen him in action early on in the war, and the malice with which the man killed and the pleasure he took from his brutal actions had turned Cole away from Quantrill's gang completely.

But to the most decent bushwhacker out there, Shannon would be quite a tonic to swallow. And she wouldn't keep quiet. She wouldn't be able to do so. He had already heard her ranting and raving.

He didn't have time to rest, not for ten damn minutes.

He paused only to give the horses water, and to douse himself with it, and drink deeply. He chewed on the dried meat he had brought, and swallowed some of the liquor Shannon had packed him. It was good, and it helped to keep the pain in his leg at bay.

It was almost night again when he came upon them at last.

He was still a little distance away when he saw the horses grouped in the trees. There were no cooking fires laid out in the camp; in fact, it was barely a camp at all. The bushwhackers had merely stopped along the road.

Malachi was pretty sure that he'd be able to reason with the men; hell, at least they had obstensibly fought on the same side. But the war had taught him to take nothing for granted, so he dismounted from the bay and tethered her with the black gelding some distance down the stream from the raiders. Then he approached them again in silence, coming close enough this time to see the layout in the camp.

They must have been sure of themselves; very sure. No one was left on guard. Each and every one of the bushwhackers was curled up, sound asleep.

Or maybe they weren't so sound asleep. Men like that learned to sleep differently, with one eye open. If a fly buzzed through that camp, the men would probably be aware of it. He'd be a fool to go sneaking in, no matter how silently he could manage it.

And as he had suspected, Shannon was in trouble.

The Younger brothers were stretched out in front of an oak; the others were all laid out beneath other trees, thirty yards apart, and perhaps fifty yards up the grassy slope from the stream.

Shannon was bound hand and foot, and tied to Justin.

He swore inwardly, thinking she must have fought them tooth and nail, because she seemed to have lost Jesse's protection. Jesse, like many other bushwhackers, despite their savagery, still put Southern womanhood on a pedestal. If she had just kept her mouth closed and acted out the part of the Southern belle…

But she hadn't.

Sweat broke out on Malachi's forehead and his hands went clammy as he watched her. She was pale and smudged with dirt, but even so, her features retained their angelic beauty, and her tangled hair swept around her face like a glorious halo. Where the sun fell upon it her hair glowed like golden fire.

She was tied to Justin—but at least she was decently clad. She seemed to sleep the sleep of the dead, but even in that sleep, it seemed she strained with all her heart against the man holding her prisoner.

He hadn't touched her yet. Justin hadn't touched her, Mal-achi assured himself. But he. meant to do so.

At the periphery of the circle, Malachi inhaled and exhaled deeply, deciding what plan of action to take. He could try shooting them all, but the bushwhackers were damned good shots, and if he didn't kill Justin right away, he was certain that Justin would kill Shannon for the pure pleasure of it

No. This wasn't the time to go in blazing away. He needed to play diplomat.

He stood at the periphery of the camp, his saber and his pistols at his side, but his arms relaxed. "Jesse. Jesse James!" he called out sharply.

They moved as one. As soon as he called out, the five of them were awake, staring at him down the length of their Colts and revolvers.

He lifted his hands. He saw five pairs of eyes look over his gray uniform jacket.

By the tree, Jesse stood.

"Malachi!" Shannon called out. "Malachi!" She struggled to rise. Justin jerked on the rope and clamped his hand hard over her mouth.

Malachi nodded toward Justin, trying to burn a message into Shannon's fool head with the strength of his eyes.

"Hey! It's the fool Reb who was taking on the whole of that Red Legs camp by himself!" One of the Younger brothers called out.

"Malachi. Malachi Slater," Jesse said. He walked forward, wary still, but a smile on his face. "You're Cole Slater's brother, right? Hey, they got a whole pack of wanted posters out on you, did you know that?"

"Yeah, I know it. But thanks for the warning."

"What are you doing here about? Heading south? It might be best if you were to take a hike into Mexico."

"Well," Malachi said, "I can't rightly do that yet, you know. I got to tie up with my brothers somewhere. And the Red Legs have got Cole's wife. That's what was going on when you fellows showed up there today. Those men report to a man named Hayden Fitz, and he wants my brother dead. We Slaters stick together; I can't leave yet."

