Rides a Hero

She dipped down again, cupping her hands, dashing the water up within them. She straightened, tossing it upon her face, and the little droplets fell and streamed from her hands like a cascade of diamonds.

He wasn't dreaming.

He was wide awake, he realized. Wide awake and staring at the stream. Obviously, she had thought he would stay asleep.

He rose and walked down to the water.

She paused, seeing him.

Their eyes met across the water, across the sky touched by sunset in gold and magenta and red.

She froze, as if some spell had been cast upon her there. She didn't drop down to the water, nor did she cover herself with her hands. She simply stared at him, her lips slightly parted, some words, perhaps, frozen upon them. She just watched him.

She just watched him.

And he didn't pause or hesitate.

He walked straight over to her. And when he reached her, he put his arms around her, lifted her chin and studied her face and her lips and her eyes, his fingers moving over the ivory softness of her face.

Then he lowered his head slowly over hers, capturing her lips with his own.

And still, she didn't move…

His arms tightened around her. He ran his fingers gently down her cheek to her throat, and he sent his tongue deeply into her mouth, stroking the insides. Desire burst upon him like the crystal shards of sunlight that sprinkled diamondlike upon the water. There would be no turning back for him now. Not now…

He moved his hand over her breast, massaging the fullness, teasing the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and encompassing the fullness of the weight again.

Her lips broke from his. A startled gasp escaped from her, but she didn't fight him. She slipped her arms around him, clinging close to him. Her lips settled upon his shoulder, and her fingers splayed across his back. He continued to play with her breast and she cast her head back as he pressed his lips against her throat, again and again and again. Then he moved downward, and lifted her breast to take it into his mouth, sucking upon the nipple and spiraling his tongue around the aureole.

She cried out, holding his shoulders. He rose to take her lips again, seizing them with hunger, plundering them apart, and seeking her mouth with a fire of passion. She pressed against him, trying to free herself. Her lips rose from his.

"We shouldn't…"

"For God's sake, don't tell me that now!" he said hoarsely, and his mouth closed over hers again, and this time, she made no protest at all. Her arms curled around his neck. He kissed her until he felt her tremble with the same deep desire that burned within him. Until he thought that she would fall.

Then he moved back, and drank in the sight of her again. He reached out and placed his hands around the enchanting fullness of both her breasts, awed by the sensual beauty of their deep-rose pebbled peaks. He touched her breasts, moving his fingers lightly over them, then possessing them with the fullness of his touch.

He stepped even closer, and swept her into his arms.

Splashing through the water, he carried her toward the grassy bank. Her eyes were closed. He knew he should have wondered if she dreamed of another man. He should have wondered if she had any experience with what she was doing, but he didn't wonder about anything at all. Holding her, carning her to the shore, seemed to be the most natural thing to do, and he would not have ceased with his intent had lightning come from the sky to strike him down.

He laid her upon the soft grass embankment. Her eyes remained closed as the last rays of sunlight played over the beauty of her body again. He fell down beside her, and when the light shadowed magenta upon her, he kissed her, and then where the rays fell golden, he kissed her, too. The beautiful colors and musky light were broken by the dappling patterns of the oak leaves, waving above them in the softness of the breeze.

Holding his weight above her, he kissed her lips gently, then moved down between the valley of her breasts. He ran his hand over the lush curve of her flank as his tongue laved her flesh. She tasted of the water, and of the deep, rich colors of the sun.

Malachi stood, looking down at her, feeling the pulse that lived inside of him, increasing erratically with each touch against her. He stripped away his breeches, watching her still, watching the play of the sunset over her supple form. The world receded; the echoes of gunfire could not touch him here. There was nothing but the glorious, magenta sunset, and the girl, as golden and beautiful as the wavering rays of the falling sun, as naked and primitive as the simple earth where they lay.

He lay down beside her again, half covering her with the blanket of his naked flesh. Her eyes remained closed, and she was nearly motionless. He kissed her temple, whispered against her earlobe, trailed his lips down the snowy length of her throat and over the slender line of her collarbone. His hands teased her breasts again, and she arched against him, a curious cry coming from deep within her throat. He watched with fascination, seeking to judge the responses of her body. The shaft of his desire lay naked against her thigh, warmed there by her flesh and grazed by the evening air, so that the burning ache to have her beneath him soared high and fevered, and still he held himself in check.

He wondered if she even remembered who he was. He wanted her to open her eyes. To see his face, to know his name.

He moved his hands to lazily draw circles along her inner thigh, rising higher and higher. He buried his face against her throat and between her breasts, and feathered her flesh with the soft hairs of his beard. She whimpered slightly and began to undulate against him.

With bold and deliberate purpose, he parted her thighs. A certain resistance met him at first, but he caught her lips again, and his kiss seared and invaded and seduced. He wanted to slide down between them, but he kept his eyes hard upon hers instead. He stroked surely along her thigh until he came to the juncture of it, and swiftly, surely penetrated her with an intimate touch.

Her eyes flew open at last and met his. Wide and blue and beautiful and dazed. He knew how to make love, and his stroke moved with tender, sensual finesse.

"No…" she murmured softly, color flooding her cheeks.

He leaned close against her, speaking a breath away from her lips and keeping her eyes locked with his.

"Whisper my name, Shannon."

"No…" she murmured, and he knew that she didn't protest what they did, but only that he forced her to see the reality of it.

That he forced her to look his way, and say his name.

He found the most erotic places of her body and teased her, then plundered ruthlessly within her once again. She cried out, trying to twist from him, trying to elude his eyes. He shifted, burying his weight deep inside her, and holding himself just slightly away from her. She moved, she moved so sweetly against him even as she denied him.

"Put your arms around me, Shannon, tightly around me!" he urged her, and she did so. It was easy for her to cling tightly against him. Her fingers moved over his shoulders, over his back. Tentative, hesitant, seeking to hold him close as he held her, and seeking to give him a certain pleasure.

"Whisper my name, Shannon," he insisted. He hovered over her, teasing her with the fire of his own body. "Say my name. Open your eyes, and say my name."

Her eyes flew open again. There was a shimmer of fury deep within them. "Malachi!" she whispered tensely.

"Now…" He lowered his head to hers once again, and a ruthless grin touched his features. "Tell me what you want me to do."

She stared at him in astonishment, and a flush as crimson as the sunset touched her cheeks and seeped over her breasts. He couldn't bear it much longer. He had to have her soon. But they had always waged war between them, and this one, at least, he would not lose.

"Tell me what you want."

"No…"

"It's easy." She started to press against his shoulders. He caught her hands, and he laced his fingers with hers, and he drew them high over her head. "Say that you want me. I want you, Malachi." He kissed her. He slid his tongue into her mouth and withdrew it and then raked it along her lips. He drew her hands down and held her firm as he moved low against her, lazily taking her breast in his mouth again, slink-ing lower and lower against her. She escaped his grasp, and her nails raked into his shoulders. He heard her gasp and felt her fingers on his head when his kiss teased her belly.

She was alive with passion. Her head tossed and her hips moved, and she whispered something, moistening her lips. Her eyes were closed again, and her face lay to the side. They were both entangled in her hair.

"I can't hear you, Shannon."

"I—I want you."

"I want you, Malachi."

"I want you… Malachi.''

Her voice was breathy, barely a whisper. It was all that he wanted, all that he needed. She moved against him with grace and exquisite sensuality, and a burst of triumph and fever took hold of him as he shifted, touching her, thrusting deep, deep inside her.

She stiffened, and screamed, and he realized then that he had believed her experienced because he had wanted to believe it. He had been deceived, but only because he hadn't wanted to think…

But he felt. He felt the tear within her body, and the constriction of pain, and the trembling that filled her. He started to jerk from her, but her hands pulled him back.

Her eyes were open now. Tears touched them, but they met his with a curious honesty. "No, no—I said that I wanted you. I said I want you…Malachi."

"Damn it, you didn't tell me that you were a—"

"You didn't ask," she reminded him softly. "Please…"

Her voice trailed away. He realized that it was too late to undo any harm, and yet perhaps not too late to recapture the magic.

He began to move very carefully. Slowly he entered fully within her, and just as slowly he withdrew. Then he plunged again, slowly…slowly.

Minutes later she cried out, straining high against him.

Innately, she seemed to know the craft of womanly art Supplely, exquisitely, she moved beneath him. He matched his rhythm to hers, to the soft magic of the evening. The breeze rustled the leaves and silently caressed them. Birds cried out, and the water rippled and dazzled still. Malachi cried out hoarsely, giving himself free rein at long last, burying himself again and again with speed and fever within the moist and welcoming nest of her body.

The pressure built in him explosively, and still he held himself in a certain control, whispering to her, touching her bare flesh with kisses, urging her ever onward.

She cried out, straining hard against him, collapsing.

He allowed his own climax to come, and when it seized him it was sweet and violent; he shuddered as wave after little wave of pleasure shook him, and rippled anew. When he had finished at last he gazed down at her.

Her eyes were closed again, her lips were parted, and her breath still came swiftly…and he felt the little tremors that touched her. She seemed white, very pale.

"Shannon?" He stroked her hair, smoothing damp tendrils from her face. She moved, trying to free herself from the burden of his body. He shifted his weight, and she curled against him.

"Shannon—"

"Don't. Please, don't…not yet," she whispered.

While the twilight darkened, he held her, staring at the trees and watching the silhouette of the leaves against the sky until it was too dark to see them.

Then suddenly, in silence, she pushed away from him. She rose, and her hair fell over her eyes, obscuring them. She walked quickly to the water, and did not pause at the edge, but hurried to where it was deep, and ducked beneath it. Malachi watched her pensively, thinking that the action wasn't much different than the one she had taken that morning when she washed her hands and face as if to wash away the scent and memory of Justin.

He rose and followed her into the water. "Shannon!" She ignored him, and he caught her arm, turning her around. She jerked away from him.

"Shannon, what are you doing now?"

"Nothing."

"Then why won't you talk to me?"

"I don't want to talk."

"Shannon, what just happened—"

"Shouldn't have happened. It shouldn't have happened!" she repeated fiercely. She sat in the water, pursing her lips, scrubbing her thighs and behaving now as chastely as a nun. She sank even lower into the water until the surface rippled against her breasts, and for some reason, the sight irritated him more than her perverse denial.

"Shannon—"

"Malachi, damn you! Could you at least have the decency to leave me alone now?"

"Could I have the decency?" He caught her elbow, pulling her to her feet. He was furious and she was distant. And yet, something was irrevocably and forever changed between them. It seemed natural now to hold her this way, to have her against him sleek and bare and intimate. She couldn't make love the way that she had and pretend that the moments hadn't existed.