One of the Younger brothers stood up. "Hey, Captain Slater. I seen Jamie. About two weeks ago. He knows about the posters, and he's making his way south. Thought you ought to know."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot. That's real good to hear."

Malachi smiled at the Younger brothers, then turned his eyes on Justin. He strode across the clearing between the trees and lowered himself down on the balls of his feet, staring straight into Justin's eyes.

"I've come for her."

"Well, now, Captain Slater, I'm rightly sorry. She's mine."

Shannon bit his hand. Justin let out a yelp, freeing her mouth, bringing his sore palm to his own mouth.

"Malachi—"

"Shut up, Shannon."

"Malachi—"

"Shut up, Shannon," he said again, smiling with clenched teeth. He stunned her by sending her a smart slap right across the face. She gasped. Tears that she would never shed brightened the blue beauty of her eyes.

"Justin, I don't prowl the countryside for just any woman. This one is mine. We're engaged to be married."

Shannon gasped, and Malachi glared at her.

Justin laughed crudely. "That won't wash, captain. That won't wash one little bit. I know all about this feisty little Yank lover. She hates Rebs. I don't think she even knows the difference between the bushwhackers and the regular army, captain. She just hates Rebs. I thought that I should give her a good taste of Johnny Reb, how about that, captain?"

There was no respect in his tone. There was an underlying hint of violence.

"She'll get a good taste of Reb. She's my fiancee, and I want her back now."

Malachi leaned across Justin with his knife and quickly slit the ropes holding Shannon down. She leaped to her feet, rubbing her wrists, and ran behind him. Malachi stood quickly as Justin leaped to his feet. The men stared at one another.

Malachi reached his hand behind him. "Come here, Shannon. Shannon—darlin'!—get your sweet…soul over here, ya hear?"

He grabbed her hand and jerked her up beside him. "Tell them, darlin'."

"What?" she whispered desperately.

"Tell them that you don't hate all Rebs."

She was silent. He sensed the turmoil in her, even as he breathed in the soft sweet scent of her perfume, still clinging to her despite the dirt that smudged her face.

He was ready to strangle her himself.

"Tell them!"

"I—" She was choking on the words, really choking on them. "I—I don't hate all Rebs."

"She ain't your fiancee!" Frank James said.

"She is!" Malachi insisted, his frustration growing. He swung Shannon around, none too gently, and brought her into his arms. "Darlin'!" he exclaimed, and he pulled her close. He stared into her sky-blue eyes, his own on fire.

Her eyes widened; it seemed that at last that she had discovered her own predicament, and realized that her freedom might well hinge on her ability to act.

"Yes! Yes!" She threw her arms around him. Her breasts pressed hard against his chest and her fingers played with the hair at his nape.

And her lips came full and soft and crushing against his.

There was a curious audience before them, and their very lives were hanging in the balance.

And at that instance, it didn't seem to matter.

He locked his arms around her, setting his hands upon the small of her back and bringing the whole of her body hard against his. His lips parted over hers, and in the breath of a second, he found himself the aggressor, heedless of the men watching. He thrust his tongue deep into the sweet crevice of her mouth, feeling the warmth and fever of her reach out and invade him. He held her tighter and tighter, and raped her mouth with the sheer demand of his own. The tension of it seared into the fullness of his body. Then she brought her hands between them, pressing hard against his chest, and he finally lifted his lips from hers, and stared into her wide, startled and glimmering eyes.

Glimmering…with fury, he thought. He only prayed that she had the sense to keep silent until they were away.

If they did get away.

One of the Younger brothers laughed. "Hot damn, but I believe him. That was one of the most sultry kisses I've ever seen. Set me burning for a bit o' lovin', that's for sure."

Shannon's lashes fell over her eyes. Malachi heard her teeth grate together as he swept her around him. "Jesse, she's mine. And I'm taking her."

"You got my go ahead," Jesse said. "Frank?"

Frank shrugged. "The man is still wearing a gray uniform, and he says that the girl is his. Guess it must be so."

There was a sound like a growl from Justin. "Well, captain, I don't say that it's so. The girl tried to kill me. I got a score to settle with her."

"She tried to kill you?" Malachi repeated, playing for time. He didn't doubt one bit that Shannon had tried to kill any of them.

"That's right," Jesse said, sighing. "Why, Justin would be dead right now if Frank's gun hadn't been empty."