"Decency?" he asked sarcastically. "Oh, I see. It was all my fault—"

"I didn't say that."

"It's what you mean."

"Well, you're just one hell of a Southern gentleman! You know something? That's what Kristin always called you. You were the perfect Southern knight, the hero, the magnificent cavalier! Riding to a lady in distress! Well, she's wrong; you're no gentleman. You may have seen me bathing, but you might have turned your back."

"Oh? And you, I suppose, were the perfect lady? Naked as a jay and strutting like a dance-hall girl out there—"

"You could have turned around. I thought that you were a gentleman!"

"Don't ever think, Shannon. Every time you do, someone gets into trouble. And don't you ever deny me, or—"

"Malachi, it was your fault."

"My fault. Right I didn't exactly drag you screaming from the water."

She lowered her head.

He caught her chin, lifting it. "You just wanted to indulge in a little fantasy. You never made it into bed with the Yank when he was alive, so now you're willing to take on a Rebel captain just to see what it might have been like—"

She struck out at him like lightning, slapping his cheek with a stinging blow, then ducked, afraid that he would extract retribution. Every time she had touched Malachi in anger before, he had repaid her in some way.

But that night, he did not. He touched his cheek, then spun around. "You're right, Shannon. It never should have happened."

He sloshed through the water to the shore and, ignoring her completely, dressed at his leisure. He heard her, though. He would always hear her, he realized. Hear her, and imagine her. Her eyes like the sky. Her grace and energy, her supple beauty. He would hear her, and imagine her, clothed and… unclothed.

He heard her coining to the shore, and imagined her slipping into her thin cotton pantalets and beautiful corset with the pink roses sewn into the lace. He sneaked a glance, and saw she had plunged into her jeans, and now sat on her bedroll pulling on her boots.

He dug into his saddlebags and found a clean checked cotton shirt. He tossed it to her.

"Thank you. I don't—"

"Put it on. If you ride around in that corset thing, every man jack we run into will fall under the illusion that you're ready and willing, too."

She slid the sleeves of the shirt over her arms and began to work on the buttons. Her head was high. "I wasn't going to refuse the shirt, Captain Slater. I was going to suggest that you should wear something similar. That Confederate coat of yours is pretty distinctive."

Malachi didn't reply. He turned around to pack up his bedroll, setting his greatcoat and jacket in with his blanket. His trousers were gray, but his shirt was plain blue cotton.

He couldn't quite part with his hat yet, so he set it atop his head, and stared at Shannon, waiting. When she had buttoned her shirt, she dug into her bag for a comb. She started trying to untangle the long strands of her hair.

Malachi saddled the horses, and she was still struggling. He walked over to her impatiently, snatching the comb from her fingers. "Get down on your knees," he told her gruffly.

"I won't—"

"It's the only way that I can handle this mane!"

She complied in silence. He quickly found the tangles, and eased them out. When he was done, he thrust the comb back to her. "May we go now, Miss McCahy?"

She nodded, lowering her head. They mounted and started out.

Malachi rode ahead of her, silent as death, wrapped up with his own demons. He felt as if they had been on the road for hours when she finally tried to catch up with him, calling to him softly.

"Malachi?"

"What?"

"I—I want to explain."

"Explain what?"

"What I said. I didn't mean to deny—"

"That's good. Because I won't let you deny the truth."

"That's not what I meant I want to explain—"

She was still behind him. He couldn't see her face, and he was glad. It was easier to be cynical and cool that way. "Shannon," he said, with a grate to his voice, "you don't have to explain anything."

"But you don't understand—"

"Yes, I know. I never do."

"Malachi, before the war, I was always a lady—"

"Shannon, before, during and after the war, you always were a hellion."

"Malachi, damn you! I just meant that…I never would have done…what I did. I shouldn't have…"

He hesitated, listening to her fumbling for words. He could sense tears in her voice again, and though he ached for her, he was bitter, too. He didn't like playing substitute for a ghost. He might have forced her to admit that she had desired him, but the thought of her Yankee fiance enraged him.

The ghost had never had what he had had, he reminded himself. He cooled slightly. "The war has changed lots of people," he said softly to her. "And you are a lady, brat. Still, I'm sorry."

"I don't want you to be sorry, Malachi. I just—it shouldn't have happened. Not now. Not between us."

"A Yank and a Reb. It would never do," he said bitterly.

She cantered up beside him, veering into his horse so that he was forced to look at her. She was soft and feminine now, her beautiful features and golden hair just brushed and kissed by the pale dusky moonlight.

"Malachi, please, I didn't mean that."

"I hope you meant something," he told her earnestly. "Shannon, you changed yourself tonight. Forever. You cast away something that some men deem very precious. You can't just pretend this didn't happen."

Even in the dim light he saw her flush. She lowered her face. "I know that. But that's not at all what I meant. What I meant is that…" She hesitated.

"Shannon, I did not drag you down, I did not force you into my arms. I seduced, maybe, but not without your ready cooperation."

He thought she might hit him. She didn't move. Only the breeze stirred her hair. They had both stopped, he realized.

She looked up at him, smiling painfully. Tears glazed her eyes. "I did want you, Malachi. I shouldn't have. I knew it was you, and I wanted you…and I shouldn't have. Because I did love Robert, with all of my heart. And it hasn't even been a year. I…" She shook her head. "I…I'm the one who is sorry."

She moved ahead of him. He suddenly felt exhausted, tired and torn to shreds.

He had never imagined, never, through hellfire, war and his meager taste of peace, that Shannon McCahy could come to brew this tempest in him. Anger, yes, she had always elicited his anger…

But maybe, just maybe, she had always aroused this fever in his loins, too. And maybe he was just beginning to see it now.

She was searing swiftly into his heart, too.

Maybe they could be friends. Maybe every war deserved a truce now and then.

"Shannon."

She reined in and looked to him.

"Let's camp here and get some sleep. We'll move more westerly tomorrow night, away from the water, so let's take advantage of it now."

He thought she raised her eyebrows, and he remembered clearly just what advantages the water had given them. "To drink and bathe," he told her dryly.

She nodded and dismounted, removing her saddle. He would have helped her, but she had grown up on a ranch and knew what she was doing, so he decided to leave her alone. They both needed some privacy right now.

He unsaddled his horse, set her to graze, and hesitated. At last he decided it was safe, and he moved close to the water to build a small fire. Shannon watched him as the flames caught. He looked at her. "I need some small rocks. I've got a pan; we'll have coffee." And brandy, he added to himself. Lots of it.

He was the one who needed to keep away from her. This was going to be hard, damned hard now. He couldn't look at her, have her near, and not imagine her in his arms again. Maybe if she hadn't known how to move and arch and undulate and please a man, all by instinct…

She came back with the rocks, and he arranged them around his fire and set the pan so that the water would boil without putting out the flame. He stared at the water while she undid the bedrolls, setting them up for the remainder of the night.

The coffee was soon done; Shannon laid out bread and cheese and smoked meat. They barely spoke to one another as they ate, and when they were done, silence fell around them again.

"Why don't you go to bed," he told her.

She nodded. "Yes. I guess that I will." She rose and started for their bedrolls, then paused, looking at him.

She seemed angelic then. Soft and slim and wistfully and painfully feminine. She smiled at him awkwardly. "Malachi?"

"What?"

"Does it matter to you?"

"Does what matter to me?"

"A—er—a woman's…"

"Virginity?" He offered.

She flushed, and shook her head. "Never mind—"

"Shannon—"

"Never mind. Forget it. Sometimes I forget consequences and…"

He took a long sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Have you forgotten them this time?"

"What?" she murmured. It was her turn to be confused.

He stood and walked over to her. Malachi was irritated by the touch of malicious mischief in his own heart. He would set her to thinking and worrying for days, he thought.

But then he had spent these last hours in a type of hell, and he would surely spend all their moments together in torment from this day forth.

"Consequences. Procreation. Infants. Sweet little people growing inside a woman's body…"

Her eyes widened. She hadn't thought about it at all, he saw, and he was right—now she would worry for days.

He kissed her on the forehead. "Good night."

She was still standing there when he walked back to the fire.

CHAPTER SEVEN

"What do you think?" Shannon murmured. It was late the next afternoon, and they had spent the day riding westward, avoiding the major roads, and had slipped quietly through the countryside.

"I think it's Kansas," Malachi replied flatly, turning toward her.

They sat on their horses looking down a cliff to a small, dusty town. On the distant rolling plains they could see farmhouses and ranches. Before them they could see a livery and a barbershop and a saloon. A sign stretching across the top of a long building advertised Mr. Haywood's Dry Goods and Mercantile, and next to it was a smaller sign, advertising Mrs. Haywood's Haywood Inn, Rooms to Let by the Day, Month, Year.

"Haywood, Kansas," Shannon murmured. She could still feel Malachi looking at her, and she couldn't bring herself to look his way. She'd had trouble looking at him ever since…

She couldn't believe what she had done. She hadn't had a single drop of liquor inside her. She hadn't been dragged, forced or coerced. She had done it all of her own free will, and if it were possible to live a thousand years, she would never be able to forget it. Or Malachi…

She could not look at him anymore and not remember everything. When his eyes touched her now she started to tremble deep inside. When she watched his hands resting on the reins, she remembered them against her body. The low male tenor of his voice moved against her now as if it touched her every time, as if it stroked the length of her back, just brushing over her flesh. And too often, way too often, she would grow hot and shivery all at once, and at the very core of her, and she would be ashamed to remember the feeling of unbelievable ecstasy that had burst upon her at the end.

She had never denied him his appeal, even in her moments of most vehement hatred. Even as the war had waged on and on, even as he dismissed her again and again as a child. And now she knew even more about him that she could not deny. That he was wonderfully muscled and sleek and bronze. His back was riddled with scars, and she knew that they were the result of cavalry battles, that he had been nicked time and again, and that he fought on, because a man just didn't walk away from a war, or from his duty as he saw it

She knew that his chest was tufted with short red and gold hair, and that the hair narrowed enticingly at his hips, and that it flared out again to frame a demanding…masculinity.

He was an attractive man.

But she should have never been attracted, and each time she thought of her own behavior, it hurt. She knew that he thought that she had wanted to see him as a substitute for Robert. But he hadn't allowed it, and by then…she hadn't cared. She could make excuses. Maybe she had been striking out against the loss. Maybe she had just felt the need to be held.

No, the need to be loved.