Malachi smiled, arching a brow. "What was she doing with Frank's gun?" he asked politely.

Every one of the bushwhackers flushed, except Justin, and he kept staring at Malachi with hatred in his eyes.

"I untied her," Frank James muttered. "I felt sorry for her, gagged and tied. She jumped me."

"She jumped you?"

"Captain, if you know that woman so well, you know that she's a damned hellcat, a bloody little spitfire." He swore again. "She's more dangerous than the whole lot of us."

Malachi lowered his head, adjusting the brim of his hat to hide the smile that teased at his lips. They weren't in the clear yet.

He looked up again, gravely, at Jesse. "Not much harm done, was there? I mean, the gun was empty. Justin looks alive and well and healthy to me."

"You ain't takin' her, Slater," Justin said.

Malachi inhaled deeply. "I am taking her, Justin."

"Maybe she ought to apologize to Justin," Jesse suggested. "Maybe that will smooth things over a bit."

"Oh, yeah," Justin said, tightening his lips, and leaning back with a certain pleasure. "Sure. Let's see this. You get her to apologize, captain."

"Shannon, apologize to the man."

She had been silent for several minutes, a long time for Shannon. She had stood behind him and at his side, quiet and meek. He gripped her fingers, drawing her in front of him. He hissed against her ear. "Shannon! Apologize."

"I will not!" she exploded. "He is a bloody, vicious, sadistic murder—"

Malachi's hand clamped over her mouth. Justin stood in a silent fury. Frank James laughed, and Jesse didn't make a move or say a word at all.

"Your woman don't obey you real well, Captain Slater," Frank observed.

Malachi swept his arm around her, jerking her beneath his chin, laying his fingers taut over her rib cage and squeezing hard. ' 'She's gonna obey me just fine." He lowered his voice, whispering against her earlobe. '"Cause if she doesn't obey me damned fast, I'm going to leave. I'm going to tell Justin to go ahead and enjoy himself to his heart's content—"

"He is a cold-blooded murderer!" Shannon whispered back. He sensed the tears in her voice, but he couldn't afford to care.

"Apologize!" he told her.

She inhaled deeply. He felt the hatred and the fury that swept from her in great waves, and he wondered if he would always be included in that pool of bitter hatred and rage. "I'm sorry that I tried to kill you," she spit out to Justin. She lowered her head. "And I'm sorry that I failed!" she whispered miserably.

Malachi tightened his hold upon her so that she gasped, but as he looked around, he realized, thankfully, that he was the only one who had heard her last words.

He smiled. "All right?"

He didn't want to give them all time to think. "Thanks, boys. I never would have made it against the Red Legs without your help. Be seeing you."

He adjusted his hat and shoved Shannon around, daring to bare his back to the raiders. They wouldn't shoot a Confederate officer in the back.

Even bushwhackers had a certain code of ethics.

He walked several feet, hurrying Shannon ahead of him.

"Slater!"

He stopped, pushing her forward, turning around.

Justin was walking toward him. "Captain Slater, they're letting you take the woman. I'm not."

Malachi stiffened. He stared at Justin. It was a direct challenge, and there was no way out of it.

"No, Malachi!" Shannon cried, racing to him. He shoved her back again, not daring to take his eyes off Justin.

"Then I guess it's between you and me," he said softly.

"That's right, captain. That's what it boils down to."

"Swords or pistols?"

"Draw when you're ready, captain—" Justin began, but he never finished. His eyes suddenly rolled up in his head and he fell to the ground with a curious, silent grace.

Jesse was standing there. He had just clobbered Justin with the butt of a Spencer repeater. He smiled at Malachi.

"I don't know what would have happened, captain, but you've got a powerful reputation as a crack shot. Of course, Justin is pretty damned good himself. One of you would have died. And I'm just sick of the bloodshed, you know. I figure the Yanks killed enough of us that we don't need to run around killin' one another, not now, not when we're all trying to get home for a spell. So you take your little hellcat and you go on, Captain Slater. Head for Mexico, as fast as you can. The best of luck to you, captain."

Malachi turned from the man on the ground to Jesse. He nodded slowly. Then he turned around. Shannon was still standing there, and he grasped her elbow firmly and pulled her along with him. "Come on!" he whispered to her when she seemed to be balking.