But there really was no excuse. They hadn't even been friends. Passionate enemies, at best. What he must really be thinking of her, deep down inside, she couldn't even imagine…

And then she suddenly knew what her greatest fear was— that it had been a swift, casual fling for him, when for her it was a nightmare that changed her entire life and left her wondering if she had any morality whatsoever. And of all men to humiliate her so, it just had to be Malachi…

She had to be mature about it. She had to learn to forget it, and she had to learn to…quit worrying. Malachi had brought up a consequence that hadn't even passed through her mind. She'd never been that innocent, not on the ranch. She always knew what men and women did to create sons and daughters. It was just that she couldn't afford to think about it. She had to put it behind her now as well. Kristin was out there, somewhere. And Shannon did need Malachi's help. She didn't know the first thing about Kansas, or the awful man, Fitz. She needed Malachi.

"We need to go down," he said slowly, reluctantly. "We need to buy some food, if there's any to be had. And I'd give a hell of a lot to see a newspaper and try to find out what's been going on in the world."

"I'll go—" Shannon began.

"Don't be a fool," he told her impatiently. "I can't let you go down alone."

"I would be perfectly safe, and you wouldn't be."

"No one is safe anywhere around here. It wasn't safe before the war, and it surely isn't safe now."

"But I'm a Yank, remember?"

"Yeah, but they may not see it like that. To some, anyone from Missouri is a bushwhacker. Anyone at all."

"So what do you suggest?"

He gazed at her, lifting a brow. "Why, we pretend like hell, Miss McCahy, what else. We go in together—man and wife. Our place has been burned out. We're looking to keep on moving westward. Don't mess up, you hear?"

She eyed his hat pointedly. "You're riding in with a lantern of truth atop your head, captain," she said sweetly.

He swept the hat from his head and looked at it for a long moment, then dismounted and walked toward some bushes. He set the hat carefully in the midst of them.

"Is this a funeral?" Shannon asked sarcastically. "Maybe we should run down and bring the preacher out to mutter a few last words."

His face was savage when his eyes lit on hers. She swallowed, wishing that she hadn't spoken. He didn't reply. He walked around and mounted the bay again and reached out for her horse's reins, holding the horse there before him. "Follow my lead, Shannon. I don't mind dyin' for Kristin, and I don't even mind dying for you—when it can't be helped. I will be bloody damned, though, if I'll die just because you can't keep a civil tongue in your body."

His words fell into silence. Shannon stared at him without a word for what seemed like an endless time. She had only been teasing him. She hadn't realized how her words might wound, and she didn't know how to explain that or apologize.

"What about your saddle?" she asked him coldly. "Are there any Confederate markings on it, or on any of the other trappings on your horse?"

"My saddle came off a dead Ohioan's plow horse," he said. "And the bridle is from your ranch. No markings at all."

"Shall we go then?" she said tautly.

He released her horse's reins and they started down the slope. "We're going to buy some supplies and get some information," he told her. "You keep careful."

"Me?" she inquired sweetly. "You should be grateful to have me along, Malachi Slater. They aren't going to take your Confederate currency here. I've got Yankee dollars."

He turned to stare at her. "You keep your Yankee dollars, Shannon."

"Oh?"

"I've got gold, Miss McCahy. Last I heard, they're still taking that stuff everywhere. Come on now, I want you close."

He continued down the slope. Their horses broke into smooth canters as they crossed the empty plain and entered the town by the single road that cut through the line of buildings. Malachi reined in, nodding to Shannon to do the same. They dismounted in front of the mercantile and tethered their horses on the wood rail that ran the length of the place, then started up the two dusty steps to the open doorway.

There was a portly, balding man behind a counter that stretched in front of a wall with rows and rows of just about everything. There were rolls of fabric, mostly cottons and linens, but there were brocades and silks and satins, too, and smaller rolls of elegant laces. There were sacks of flour and coffee and tea and sugar, and there were sewing goods and farm supplies, leather items, blankets, sheets, canteens. The whole store was composed of shelving, and Shannon saw jars of jams and preserves, pickled vegetables and smoked and dried meats. As small as this town was, it seemed to be a prosperous place.

"Howdy," the portly man said to the two of them.

Malachi grinned broadly, walking up to the man. "Howdy, sir."

"What can I do for you, young man?"

"Well, the wife and I are heading out west. We just need ourselves some food supplies."

"We can take care of that, Mr.—"

"Uh, Sloan," Malachi said.

"Gabriel," Shannon said quickly at the same time.

Malachi frowned at her, his jaw locking. The balding man looked from one of them to the other. "It's Sloan Gabriel, sir," Malachi said. He jerked Shannon over to his side. "And this is my wife, Sara."

The man looked from Malachi to Shannon. Shannon smiled and escaped Malachi's punishing grip, wandering away to look over the merchandise in the store. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel."

"Likewise, I'm sure," she murmured demurely.

The man leaned toward Malachi. "My wife's got herself a little tea parlor next door, young man. Maybe the lady would like a cup?" He winked. "And you could take a walk on over to the saloon and have yourself a pint or two."

"That sounds mighty nice," Malachi told him. A saloon was always the best place to hear whatever news was passing around. He looked at Shannon.

"Sweetheart." She was looking at a roll of calico and didn't pay him the slightest heed. He walked over to her, catching her hands and spinning her around and into his arms. "Darlin'! That nice man, Mr.—"

"Haywood," the balding man supplied.

"That nice Mr. Haywood says his wife has a little tea shop next door. Wouldn't you like to have a cup of tea, complete with milk and sugar? It's been a long, hard road."

She smiled sweetly. "Are you going to have a cup of tea, darlin'?" she asked him. She came up on her toes, slipping her arms around his neck.

"I had reckoned that I might have a beer across the way," he told her, his jaw twisting. Her smile had been dazzling, and her eyes were absurdly large and innocent. Her body was pressed tight to his and he could feel all the curves and soft slopes that he had recently come to know so well.

His eyes narrowed. "Careful!" he mouthed. She couldn't be that innocent. She had to know what she was doing to him.

"Why, darlin'," she drawled sweetly. "I don't mind. I'll come over to the saloon with you." She wrinkled her nose up prettily. "I don't rightly care for that nasty old beer, but—"

He untangled her arms from around his neck. "Sweetheart," he said firmly, "you go on and have tea. It might be a rough place. There might be some…talk…I don't want you to hear."

"If you're there, my love, I'm sure that I'll be safe."

"You'll be much safer, sweetheart, having tea."

"But I don't mind hearing talk, beloved."

He was losing control. There was a definite note of irritation in his voice. "Honey love, sometimes a man just don't talk as freely when there's a lady present. You'll have tea."

"But, darlin', I—"

He didn't let her finish. He could hear Mr. Haywood snickering behind him, and he'd had about enough. She was the one pressing it. He pulled her even closer and slammed his lips down hard upon hers in a bruising, punishing kiss. He held her so tightly that she could barely breathe, and that was what he had intended. When he released her, she was silent, gasping for breath. He spun her around so that his back was toward Mr. Haywood and he whispered with vehemence. "Go over and have tea. Now. You ruin this—"

"But I want to hear, too—"

"Go. Now. Smile, kiss me sweetly, and damn you, go have a cup of tea. I mean it, Shannon."

He could hear her teeth grinding, but she went still. Mala-chi spun around. "Next door, you say, Mr. Haywood?"

"Sure thing. The little lady can go right through this door here."

Shannon didn't see a door. Then she realized that even the door was lined with shelves that were filled with merchandise.

"See you soon, sweetheart." Malachi pulled her into his arms, kissing her on the forehead. She longed to slap him, hard. She smiled instead, and threw her arms around him again, rising up on her toes, and quickly threading her fingers through the hair at his nape. She kissed him…

She kissed him with purpose…and with menace, pressing her lips fully against his, and teasing his lip with the thrust of her tongue. Startled, he gave way. She pressed her tongue fully into his mouth, slowly, provocatively, filling it.

Then she withdrew, dropping back on her heels with her body tight to his, rubbing him with the length of it. She saw a dark sizzle in his eyes, but ignored it despite her own breathlessness. She turned to Mr. Haywood and smiled brightly. "Newlyweds, you know!" she explained, flushing and batting her lashes. "I can't bear to see him go, even for a second. It's just been so hard, what with the war and all. The cows scattered, then the fields were trampled, and then the whole ranch was burned down one day. But now we're finally together, heading west, and it is just so hard to let my darlin' out of my sight…"

Both men were silent. Malachi was as stiff as a poker, not saying a word. But when she looked at him, his eyes were narrowed. Real narrow. The way he looked at her caused her heart to jump and shiver, and she decided then to make a hasty retreat. She offered Mr. Haywood another smile and quickly passed through the shelved door that he held open for her.

She found herself in a large parlor. For a moment, it reminded her so much of her home that she inhaled quickly, feeling a little dizzy. It was lovely. A piano stood on a braided rug before a polished wood staircase. Beautiful Victorian chairs sat all around the piano in pleasant angles, a grouping of three here, two there. There was a grouping around the fireplace, and there were lovely little marble-topped tables all around.

"Hello?"

A short, buxom woman with small brown eyes, iron-gray hair and warm, rosy cheeks came through a doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. She smiled at Shannon, then eyed her outfit.

She didn't fit in the beautiful little parlor, Shannon realized. Not in her dusty breeches and checked shirt.

But the woman didn't hesitate long. It was ranch country, farm country, and Shannon's outfit was not completely alien here.

"Hello, miss…"

"Uh—Gabriel," Shannon said quickly. "Sh—Sara Gabriel, Mrs. Haywood. Your husband sent me over."

"Oh, how lovely. Well, do sit down. I'll bring you in some of our finest, young lady." She extended her arm around the parlor. "As you can see, we're not terribly busy at the moment."

Shannon nodded, wondering if they were ever busy. It seemed to be such a small town to support the shop and boardinghouse.

"Sit, sit!"

She shooed Shannon into one of the chairs by the fireplace and disappeared. Shannon barely had a chance to get her breath and look around before Mrs. Haywood was back, carrying a large silver tray. She set it down on one of the marble-topped tables. She poured tea from a pot through a strainer and looked at Shannon. "Sugar, cream?"

"Yes, please," Shannon said.

As Mrs. Haywood continued fixing the tea, Shannon looked over the curve of her chair toward the street. Malachi was just going into the saloon, pushing his way through a set of swinging doors.

"Is that your husband, dear?" asked Mrs. Haywood, following Shannon's eyes.

"Yes," said Shannon, a little grimly.

"Now, now, don't worry about him, Mrs. Gabriel," Mrs. Haywood advised her. She sighed with an expansive smile and patted Shannon's knee. "You're such a pretty young thing, you needn't worry a bit. Newlyweds, eh?"

"Er, yes ma'am. How did you know?" Shannon said.

"The war, my girl, the war. Young ladies here and there are snatching up their fellers the second the boys come home. Too many young men dead. Too many young women left without husbands or intendeds. Those who can are marrying quick. Did your husband fight in the war, Mrs. Gabriel?"

"Yes—yes, he did," Shannon said quickly. She prayed that Mrs. Haywood wouldn't ask her any more questions.

She didn't. She pointed to the pastries on the plate. "Meat pies and cinnamon swirls and raisin muffins. And I'm the best cook this side of the Mississippi, I promise you. Help yourself, young lady."

Shannon hadn't known how hungry she was until she bit into the first pie. It was still warm from the oven, and the pastry was fluffy and light and delicious, and the meat was tender and seemed to melt in her mouth. She hadn't had anything nearly so good in ages, and it felt as if she and Malachi had been on the road forever, despite the fact that this would only be their fourth night away. Everything about the parlor felt good, from the elegance of the chairs to the fine food and sweet tea. It was nice to stop, even if Malachi had been his usual dictatorial self when he had refused to let her go to the saloon.

Mrs. Haywood kept talking as Shannon ate. She explained that Haywood was kept busy by the traffic that went through. There were roads all around the town. Some of them went south, Texas way, and some of them went to Missouri, and some of them headed toward the north, while an awful lot of them headed out west. "People are headin' for California, right and left, already. Almost as much as back in '49. The war…it left so many without a home, or without a home they could call their own anymore."

Shannon nodded vaguely. She found herself looking over the rear of the chair, out the curtained windows and across the street to the saloon. Heat suffused through her as she thought of the way she had kissed Malachi in the store, and she wondered why she had done so. If she were playing a game, it was a dangerous one. If she was hoping to taunt him or hurt him, she was risking herself by doing it. She didn't know what had seized her; she didn't seem to know herself at all any more.

Nor did she understand why she was so anxious over the length of time he was staying at the saloon. What was he doing over there?

Drinking it up with the whores, no doubt, she thought, and a flush of anger filled her. She didn't care; it was none of her business.

But she did care. It made no sense. She did care. Maybe it was the idea that he could move on from her to a whore so quickly. Maybe it left her with doubts about her abilities.

She almost bit through her cup with that thought, and she reminded herself fiercely that she really loathed Malachi, loathed him with all her heart, and she had never set out to please him, she had never set out to be with him at all. And she didn't want to be with him now; it was a matter of necessity.

Maybe he wasn't being entertained by a woman at all. Maybe he was in trouble, Shannon thought.

"You two staying the night?" Mrs. Haywood asked her.

"Uh—no, I don't think so," Shannon said. "Ma—my husband, Sloan, wants to keep moving. He says the sooner we get where we're going, the sooner we'll get settled down."

"But a little rest never did nobody any harm, either," Mrs. Haywood said. "Pity, I've got the coziest little room upstairs. Pretty lace curtains, a big wool comforter, a fireplace and—" she winked, leaning toward Shannon ''—I got the most unbelievable hip bath you ever seen up there. It's a two seater, wood and copper, just right for a young mister and his new missus."

Shannon nodded, her face growing red despite herself. "I'm sure it's very, very nice, Mrs. Haywood—"

Mrs. Haywood jumped up, grabbing her hand. "Do come on. Your young man seems to be enjoying himself. You come on up here, and I'll show you my honeymooners' retreat!"

Shannon didn't have much choice. She stared across the roadway one more time, wishing she could give Malachi a good punch right in the gut. What did he think he was doing? Was he enjoying himself at her expense, or…

Was he in trouble?

She wished she knew.

It was a typical saloon, the type that had been cropping up in Kansas ever since the white man had first started to claim the land. Two men served behind the bar, and a beautiful brunette with a feathered hat and shoulderless gown played tunes at the piano. There were two lone drinkers at round tables, and a poker game going on in the rear of the room. Three of the players were ranchers; they had come with their dusty hats and kerchiefs and chaps and spurs, and they were swigging on whiskey bottles. A fourth man seemed to be a clerk or a banker. He was wearing a neat pin-striped suit with a crooked tie and white shirt.

The other two had a somewhat professional air about them. Both wore vested suits and tall hats. One was lean with a thin curling mustache, and the other was heavier set with small, very dark and very alert eyes.

Malachi wandered over to the bar, and one of the barkeeps hurried to serve him. "Beer," Malachi said briefly, throwing a coin on the bar. The man smiled and drew a foaming brew from the tap. Malachi nodded his thanks.

"Passing through?" the barkeep asked.

Malachi nodded again. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the gamblers were being served by a tall, buxom redhead. The sight of the woman gave him a start, and he almost forgot to answer the barkeep. "The wife and I are heading out for California. Seems the only thing to do now." He remembered Shannon's words and added, "We were burned out End of the war, you know. Seems to make sense to up and start all over."

"Yep, seems to make sense. Lots of people heading west these days. You staying in town long?"

"Nope. Just came in to wet my whistle."

The barkeep smiled. "And your wife is over at Mrs. Hay-wood's having tea."

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Cause this is Haywood's saloon. His town, really. He entertains the lady folks on that side of the street, and the men on this side. Darned good scam, ain't it, Mr.—"

"Gabriel. Sloan Gabriel."

"Matey. Matey MacGregor. It all seems to come out clean in the wash here. The Haywoods are right nice folks themselves, and that seems to make it all right"

Malachi grimaced. "Yeah, maybe it does." He turned around, leaning against the bar, watching the tall red-haired woman again. He swore inwardly. It was Iris Andre from Springfield, and he did know her.

He thought he should turn around and hurry out of the saloon, but just at that moment, the woman looked up and saw him. Surprise and pleasure appeared on her attractive features, and she straightened, ignoring the poker players, and hurried toward him. She was going to call out his name, he knew it.

"Iris! I'll be damned!" He went to her quickly, hugging her and squeezing the air from her before she could speak. He picked her up to swing her around, whispering in her ear, "Sloan. Sloan Gabriel. Please."

She nodded swiftly—Ms always had been a bright woman. She meant to have her own business one day, and Malachi was sure that when she did, it would be a financial success.

"Sloan!" she said enthusiastically.

"You two know each other, Iris?" the barkeep called.

"Sure do, Matey. We're friends from way back. Sloan, grab your beer and come over here to a table for a moment.''

He'd always liked Iris. She might be a whore, but she was a whore with class. He didn't miss a beat. She was almost as tall as he was, and though she wasn't beautiful, she was attractive with her strong features, blazing red hair, green eyes and regal height.

"Come on!" she urged him, putting him farther and farther into the back. She sat him down at one of the small tables, far away from the others, far away from probing eyes. "Malachi! What the hell fool thing are you doing in Kansas? Wait a minute, don't answer that. Buy me a drink so this will look like business. Matey!" she called out "We'll take a bottle of whiskey over here. The good stuff."

"Coming right up."

Iris dangled her fingers sensually over the back of Mala-chi's hand while they waited for Matey to come over with the whiskey. When he was gone, Iris lowered her head close to Malachi's. "Malachi! They've got wanted posters up all over the country! They say you were in on a raid with your brothers, that you went into Kansas and shot some guy named Henry Fitz, and that you're wanted on all kinds of other bushwhacking activities, too. I heard about what Fitz did to your brother, so I wasn't too surprised—"

"Iris, I wasn't with Cole, not that I wouldn't have gone with him if I could. But the war was ending right then. I had a whole contingent of men under me, and I couldn't just go running off to Kansas. Cole was a scout. I was regular cavalry. I went where I was ordered to go."

"Malachi." She moved even closer to him. "I know that none of you has done anything to be hanged for, but you don't know Hayden Fitz."

"And you do?"

Iris nodded. "Never met a meaner son of a bitch in my entire life. There's something evil about him. He likes bloodletting, and he likes to watch men die. He's worth money, too, Malachi. Big money. He invested with arms manufacturers during the war and made himself even richer. He owns Sparks—"

"Sparks?"

"The town where he lives. I mean, he owns it." She smiled, waving a hand around. "All right, so the Haywoods own Haywood. But this is a two-bit rest stop, Malachi. Sparks is big. The stagecoach goes through. It's always filled with Conestogas. There's a jail and a circuit court, and if he manages to get you into that jail, he'll hang you, too. You fool! You gotta get out of Kansas."

Malachi shook his head. "I can't. Hayden Fitz sent men to my sister-in-law's place. Cole wasn't there, so they carried her away. I've got to find her."

Iris sat back. "At least you got rid of your Reb uniform," she said softly. "You don't look like the poster so much anymore."

"I still have the uniform," he said, pouring out shots of the whiskey. "It's stuffed in my saddlebags. And my hat— well, I left it out in some bushes. It was kind of hard to part with, you know?"

She nodded. "Old times," she murmured, then she looked at him. "Oh, Malachi!"

"What, Iris?"

"Malachi, I did hear something about Fitz holding a woman. Just the other day, some of the boys were talking about Fitz having a blond woman in his jail. Said she was part of a conspiracy to murder Union soldiers."

His heart sank, but it was what he had been expecting to hear. The Red Legs would have carried Kristin straight to Fitz. And Fitz surely knew that he was holding the key to Cole's whereabouts.

"You think he'll—hurt her?" Malachi asked.

She shook her head strenuously. "I—uh—I don't think so. He could kill her, Malachi, if he does anything. But hurt her? Not if he's using her for bait."

"You hear anything about my brothers?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Not a word. Sorry, Malachi." She was silent for a minute. "But I can help you."

"What?"

"Like I said," she told him dryly, "I know Hayden Fitz. I know his sheriff, Tom Parkins, real well. The town ain't twenty miles from here, Malachi. I can take a trip over and bring you back some information."

"Iris, that's good of you. That's real good, but I can't stay here—"

"You can stay here if you can stay anyplace on God's good earth. I tell you, Malachi, for Yanks, these are real good people here. Stay. Just give me one or two days. I can ride over tomorrow, spend some time and ride back.

"I can't have you do that—"

"I do it now and then anyway, Malachi."

He hesitated. If anything happened to Ms, he would never forgive himself. But if she could help him free Kristin and he didn't let her, he'd never forgive himself, either.

"Iris, I can't believe I'm saying this, but all right. You think I'm really safe here?"

"As safe as you're going to be."