Jesse was still watching them. Malachi put his arm around Shannon's shoulder and pulled her close against him. She looked back once and didn't seem to want to protest, not one bit.

He hurried them down the slope to the embankment of the spring, then rushed along the embankment.

Darkness was coming once again. He wanted to sleep…badly. But he wanted to put some mean distance between them and Justin before he paused to sleep.

He didn't need to urge Shannon along. As soon as they had left the raiders behind, she broke away from him and started to run. Her hair streamed behind her, and in the darkening twilight, he heard the soft, sobbing gasps of her breath as she hurried.

Groaning, he ran after her.

She meant to put distance between herself and the raiders, too. She ran so hard and so fast that she was quickly past the spot where he had tethered their horses.

"Shannon!"

He hurried after her. It was almost as if she hadn't heard him. She was probably furious, he thought wearily. She was angry because he had made her apologize. Because he had kissed her.

He had more than kissed her. He had kissed her and touched with an invasion so deep that the intimacy invoked could never be forgotten.

Nor, for her part, he was certain, forgiven.

"Shannon!"

Cursing the pain in his leg, he ran after her with speed. At last he caught up with her. She stumbled and fell, rolling down the grassy slope until she was nearly in the water. Malachi followed, dropping down beside her. Her eyes were huge and luminous and moist, a beautiful, glittering blue, still wet with tears. She stared at the sky unblinkingly while he knelt by her.

"Shannon! Damn it, I'm sorry. You fool! You damned bloody little fool. Didn't you understand? I had to get you out of there. Justin is a murdering sadist, and that's exactly why you don't mess with a man like him." He sighed. "All right, hellcat. Stay angry. Tear me up again whenever you get the chance. But for now, we've got to get on the road. We need to ride—"

"Malachi!"

She shot up suddenly and ran straight into his arms. She laid her cheek against his chest, and he felt the terrible beating of her heart and the shivering that seized the whole of her body. The soft cream mounds of her breasts rose above the pink-flowered white cups of her corset, brushing against the rough material of his wool greatcoat. Her hands seemed frail and delicate where they fell against him.

"Oh, Malachi!"

And she burst into tears.

He put his arms around her and he kissed the top of her head. He held her tight against him.

Hellcat. It was an apt name for her, but his little hellcat had broken. The war had made her build an impenetrable shield around herself. She was strong as steel and tough as nails, and no one, no one commanded Shannon McCahy.

But now…

Her shield had shattered and broken, and he wasn't sure that he could stand up to the soft and delicate beauty beneath it.

"It's all right. It's over. It's—"

"Malachi, thank you. Oh, my God, you came for me. You—you took me from him. Thank you!"

He curved his hand around her cheek, and he smoothed the tears from her face with his thumb. She stared at him, and her eyes were earnest and glorious, her hair a shroud of gold, cloaking her half-bared shoulders and breasts.

He swallowed hard and managed to stand. He reached down for her, lifting her high into his arms. "We have to ride," he told her.

She nodded trustingly. Her head fell against him. His boots sloshed through the stream as he walked toward the horses.

CHAPTER SIX

When she was set on the black gelding, Shannon seemed well and eager to ride. Malachi was glad of it. He didn't know how long he could stay awake himself, but as long as they could, they would ride.

They crossed the stream, then followed along it. No words passed between them. When Malachi looked back in the darkness, he saw her slumped low in the saddle, but she didn't complain or suggest they stop. He had given her his greatcoat; her shirt was nothing but tatters now, and he didn't want to take the time to dig through his belongings for a new shirt for her. He wanted to move.

It was too late to steal Kristin back before the Red Legs left Missouri. They would have to travel deep into Kansas. The only benefit to that situation was that it was unlikely Justin would follow him into Kansas. There might be a bounty out on Malachi, but at least he had been regular army, not a bushwhacker. A man recognized as a bushwhacker in Kansas might not stand much of a chance.

"Shannon?"

"Yes," she called softly.

"You all right back there?"

"Yes."

"We'll go another hour."

"Fine."

They plodded onward. Where the stream forked, he took the westward trail, telling her to walk the black gelding behind his bay mare in the rocky, shallow water. That way there would be no footprints for the bushwhackers to follow.