He exhaled slowly.

"I won't let nothing happen to me, Malachi, I swear it," she insisted. "It's all right. It really is."

He still hesitated, then he sighed. "All right. It's good to see you, Iris. So good. You stayin' on here?"

"Don't look at me like that—I'll feel like I want to stand up and sing 'Dixie,' and that just ain't no good anymore. No. I'm going to California The war is too close here, Malachi. I want to leave it behind. My father fought with Grant, and he's dead. My brother was with General E. Kirby-Smith down south, and now he's dead, too. I want out of this hatred, Malachi. It ain't going to end here. Not in my lifetime."

He laced his fingers through hers and squeezed them. They were very close and intimate, two friends who had run the same gamut

That's how they were sitting when the saloon doors burst open and Shannon came into the room.

She had a Colt shoved into her belt, and she looked around the saloon carefully, looking for any danger. He saw from the position of her hand that she could have grabbed the gun in a split second, and fired, with great accuracy, in less time than that.

Her eyes fell on his.

"Ma—Sloan!" she said, startled. Her eyes took in the two glasses, the whiskey bottle and his hand, his fingers inter-weaved with Iris's on the table. She took in Iris, from the little flare of her hat to her black petticoats peaking out from beneath her crimson gown. She looked from the poker players to the bar, where Matey was staring at her expectantly.

Her eyes narrowed, dark lashes falling over her brilliant blue eyes. Her hair was loose and beautiful, spilling all

around her shoulders. It was one of those occasions when her masculine apparel made her look all the more feminine, for her slender legs seemed very long, and her derriere was defined by her trousers just as her breasts were full and defined by her cotton shirt.

She was furious. Malachi wondered why. Just because he had left her for so long, hadn't allowed her to take an equal part in this venture? Or was there, maybe, just maybe, more to it than that?

Thinking about it made a pulse beat hard against his throat. He wanted to be with her somewhere alone, then, at that moment.

He swallowed down his desire and fought the tension. She was striding his way. They were going to do battle again. Her claws were bared; he could almost see them. He nearly smiled. A woman didn't get that way unless she was jealous. At least a little bit jealous.

"Darlin', I'm so very sorry to interrupt," she drawled. Her voice dripped with honey. She smiled sweetly at Iris. Then she knelt close to Malachi. "You son of a bitch! You left me over there scared to death…never mind. Bastard! Well, darlin', at least the whole town will be expecting a marital dispute. I'm checking into Mrs. Hay wood's. I assume you have other arrangements." She stood. "Nice to meet you, Miss—" she said to Iris.

"Iris, honey. Iris Andre. And you're…?"

"I'm—" Shannon paused and shot her very sweet and dazzling smile at Iris once again. "I'm Mrs. Sloan Gabriel," she said, and she picked up Iris's shot glass and tossed the whiskey into her face.

Matey inhaled in a massive gasp; even the poker players went dead silent.

Malachi leaped to his feet, reaching for Shannon. Iris was on her feet, too. Malachi knew Iris, and Iris didn't take that kind of thing from anybody. He jerked Shannon around behind him. "Ms, I do apologize for my wife's manners—"

"Don't you dare apologize for me to any who—"

He spun around, clamping his hand hard over Shannon's mouth. "Iris, I apologize with all my heart." He jerked Shannon's wrist and twisted her arm around so that she couldn't possibly fight him without feeling excruciating pain. "Darlin', please, Iris is an old friend, and we just have a few things to say to one another." He dropped his voice and whispered against her ear. "Darlin', you are acting like a brat, and I promise you, if you don't act grown-up real quick here, I'm going to peel those breeches and tan your hide, just to prove that the man wears the real pants in this family. I'll do it, Shannon, because I'll have to." He hesitated. "She knows something about Kristin. She can help us, Shannon!"

He released her, very slowly. He waited expectantly, ready to snatch her back into his arms if need be.

For once in her life, she seemed to have believed his threat Perhaps she was so concerned that she would grab at any scrap of information about her sister. She faced Ms.

"Miss Andre, it was a pleasure," she said. Her voice was the softest drawl, her manner that of a charming, well-mannered belle. She swept from the saloon like a queen.

A cheer went up from the poker crowd. One of the ranchers stood. "Mister, I sure salute you! That's one heck of a spirited filly, beautiful to boot, and you handled her like a man!"

"Buy him a drink!" the heavyset professional gambler called. "If I'd been able to manage my wife like that, I might be a rich man by now!"

Malachi laughed, sitting down and waving a hand in the air. "She's going to be mighty mad later, gents. We'll see how I handle her then." He looked at Iris. She sat beside him. He gave her his kerchief to wipe the whiskey from her face. She seemed more confused than angry.

"Malachi, that really was your wife?"

He shook his head. "Iris, she is my sister-in-law's sister. She wants Kristin back. I couldn't seem to stop her coming with me, and that's another long story, too."

Iris sat back, smiling. Malachi poured her more whiskey, and she swallowed it.

"Thanks for not ripping her hair out."

"Don't kid yourself, Malachi. I saw that Colt in her pants. I'm willing to bet she knows how to use it."

"Like a pro—except that she has a bad time aiming at people."

Iris was smiling at him with a peculiar little grin. "She might not make you such a bad wife after all, my friend."

Malachi frowned. "Iris—"

"She's got spirit, and she's got courage. A little raw around the edges, as if she's got some scars on her. But we've all got scars. I can't see you with a namby-pamby woman, and she ain't that."

"No, she isn't that. She's a pain in the damned—"

"Butt!" Iris broke in, laughing. "Yes sir, she's that. But I can see something in your eyes there, Malachi. She ain't going to be checking into Mrs. Haywood's place alone, is she?"

Malachi smiled, idly twirling his whiskey around in his glass. Miss McCahy had seen fit to comment upon his actions and whereabouts.

He was damned ready to comment upon hers.

"I think I should give her time to check in and settle down and get real, real comfortable. What do you think?"

Iris laughed at the sizzle in his eyes.

She wished that it was her. But it wasn't. He was more like a married man than he knew. The beautiful little blonde with the delicate features and the tough-as-nails stature had those golden tendrils of hers wrapped tightly around him.

Still, Mrs. Sloan Gabriel's manners did need a little improvement.

"Let her get real, real comfortable," Iris advised him sagely. "A game of poker might be right in line here. Come on over, I'll introduce you to the boys."

"All right. I'm glad to meet the boys."

The heavyset gambler was Nat Green. The slimmer man with him was Idaho Joe, and the ranchers were Billy and Jay Fulton, Carl Hicks and Jeremiah Henderson. It was a good game. Iris held onto his shoulders, laughing, while he played. She brought him drinks.

Around supper time, she disappeared and came back with big plates of steak and potatoes and green beans.

He lost at cards—a little bit—and the meal cost him almost as much as the liquor, but he didn't care much. He had a good time.

And through all of it, he anticipated his arrival at Mrs. Haywood's Inn, Rooms by the Day, Month or Year.

He was just dying to see his darlin' wife.

Just dyin' to see her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

He knew that the door would be locked.

He even suspected that Shannon might have gone to Mrs. Haywood with quite a sob story about being ignored so that her husband could play around with another woman.

Shannon was a good little actress. He was learning that quickly.

And he was learning, too, that things had changed between them, irrevocably. Maybe they would always be at battle, but the battlegrounds were subtly changing. He might still spend ninety percent of his time thinking Mr. McCahy should have dragged his daughter into the woodshed a number of times at a far younger age, but he couldn't deny what she had done to him. Exactly what that was, he wasn't sure yet. And he didn't want to think about it; he didn't want to analyze it. He fixed it in his mind that Shannon had started this one. Either down in the store when she had kissed him with that pagan promise, or when she had come striding across to the saloon to douse Iris in whiskey. This one, she had begun.

But he was going to finish it

He had his own fair share of acting ability.

"Mr. Gabriel!" Mrs. Haywood said with censure when Malachi came to ask for a key to the room. "Now, I know, sir, that a man has got to have a few simple pleasures of his own. And a saloon's a good place for a man to have whiskey and a cigar—keeps the scent out of his own parlor, you know. But when it comes to other things…when he leaves a beautiful little bride…" She shook her head in reproach.

"Iris is just an old friend, ma'am." Mr. Haywood was in the kitchen, eating his supper. Malachi raised his voice a hair, determined to work on them both. "I don't know what my wife told you, Mrs. Haywood, but there was nothing going on. I had a few drinks, and I lost a few hands of poker. Ma'am, you got to understand. If a man lets his wife make a fool of him like that, well, then, he just ain't a man anymore."

"That's right, Martha." Mr. Haywood dropped his napkin on the butcher-block kitchen dining table and strode to the door. "Martha, if the man wants a key to his own room, we'd best give it to him. She's his wife, and that's that."

Mrs. Haywood was still uncertain. "Mr. Gabriel, I probably ain't got no right to keep man and wife apart, but—"

"I'm going to try to make her understand, Mrs. Haywood. Honest, I am."

"You give him the key, Martha," Mr. Haywood said.

"You're right, Papa, I suppose. Oh, Mr. Gabriel, I was just giving my husband a piece of apple pie. Won't you have some?"

"Why, that's mighty kind of you. Thank you, ma'am."

He had the key, and he had a cup of good strong coffee and some of the best apple pie he'd tasted in his entire life. And it was the middle of summer.

"I jar and preserve all my own fruits," Mrs. Haywood told him proudly.

"Well, it's the finest eating I've done, ma'am, since way before the war."

As Mrs. Haywood blushed, the door to the parlor opened. A pretty young girl in a maid's cap and smooth white apron walked in. She bobbed a nervous little curtsy to Malachi and looked at the Haywoods. "Mrs. Gabriel is all set for the night, Mrs. Haywood. She had me fetch her some of the lavender soap, and asked if we'd be so good as to put the price on the bill. She thanks you kindly for the use of the tub."

His heart started ticking a staccato beat. If he'd gone by instinct, he would have knocked the table over, brushed the maid aside, burst through the door and raced up the stairs.

Primitive, he warned himself reproachfully.

That wasn't what he wanted. Slow torture was what he had in mind.

He sipped his coffee like a gentleman. "My wife's in the bath?" he inquired innocently.

"Oh, why, yes, Mr. Gabriel," Mrs. Haywood said. "Don't worry, young man, you're welcome to stay here in the kitchen if you're worrying about disturbing her."

"Why, ma'am, I was thinking that I might steal a little of her water, and save someone having to haul more up the stairs." He spoke sincerely, rising.

"That's thoughtful of you, Mr. Gabriel," Mrs. Haywood said. Around her ample figure, Mr. Haywood looked up at Malachi with his brow arched and a skeptical smile slipping onto his lips.

"Mighty thoughtful, son," he said dryly.

Malachi flashed him a quick grimace. "Mr. and Mrs. Haywood, thank you again. Good night, now."

He nodded to the young maid and swept by her. He forced himself to walk slowly through the parlor and up the stairs. He glanced at the key. Room five.

It wasn't hard to find.

He took a deep breath outside the doorway, smiled again, and slipped the key into the lock. He heard her key fall out of the door on the other side as he pressed his in. He pushed open the door.

The most outrageous bathtub he'd ever seen sat before the fire. It was a long wooden tub with headrests rising up at both ends. It was decorated with copper and delft tiles, and at that particular moment, it was laden with bubbles…and with Shannon.

Her hair was curled high on top of her head, leaving the slim porcelain column of her neck bare. Her shoulders and just a peak of her breasts rose out of the bubbles.

She turned on him, her eyes wide and startled and very blue. She almost leaped up, but then seemed to realize how much worse that would be. "Get out!"

"Darlin'!" he said softly, with taunting reproach. And he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, leaning against it. His eyes stayed on her while he twisted the key in the lock.

She must have put on one hell of a performance with the Haywoods, he thought. She hadn't expected him that night. It was a pity that he hadn't gotten to see it.

Shannon sank farther into the tub, watching him as he sauntered coolly into the room.

"Don't you dare get comfortable," Shannon warned him. She felt herself burning all over, and it wasn't from the steam in the bath. It was caused just by the way his eyes fell upon her.

The nerve of him. How dare he be here. How dare he look at her like that. When he had just left his redheaded slut!

He tossed the key onto the side table and dropped down on Mrs. Haywood's beautiful crocheted bedspread, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring right at her. He smiled.

"Don't let me disturb you."

"You are disturbing me." She narrowed her eyes. "You've no right in this room. The Haywoods—"

"The Haywoods know that a man has a right to be with his wife—beloved."

"The Haywoods know that the man is a scoundrel and cad, seducing women from the Mississippi to the Pacific. They understood completely that you deserved a night in the livery stables."

"Tsk, tsk." His apparent relaxation had been deceptive. He moved all of a sudden, sleek and easy, twisting to stretch out on his stomach, facing her from the foot of the bed. There was no more than six feet between them. She could see the tension in his features and the pulses beating furiously against his throat and temple. There was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and she was aware that he was angry with her—furious, probably, for her behavior in the saloon—and that he seemed to have forgotten any rules of fair play for the night.

She sank lower in the tub. He wouldn't force her into anything. She knew him, and she knew that he would never force any woman. But what would he do?

And what would she do? If he touched her, she would scream, she thought, and not with horror, but because her flesh seemed to cry out to know his hands again. She was hot inside and out, and trembling fiercely. The scent of the lavender soap was all around her, the softness of the bed awaited…

And he had just spent hours and hours with a whore.

"Malachi—" She paused. "Sloan," she hissed. "This is my room. Get out."

He smiled, giving her a flash of white teeth against the golden strands of his mustache and beard. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I may be a cad, but I wouldn't dream of leaving my sweet young wife alone for the entire night."

He rose and sat at the foot of the bed, nonchalantly kicking off his boots and peeling away his socks. Shannon watched him, stunned, as he proceeded to pull the tails of his shirt from his pants and unbutton his shirt and cast it aside.

"What are you doing?" she asked him quickly.

"I'm going to take a bath."

"No, you're not. This is my bath."

"Darlin', we've got to talk, and it looks like it's just the right place, to me."

"Malachi, if you touch me, I'll scream."

"You're my wife. They might shake their heads a bit downstairs, but they won't interfere."

"I'm not your wife!" Shannon swore, panicking. The look in his eyes caused shivers to streak along her spine. The sight of his bare chest, sleek and gleaming, brought her body alive with memory. She lowered her head, determined not to look at him.

But she could hear him.

She heard his pants fall to the floor, and she heard his footsteps as his bare feet padded behind her. He dropped to his knees and his lips touched her shoulders like a burning brand. She jerked away from him and wished she hadn't, for when she turned to him she saw his hungry eyes on her newly exposed breasts. Her nipples hardened instantly and flames seemed to rise to her cheeks, then sink back and lie deep in her core. She sank into the water. She wanted to be angry, indignant. Her voice came out as a husky whisper. "Malachi, I am not your wife!"

He was on his feet, naked as a jay, and his manhood flying proud and firm. She was determined not to stare, but her teeth were chattering, and she felt compelled to watch him, like a marionette jerked by strings. She loved the look of him, she realized. She felt some ancient and instinctive fascination, which lay deep below the level of her mind, something that caused her blood to race and heat and her breath to catch and come too quickly and that made her flesh come alive at the very thought of him. She could not draw her eyes from him. She could not help but respond to the naked length of him. She found him magnificent. From the breadth of bronzed shoulders to the lean hardness of his thighs, she found him so boldly and negligently male that she could not turn away.

He stepped into the tub, sitting behind her so that his feet brushed her bottom. He leaned back against the rim of the tub and sighed deeply. "This is just wonderful." He closed his eyes in complete comfort.

Hating him, hating herself, Shannon swore furiously. "Malachi, I am not your wife!"

His eyes flew open, glittering and dangerous. "That's not what you told Miss Andre when you so rudely doused her."

"I—I had to appear upset."

"Did you now?" He leaned forward. His hands dangled over his knees. His fingers almost brushed the flesh of her breasts. She leaned against the tub, as far as she could go. It made no difference. "You're lucky she controlled her temper."

"You're damned lucky that I'm controlling mine right now."

"Am I? Why, beloved, is that a threat?"

She didn't answer him. She was shaking all over and she only hoped she had the bravado to make an escape. "If you're going to stay, Malachi, then I'm going to go." She started to rise. He was on his feet in an instant. He set his hands on her shoulders and pressed against them with relentless determination. Water and bubbles swished all around them. Her rear landed hard against the bottom of the tub, and he followed her quickly back down.

"Sit. You're not going anywhere."

"Don't you dare manhandle me! I've had it. I've simply had it! I'm not going to sit—" She tried to rise again. He caught her foot this time. She felt his free hand roaming the water for the soap. His fingers brushed her thighs and her rear and her flank and she gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out.

"Malachi—"

"Sit," he said pleasantly. "Just sit, darlin'."

"Malachi, you son of a bitch!" She tried to pull away. His grip upon her foot was firm. Softly humming "Dixie," he washed her foot with the lavender soap.

She leaned back and spoke through a clenched jaw. "Malachi, I want you out of here! Now! You left me cooling my heels to run off to a saloon. You spent the whole afternoon and evening with a whore. I had to act the way I did—"

"Jealous, darlin'?" He taunted huskily. She opened her eyes. Her foot was free and he had come close to her. Very close. Their limbs were all entangled. She could feel the shaft of his sex against her ankle, the hardness of his thighs against her toes. It was unbearable.

And she could see the pulse beating, beating, against his throat. His lips were close to hers as he spoke.

"Never!" she promised him in a heated panic. "I just can't stand the thought of being sullied by your touch."

"No?" He cocked his head, and his lashes fell lazily over his cheeks. "You didn't mind down in the store this afternoon."

"That was—that was necessary."

"No, I don't think so. I don't think so at all. Shannon, I haven't ever, not even by the most practiced whore, been kissed so provocatively in my entire life."

She leaped up. It had gone too far. Her cheeks were blazing and her breasts were heaving. The bubbles and water sluiced from her, bathing her in a seductive white foam.

Malachi leaned back. His eyes fell on the hardened dark peaks of her breasts as they thrust through the white foam of the bubbles. She saw that look in his eyes again, and she cried out softly as she stepped from the tub. She grabbed for the towel, but she had barely dried her face before he was up behind her. He lifted her cleanly from the ground and tossed her upon Mrs. Haywood's crocheted spread. She gasped for breath, trying to rise. It was impossible. He was down beside her within a split second, a leg cast over her hips and thighs, his arm a bar of steel across her.

"That kiss wasn't necessary at all," he told her.

"I am going to scream, Malachi. I'm going to scream so loudly that you'll be sorry."

"If you scream," he promised her, "it isn't going to be for help."

"You bastard!" She surged against him. "You can't come from a fancyhouse to me—" She broke off, straining against the muscles that held her. She tossed like a wild creature, but it served no purpose. It just put their bodies more fully in contact. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, and her limbs became more and more entangled with his. She felt the hard, searing heart of his desire against her thighs, against her belly. She tried to kick him and failed, but he swore softly, knowing her intent. He straddled her, keeping himself safe from her rancor, and caught her hands, pinning them to her sides. Exhausted, she twisted her head from his, gasping desperately for breath.

She heard him chuckle softly and she opened her eyes, staring at him in fury. "I will scream, Malachi! You bastard!" Tears glazed her eyes. "Gentleman! Southern cavalier! The last of the flower of knighthood—"

"Shannon, I didn't touch her."

"What?" she breathed.

"She's a friend, and a good one. She's going to do some spying on Fitz for me."

"Fitz?"

"We're not far, not far at all now. Fitz has Kristin. She's in jail."

"Oh, no, Malachi!" She surged against him, bit her lip and fell back.

"But she's all right. Iris is going to go see her. She's going to help us."

"Or else turn you in," Shannon said softly.

He shook his head with irritating confidence. "She's a friend."

"I'll bet she is."

He lay over her, his head close to hers. "You are jealous, Miss McCahy. I told you; I didn't touch her.

"That—that doesn't mean anything at all," Shannon whispered against his lips. "I don't—"

His mouth closed upon hers with a curiously tender force, parting her lips, searing them, causing them to part sweetly beneath his. She lost contact with everything but the fire of his tongue, so hot and hard, thrusting into the depths of her soul and desire. She didn't feel the bed beneath her, or know that gentle candlelight filled the room. She could only taste the fever of his kiss.

She ceased to fight him. Her fingers curled around his. His mouth lifted from hers, and touched down again upon the column of her throat. The brush of his mustache and beard feathered softly over her flesh, and she moaned, arching hard against him. He lowered his head, sweeping his face over her breasts, slowly encircling one mound with the tip of his tongue, then taking in the fullness of her nipple with the whole of his mouth. His teeth grazed the pebbled peak as he licked it in slow and leisurely fashion.