With the first light, he reined in. There was a perfect little copse beside the water. It was sheltered by magnificent oaks, and grass grew there like a blanket. On one side of the stream, the water deepened in a small natural pond. It was just like the swimming hole back home where he and Cole and Jamie had roughhoused after working hours, and where the neighborhood girls had come to watch and giggle from the trees, and where, sometimes, the young ladies had boldly determined to join them. He smiled, thinking about those days. They had been so long ago.

Malachi realized that Shannon had reined up behind him. "This is it," he said softly. "We'll rest here."

Nodding, she moved to dismount and missed her footing. She fell flat into the water on her rear and lay sprawled, apparently too tired to move.

Malachi dismounted and hunkered down in front of her, smiling. "Hey. Come on out of the water."

She nodded, barely. Her eyes fell on his, dazed.

He flicked water on her face and saw the surprise and then the anger spark her eyes. "You do need a bath," he told her. Dirt still smudged her face. "Badly. But this doesn't seem to be the right time. Come on, I'll help you out."

His greatcoat had fallen open, exposing the lace and flowers of her corset When he went to take her hand, his fingers brushed over the lace, and over the firm satiny flush that rose above the border. Warmth sizzled straight to his loins, and he paused, stunned by the strength of the feeling. He shook his head, irritated with himself, and grabbed her hands. "Up, Shannon, damn it, get up."

Sensing the sudden anger in him, she staggered to her feet, using his hand for support.

You're soaked. Let's get up on the bank."

Thank God he was exhausted, he told himself. Really so exhausted that he couldn't even think about what the sight of her did…

She sighed softly as they cleared the water, throwing his coat from her shoulders and sinking down to remove her boots. Her hair, touched by the pale, new light of the coming morning, glowed with a fiery radiance and teased the flesh of her shoulders and breasts. He didn't touch her at all, but the warmth sizzled through him again, making his heart pump too fast and his tired body come alive.

Maybe it was impossible to be too exhausted.

He gritted his teeth and swore.

She paused in surprise. "Malachi, what's wrong?"

When had she learned to make those blue eyes so innocent and so damned sultry all in one? And her hair, just falling over one eye now…

"What's wrong?" he yelled at her. "All I was trying to do was get Kristin back from the Red Legs, and instead I'm running over half of Missouri to get you back from a pack of bushwhackers. And did you try to use one ounce of sense in the hands of death? No, Shannon, you just provoke them further, and almost get us both killed."

She jumped to her feet. She was trembling, he saw.

"You don't understand. You don't understand and you can't understand. You weren't there when my pa was killed, and you didn't get to hear, in rumor and in truth, day after day after day, what was done to the men outside Centralia. You don't—"

"Shannon, I fought in the war. I know all about dying."

"It wasn't the dying!" Tears glittered brightly in her eyes, but she wouldn't shed them, she wouldn't break down again, and he knew it. "It wasn't the dying. It was the way that they died. He admitted it; that bastard admitted that he had been there, outside Centralia. He might have been the one who—who…Malachi, they had to pick up his pieces! They had to pick up Robert's pieces. I loved him, I loved him so much."

Her face was smudged but her chin was high, and her eyes were even more beautiful fevered with emotion. He felt her pain, and he wished heartily that he had never spoken to her. She still didn't understand. Justin just might want to do the same damned thing to her, if he could get his hands on her again. She'd fought Justin anyway. Or maybe she had understood, and hadn't cared.

She stared at him, her head high, her hands on her hips, her passion like an aura around her. "I loved him, and that bastard helped dismember him!"

"It can't matter!" Malachi told her curtly. "You can't allow it to matter right now!"

"You don't understand—"

"Maybe I don't understand, but you're not going to explain anything to me. No Yank is ever going to explain the horror of this war to a Confederate. We lost, remember? Oh, yes, of course, you're the one who likes to remind me of that fact"

"Maybe you do understand dying and killing. Maybe you just don't understand what love is."

"Shannon, you're a fool, and my life is none of your damned business."

"Malachi, damn you—"

"I don't want to listen right now, Shannon. I'm tired. I have to have some sleep," he said wearily. He didn't want to fight with her. He just didn't want to look at her anymore. He didn't want to see all the fire and excitement and beauty…and the pain and misery that haunted her.

He didn't want to desire her.

But he did.

He turned away from her, heading for the horses. For a moment he thought that she was going to run after him and continue the fight. But she didn't. She stayed still for several long minutes, tense, staring after him. Then she walked down to the water. He tried to ignore her as he unsaddled the horses and rolled out his bedroll and blanket beneath the largest oak.