Her heart was beating like thunder; her blood seemed to hiss and boil and cascade through her, and she could not think of anything but the exquisite pleasure of his touch. Something deep inside her tried to warn her that it was wrong, that no great and everlasting love lay between them, that theirs was the heated and tempestuous passion forged from the hatred borne between sworn enemies.

But she did not hate him. Not at all…

She craved his touch with a basic, undeniable need. She felt the huge pulse of his passion, thundering against her, and she was sweetly excited, pleased that this time there would be no pain at all. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to explore his shoulders and run her fingers over his chest, and she even wanted to venture decadently downward, and touch with fascination the place from which his darkest desire sprung…

His lips moved over her, down to her belly. His tongue laved her with hot moisture, and his beard continued to caress her flesh and evoke a greater surge within her. She wanted him so desperately…

Suddenly he rose above her. His features were tight, but he smiled and he spoke lightly. "Good night, Shannon."

She stared at him in utter disbelief, then the color surged to her face and she tried to strike him in a raw fury. Once again, he secured her hands. He fell to her side and swept her against him. "We need to get some sleep."

"Sleep! I will never sleep with you, you Confederate snake! You rodent, you knave, scalawag! You bastard, you—"

"Enough, Shannon."

"Vulture, diseased rat! Rabid dog!"

"Enough!" He managed to land his hand on her derriere in a sharp slap. She swore again with the venom and expertise of a cowhand, and this time his hand landed over her mouth. "Darlin', let's go to sleep, or I will forget that I'm a gentleman."

"Gentleman!"

"A gentleman," he repeated. "You're the one who wants to be left alone," he reminded her gruffly.

She was quick and twisted around to see his face. His eyes were unreadable, his features taut, his jaw locked. And his eyes…he stared at her as if he hated her, and she found herself lowering her eyes in misery.

It was true. She had wanted to be left alone because…

"Oh, Malachi!" she said miserably, a sob catching in her throat. He was the one who had brought them to their present untenable position, but she had provoked him earlier. She had meant to stir him down in the store, and she had meant to provoke him over at the saloon. She had been sick, imagining him in the arms of the redhead…

"Malachi, I did love Robert," she whispered. "And if I did, then it can't be right, it just can't be right… I don't mean by Sunday-school morals, I mean in the soul, in the heart…"

She was near to tears. She couldn't possibly be speaking to Malachi this way, especially not when she lay naked in bed with him.

But something in his eyes softened, and his touch was very gentle as he drew her against him. "Shannon, I know that you loved him. You've taken nothing away from him by needing to feel warm again." He sighed. His beard brushed the top of her head. His hand lay against her midriff, but it was a tender touch, and not meant to seduce or capture. "Tell me about him."

"What?"

"Tell me about him. When did you meet? What was he like?"

She shook her head. She couldn't begin to imagine Malachi being interested in her deceased Yank fiance. But he whispered against her hair softly. "Talk to me. It may feel good. You met when the house in Kansas City fell down."

She nodded, absurdly content to lie there, held by him. "I was arrested along with Kristin—for my relationship with Cole. I was arrested for harboring bushwhackers!"

"The Slater men haven't done much for you, have they?" he murmured quietly.

"I didn't mind that. Cole saved us. I always liked Cole. From the first moment I saw him."

Just like she always hated me, Malachi thought. He smoothed back a strand of her hair. What the hell was he doing here? He'd never been that much of a gentleman. Why had he let her go when she was welcoming him against her? He sighed softly.

"It was awful," Shannon said, shivering. "They had so many of us, stuffed into that terrible decrepit building. When the roof collapsed…" She paused. "I thought I was going to die. I was just hanging through the roof when the rafters broke apart. I could hear everyone screaming. And then Robert was there. He and Kristin made me jump. And he caught me. He was so brave and wonderful—a hero. I'll never forget looking into his eyes then. And then…then we heard all the screams again. Five of the women were killed. So many were hurt badly… It was odd. We were friends then, all of us. The other girls knew where my sympathies really lay, and they understood. Josephine Anderson was my friend. When she died, her brother went mad. That's when he really became Bloody Bill, after she died. Oh, Malachi! So many people died!"

"It's all right," he said softly. She was crying. Not sobbing hysterically, just crying very quietly. "It's all right," he said again.

He kept stroking her hair. She didn't speak again, and he didn't speak, either. He closed his eyes, just holding her. It was too painful for any of them to think of the war. Northerner, Southerner, it was just too damned painful to look back. Great men, kind men, good men, all of them dead. Gallant men, alone and moldering in gallant graves. He sighed and closed his eyes. He couldn't let it go on any longer. He had to find some way to free Kristin.

And then he had to find his brothers.

And run.

He opened his eyes. The candles were burning low. He had drifted to sleep. The room was cast in very soft shadows, and the light was pale and ethereal.

He wondered why he had awakened. Then he knew.

Her fingers were moving over his chest. Her nails lightly raked his flesh, and her hair fell over him like a brush with angel's wings. She traced tentative, soft patterns over him, exploring his rib cage and breast and collarbone.

He lay still. He kept his eyes open a slit, watching her. She rose slightly, watching him, watching the movement of her fingers. Her breasts peeked out from the golden glory of her long hair, and as she watched her fingers moving over him, she lightly moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

I'll be damned if I'll be a gentleman, he thought. Even cavaliers and knights of old surely had their needs.

He reached out, catching her hand where it lay over his heart. Her eyes darted to his in alarm.

"Go on. Touch me," he whispered.

"I—I didn't mean to wake you," she stuttered. They were both whispering. She must have known that he could not let her go, not this time. She was exquisite in the light, her breasts full and firm and ripe and her skin silky, shining in the candles' pale glow. Her eyes were so very blue…

"I'm awake," he told her.

"I've disturbed you—"

"Disturb me further, darlin'…please." His eyes remained locked with hers. He drew her hand along the length of his body. He heard her breath go ragged in her throat and her eyes followed the motion of their hands with a deadly fascination. Her fingers trailed over his flesh, over the soft hair that nestled around his sex. She tensed, and he felt her trembling. He sensed a certain fear within her, but he held her tight. She curved her hand around it hesitantly.

Rockets seemed to burst within his head and into his body. She gasped softly as she felt him swell huge and hard. She cried out softly. He reached up, slipping his hand around her neck to cup her head. He rose up on an elbow and kissed her slowly and fully, taking her lips, releasing them, hovering over them again just to brush them with the taste of his mouth and the seductive jut of his tongue.

Then he laid her flat and crawled aggressively over her. He kissed her again, easing away her hesitance.

He felt her fingers upon his shoulders again. Her body found a slow undulation beneath his. He set his hand upon her breast, and followed his touch with his kiss. He stroked her thighs and invaded her intimately with his touch.

With raw purpose he moved his body in a slow, bold sweep down the length of hers. He kept his eyes hard upon hers until he came to the juncture of her thighs, when he replaced his intimate touch there with the searing violation of his tongue.

She called out his name in a gasp as he brought her to the very edge of ecstasy, then withdrew. He found her eyes once more and she choked out incomprehensible words, reaching for him. She pulled him to her, seeking his shoulders with her lips and teeth. He pushed away again, demanding that she meet his eyes as he parted her thighs with the wedge of his knee and thrust deep and swiftly inside her.

She shuddered and whispered his name again.

That night, he gave little heed to finesse, and passion rose like a tempest within him. He caught her lips again with a savage passion, and as their bodies arched in an urgent rhythm, he caressed her with rough and demanding hunger.

Her legs wrapped high around him and her kisses fell upon him as she tasted the textures of his face and his throat. Her fingers trailed down his back to knot into the rigid muscles of his buttocks. At the end he cast back his head as a fierce shudder gripped his body, a hoarse cry escaping his lips. She sobbed out in turn, barely aware of the night, of time or place, barely conscious of reality.

Seconds later, she felt his touch, so absurdly gentle once again. Their harsh breathing could still be heard, and they were both covered in a soft sheen. "Malachi—"

"It's all right," he said gently. "You don't have to say anything." He lay back, bringing her down beside him. He whispered softly against her ear. "Just don't think to hop up and leave me. Don't deny me."

She lay there in silence. The darkness closed around them as the last of the candles burned out.

Much later, they crawled beneath the sheet. Shannon knew a moment of panic at this new intimacy, but then she relaxed again. There was nothing left to fear for that night. She hadn't meant what had happened. At least she didn't think that she did. She had thought he slept soundly, and she had not been able to resist temptation.

And temptation had definitely led to sin, she thought.

With his arms closed around her, she felt as if she might start crying again, because it felt so good. His arms offered warmth and security and a steel-hard strength, and she found she loved that. Just as she was coming to love the slant of his grin. And the way he would never let a man—or a woman—down. He had his code of honor.

And in his sweeping way, he was a cavalier.

She loved his courage, and his daring, just as she was coming to love the bronzed power of his arms, holding her close now. Just as she was coming to love the breadth of his golden-matted chest, and the hard, muscled length of his thighs…

And his impossible, immoral intimacy. She could not believe the way that he had touched and caressed her, and neither could she believe the sweet, unbearable ecstasy that he brought her with his sheer decadent purpose and determination. She was coming to care for him too much…

"Malachi," she whispered softly.

"What?" He moved his hand gently against her, beneath her breasts, idly, tenderly upon them.

"Have you ever been in love?"

He went still, then he moved away from her, his arm over his forehead as he rolled to his back, staring at the ceiling. "Yes. Once. Why?"

"I just… wondered.''

He grunted, giving her no further answer.

"Malachi?"

"Yes?"

"Who was she?"

"A girl." It was a short, terse answer. He sighed. "It was a long, long time ago."

"What happened?"

"She died."

"The war—"

"A fever."

"I'm so sorry."

"I told you, it was a long, long time ago."

"It hurt you, though. Badly."

"Shannon, go to sleep."

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, go to sleep. It's night, and I'm tired." He started to rise. In the darkness, she saw the glitter in his eyes.

"Unless you plan on entertaining me again, I suggest you go to sleep."

She closed her eyes quickly, turning from him and hugging her pillow. She couldn't…do it again. Not that night. She had to hug what had happened to herself, and she had to try to understand it, and live with it.

She felt him as he eased back down.

And later, when she was drifting off to sleep, she felt his arm come around her again, strong and sure, bringing her body close against his. It was warm, and it felt better than she ever might have imagined.

It felt…peaceful.

She opened her eyes and looked down at his hand, brown against the whiteness of her flesh in the moonlight.

It felt right, and though it might not be, she was tired. She was tired of the war, and tired of righting. She didn't want to worry anymore. She wanted to take moments like these, and cling to them.