He hesitated, looked at her bedroll, rolled behind the seat of her saddle. He unrolled it, too, beside his own. He didn't want her too far away. He knew that he would awaken if footsteps came anywhere near them, but he was still wary of sleeping. Justin struck him as the type of man who worked hard toward vengeance.

He could hear her, drinking thirstily, splashing water, washing her face. Scrubbing her face and her hands again and again.

He threw himself down on the bedroll, using his saddle as a pillow and turning so he could keep an eye on her. Day was coming fast now. Sunlight played through the leaves and branches, caressing her hair and shoulders and arms. It rippled against the water in a magical dazzle.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Scrubbing. Scrubbing away that awful bushwhacker!" she retorted.

"You can throw your whole body in later and scrub to your heart's content!" he called to her irritably. "Get out now. Let's get some sleep."

She turned around and saw him stretched out, then opened her mouth as if she was about to argue with him.

Maybe she was just tired. Maybe, just maybe, she was still a little bit grateful. Whatever, she closed her mouth and walked toward him.

She hesitated by her bedroll, looking at him. Strands of damp hair curled around her face, and its planes were delineated, soft and beautiful. Water beads hovered over her breasts.

He groaned inwardly and tipped his hat over his face. "Good night, Shannon."

"Perhaps I should move this." She indicated her bedroll.

"Lie down."

"I've never had to sleep this close to a Reb before."

"You slept with Justin just about on top of you yesterday."

She smiled with sweet sarcasm and widened her eyes. "I've never willingly slept this close to a Reb before."

"Willing or other, lie down, brat!"

He watched her mouth twist. He was too damned tired to argue, and if he touched her at that moment, he wasn't at all sure what it would lead to. "Please! For the love of God, lie down, Shannon."

She didn't say a word until she had settled down beside him, but then heard a tentative whisper. "Malachi?"

He groaned. "What?"

"What…what are we going to do now?"

He hesitated. "I should spank you, brat," he said softly. "And send you home."

"You—you can't send me home. You know that." There was just the touch of a plea in her voice, and the softest note of tears. "You can't send me back."

"That's right," he muttered dryly. "Justin is out there somewhere, waiting for you. Maybe I should let him have you. The two of you could keep on fighting the war, from here until doomsday."

"Malachi—"

"I'm not sending you back, Shannon. You're right about that; I can't."

"Then—"

"We're going to go onward for Kristin."

"But how will we find her? We'll never pick up the trail again. There's only a few of them left now, but they're so long gone that it would be impossible to find them."

"We don't need to find them."

"But—"

"Shannon, I know where they're taking her. They're taking her to Fitz. And I know how to find the town. We all know something about it, Cole, Jamie and I." He hesitated. "You forget, we've had dealings with the Red Legs before." He was silent for a moment, thinking back to when Cole's place had been burned down and his beautiful young wife killed. Malachi's jaw tightened. "I'm not sure if we can head them off quickly enough, or if we'll have to—figure out something else. We'll find her. We'll reach her."

"Do you think—do you think that she'll be all right?"

He lifted his hat and rolled toward her. She was staring at him so earnestly. Her eyes seemed old, so very wise and world-weary, and their tiredness added a curious new beauty and sensuality to her features.

He propped himself up on one elbow, watching her across the distance of the mere two feet that separated them.

"Shannon, they're going to take good care of Kristin. She is all that they have to use against Cole. Now, please, go to sleep." He lay back down, slanting his hat over his face.

"Malachi?" she whispered.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"Thank you—really."

Her voice was so soft. Like a feather dusting sweetly over his flesh. His muscles tightened and constricted and ached and burned, and he felt himself rising hard and hot.

"Shannon, go to sleep," he groaned.

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, go to sleep!"

She was silent. So silent then. She didn't try to speak again.

It was going to be all right. She was going to go to sleep; he was going to go to sleep. When he woke up, he wouldn't be so damned tired. He'd have so much more control over his emotions and needs.

A sound suddenly broke the silence of the morning.

He threw his hat off, leaping to his feet. She stared at him, startled.

She sat on her bedroll, cross-legged like an Indian, chewing on a piece of smoked meat. She had bread and cheese spread out before her, too, just like a damned picnic.

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

"Eating!"

"Now?"

"Malachi, I haven't eaten in ages! It's been almost two full days."

His temper ebbed. He hadn't thought to stop for food last night, and she hadn't said anything, either.

"Just hurry it up, will you, please?"

"Of course," she said indignantly. She stared at him with reproach. He threw up his hands, issued a curt oath and plopped back down on the ground.

He just had to have some sleep.

He didn't sleep. He listened as she finished with the food and carefully wrapped it up to pack in her saddlebags. He listened as she stretched out on the ground, pulling her blanket tight around her shoulders.

Then he just listened to the sound of her breathing. He could have sworn that he could even hear the rhythmic thumping of her heart.

When he closed his eyes, he could see her. Could even see the pink satin flowers sewn into the lace of her corset. He could see her flesh, silky soft and smooth, and he could see the length of her, and the beautiful blue sizzle of her eyes…

He didn't even like her, he reminded himself.

But then again, maybe he didn't dislike her quite so much, either.

Somewhere in time, he did sleep.

He slept well, and he slept deeply. Warmth invaded him. He felt more than the hard ground beneath him, more than the coldness of the earth.

He felt flesh.

He awoke with a start.

He had rolled, or she had rolled, and now she lay curled against his chest. His chin nuzzled her hair; his arm lay draped around her. He was sleeping on her hair, entangled within it. Her features in repose were stunning, a study in classical beauty. Her cheekbones were high and her lips were full and red and parted slightly as she breathed softly in and out. Her lashes lay like dusky shadows over her flesh, enticing, provocative. The scent of her filled him deliciously. His arm was over her breast, the fullness of one round mound…

He jerked away from her, gritting his teeth. He should wake her up. He should shove her from him, as hard as he could.

He bit hard into his lip, then carefully eased her from him. She didn't whimper or protest. It he hadn't felt her breathing, he might have been afraid that she had died, her sleep was so deep and complete.

He sat up and pulled off his boots and socks and walked down to the water. It was cool and good, and just what he needed. He shucked his shirt, and let the water ripple over his shoulders and back. He came back to his bedroll stripped down to his breeches.

He sighed and laid back. He looked up at the sky. It was midafternoon now. They should ride again by night.

Damn her. He was the one who needed sleep so badly.

He closed his eyes. They flew open almost instantly.

She had rolled beside him again.

He looked at her and then sighed, giving up. He slipped his arm around her and held her close to the warmth of his body. He didn't listen to her heart but he felt it, beating sweetly.

It was so much worse now. He felt her with his naked flesh, and it was good to hold her as a woman. Too good. But he didn't release her. He held her and swallowed back his darker thoughts.

Knowing Shannon, he thought wryly, she would rise in a fury, accusing him of all manner of things. She would probably never believe that she had come to him in her sleep.

Come to him for the simple warmth and caring that she could not seek when she was awake.

We all need to be held, Malachi thought.

He sighed, shuddering against the fragrance of her hair. He would sleep again, he would sleep again. And she would never know just how fully he had played the gentleman, the cavalier…

He would never get back to sleep.

But finally, he did. Perhaps the very rhythm of her breath and heartbeat finally lulled him to sleep. Perhaps abject exhaustion finally seized him.

When he slept, he dreamed again.

He was remembering, he realized. Remembering the day when he had been shot. To the day when he had fallen into the brook.

He was seeing things. Illusions. Soft sunlight playing down from the sky, glittering upon the warm, rich earth. Sunlight touching the earth…and touching upon the woman.

She had risen from the center of the brook like a phoenix reborn from the crystal-clear depths. She seemed to move with magic, bursting with gentle beauty from the depths. Her arms, long and graceful, broke the water first, then her head, with her hair streaming wet and slick, and then her shoulders and her breasts with tendrils of her hair plastered around them. And she continued to rise, rise and rise, until the full flare of her hips and the shapely length of her legs arose.

Venus…arising from her bath.

She was perfection, her breasts lush and ripe and full and firm and achingly beautiful with their rouge-tipped, pebbled peaks. Her waist was supple and slim, her hips…

She was illusion, illusion moving in slow motion. She was the product of a dream, of too many sleepless nights. Maybe she was a spirit of twilight, a creation of sunset. She blended with the colors of the sky, gold and red and soft magenta.