Her pa would be twisting and turning in his grave if he knew anything about her behavior in bed with this man, she thought ruefully. Gabriel McCahy had been a strong man— in his beliefs, in his ideals, in his morality. He'd liked his Irish whiskey, and he'd always been able to spin a fine tale, but he'd loved their mother, and when she had died, he'd been determined that his daughters would be ladies.

Of course, he'd never reckoned on the war.

And then, she reflected wistfully, maybe he wouldn't be so upset after all. He'd had an ability to judge men, and he might have understood that she had stumbled upon a good one, albeit, he came clothed in gray.

She closed her eyes and slept, her fingers falling lightly over Malachi's where they lay across her midriff.

"It is him! I told you it was him, Martha!"

Malachi woke abruptly, his eyes flashing open.

The bore of a sawed-off shotgun was stuck right beneath his nose. He jerked up. Shannon, curled against his chest, moaned in protest and went silent again. Instinctively, Malachi pulled the sheets high over her naked form as he stared respectfully into the face of the man carrying the shotgun.

"You're Malachi Slater," Mr. Haywood said. He barely dared glance at his wife, plump and pink in her nightgown and cap behind him. "Martha, you look now. It is him."

"Do you make a habit of bursting into your guests' bedrooms in the middle of the night?" Malachi demanded icily.

Beside him, Shannon stirred. Her eyes flew open and she saw the shotgun. "Oh!" she gasped, grasping the covers. She stared from Malachi to Haywood, and past him to his wife. She stiffened, raising her chin, and her voice came out as imperiously as a queen's. "What is the meaning of this?"

"There's wanted posters out on him all over the countryside," Haywood said. "You're a dangerous man, Captain Slater. Captain! Hell! Bushwhackers shouldn't get no titles or rank!"

Shannon leaped from the bed, dragging the covers with her, and heedlessly leaving Malachi bare. "He isn't a bushwhacker!" she swore. "It's all a lie! You want to shoot somebody, you ought to go out and shoot Fitz!"

Malachi grimaced at her sudden, passionate loyalty and pulled his pillow around to his lap. "Mr. Haywood, what she's saying is true. I was never a bushwhacker. I was a captain under John Hood Morgan until he died. I signed surrender forms with my men, and we were all allowed to keep our horses, and I was even allowed to keep my arms. I didn't know anything about this until some Union sentries shot at me." He indicated the wound on his leg. The bandage had been lost during his impromptu swim in the stream, but the evidence of Shannon's quick surgery was still there, a jagged red scab.

"Well, I don't know, young man. You're worth an awful lot of money, you know. If this is the truth, you can tell it to Mr. Fitz," Haywood said.

"Fitz will hang him and ask questions later," Shannon said.

Both the Haywoods looked at Malachi again. Malachi barely saw Shannon move, but suddenly she was behind the chair and she was aiming her Colt at the two of them.

"Drop the shotgun," she said.

Mr. Haywood frowned. "Now, come on, little girl. You put that thing down. Those Colts can be mighty dangerous."

"You ever seen close hand what a shotgun does to a man?" she inquired sweetly.

Malachi was afraid of the outcome.

"Can she shoot that thing?" Haywood asked him.

"Better'n General Grant himself, I'm willing to bet," Malachi replied sagely.

He still didn't think it wise to wait. He leaped from the bed.

Shannon watched in amazement as he swooped down on Mr. Haywood, bare as birth, and procured the shotgun. Mrs. Haywood gasped in astonishment, but didn't look away from the swaggering male body. Malachi bowed in response to her gasp. "Ma'am, excuse me." He tossed the shotgun to Shannon, reached for his pants and quickly limped into them.

"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Haywood gasped again. Her eyes closed and she promptly passed out.

"Oh, no!" Shannon wailed. Wrapping the sheet around herself, she hurried over to the fallen woman. Malachi stopped her, grabbing the Colt from her fingers. Shannon dropped down by Mrs. Haywood. "Malachi, Mr. Haywood, I need some water."

Mr. Haywood moved suddenly, as if rousing himself from shock. "Water. Water." He hurried to the washstand and brought over the pitcher. Nervous and disoriented, he poured the water over his wife's face. She came to, sputtering and coughing. She looked up at her husband. "Mr. Haywood!" she said reproachfully.

"Are you all right?" Shannon murmured.

"We've got to get out of here, Shannon!" Malachi warned her gruffly.

She ignored him. "Mrs. Haywood, I swear to you, I was telling you the truth. You've got to understand the whole story. Mr. Fitz had a brother who led a unit of jayhawkers, Mrs. Haywood—"

"I never could abide jayhawkers," Mr. Haywood said. "Never could abide them! Why, they were just as bad as the bushwhackers themselves."

Shannon nodded. "They killed Cole Slater's wife, Mrs. Haywood. She was expecting a child. She was innocent, and they came and they killed her, and they burned down the ranch… And, well, Cole ran into Henry Fitz toward the end of the war. It was a fair fight—even the Yanks there knew it. Cole killed him."

"So now Hayden Fitz wants the whole lot of you Slaters, is that it?" Mr. Haywood asked Malachi.

Malachi nodded. "But that doesn't matter. I want Hayden Fitz. He has Shannon's sister, Cole's new wife, in his jail. He's going to use her, another innocent woman, to lure my brother out of hiding. I'm sorry, Mr. Haywood, but I ain't going to be hunted down and murdered by the likes of Fitz. And I'm mighty sorry, 'cause you and your wife are fine people, but I'm going to have to tie you up so that Shannon and I can get out of here."

"Shannon?" Mr. Haywood looked her way, then sank down on the bed. He looked to his wife. "What do you say, mother?"

"I never could abide those jayhawkers. Killing women and innocent children. And that poor dear girl, locked in a jail cell. It ain't decent!"

"Ain't decent at all."

Malachi looked uneasily from Shannon, kneeling by Mrs. Haywood, to Mr. Haywood, calmly sitting on the bed.

"What—"

"You don't need to tie us up, Captain Slater."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"You're going to need us, I think. We're not going to turn you in. If what you tell us is true, we'll try to help you."

"Why?"

"Why?" Mrs. Haywood stood up, strangely noble despite the water that dripped from her nightcap over her bosom. "Why? 'Cause somewhere, Captain Slater, the healing has to start. Somewhere, it has to quit being North and South, and somewhere, we have to stand against the men going against the very rules of God!"

"Malachi!" Shannon urged him. "We need them, if they will help us. We need this base. We need…we need the information that we're supposed to get in the next few days."

Malachi thought furiously. Iris said that these were good folks. And Iris said that she could get to Fitz, and she could probably help him with information that he could never get on his own.

"Malachi! We have to trust them."

Slowly, he lowered the Colt. Then he tossed it onto the bed.

"Shannon, I pray you aren't going to get us both killed," he said savagely.

"Hmph." Mr. Haywood stood, as stout and proud as his wife. He went over and picked up his shotgun. He didn't wave it at Malachi, but he held it in his hand, shaking it.

"So you ain't a bushwhacker and you don't deserve to hang for that! But you aren't this young lady's husband, either, and you should be strung up for seducing an innocent, and that's a fact."

Shannon was surprised to see the flush that touched Malachi's cheeks. "That's none of your business, Mr. Haywood," he said.

"It is our business, captain," Martha Haywood warned him severely. "You were living in sin, right beneath our roof. What do you say, Papa?" she asked her husband.

"I say that he hangs."

"What?" Malachi exploded. He made a dive for the Colt. Mrs. Haywood moved faster. She grabbed the gun and aimed his way. "Now, captain, where are your manners? I never did meet a more gallant boy than a cavalry officer, and a Southern gentleman at that. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Ashamed! Where have the values gone?" Mr. Haywood said fiercely. "Pride and gallantry and good Christian ethics. The war is over now, son."

"Sir—" Malachi took a step forward. A shot exploded in the room, and he stood dead still. Mrs. Haywood knew what she was doing with a Colt, too, so it seemed. The ball went straight by Malachi's head, nearly grazing his ear.

"Shannon," he said through his teeth, keeping his eyes warily upon Mrs. Haywood. "Shannon, I am going to wring your neck!"

"No, captain, you're not. You're going to marry that girl, that's what you're going to do."

"I'm not going to be coerced into any marriage!" Malachi swore.

"Well, son, you can marry her or hang," Mr. Haywood guaranteed him. "Mrs. Haywood, would you like to go for the preacher? A Saturday morning wedding seems just right to me."

"No!" Shannon called out.

Malachi looked at her, startled. She was wrapped in the sheet, her hair a wild tangle around her delicate features and beautiful sloping shoulders.

Her eyes were filled with flashing blue anger. "Don't bother, Mrs. Haywood. I won't marry him."

"Well, well, dear, I'm afraid that you'll have to marry him," Mrs. Haywood insisted. "Right is right."

"That's right, young lady. You marry him, or we'll hang him."

Shannon smiled very sweetly, glaring straight at him. "I will not marry him. Mr. Haywood, you'll have to go right ahead. Hang him."

"Shannon!" Malachi swore. He swung around to stare at her in a fury. He was unaware of Mr. Haywood moving around behind him. He really did want to throttle her. His fingers were just itching to get around her neck.

His fury did him in.

He didn't see Mr. Haywood, and he certainly didn't see the water pitcher.

He didn't see anything at all. He simply felt the savage pain when the pitcher burst as Mr. Haywood cracked it hard over his skull.

He was still staring at Shannon, still seeing her standing there in white with her hair a golden, glowing halo streaming angelically all around her…when he fell to the floor.

And blackness consumed him.

CHAPTER NINE

Two hours later Shannon found herself in the store, standing on a stool, while Martha Haywood fixed the hem of the soft cream gown that Shannon wore.

It was a beautiful, if dated, bridal gown.

It had been Martha Haywood's own. A lace bodice was cut high to the throat with a delicate fichu collar over an undergown of soft pure satin. Ribands of blue silk were woven through the tight waistline, and the lace spilled out over the full wide skirt. Tiny faux pearls had been lovingly sewn into much of the lace.

"Mrs. Haywood, you don't understand," Shannon said urgently. She dropped down at last, catching the woman's nimble hands upon the hem. "Mrs. Haywood, you and your husband can't keep threatening Malachi. I don't want to marry him. And I don't believe you. You can't hang him if I refuse to marry him."

"We can, and we will," Mrs. Haywood said complacently.

"But I don't want to marry him. Please!"

Mrs. Haywood stared at her with her deep brown eyes. "Why? Why don't you want to marry him? You seem to be with him by choice."

"I am with him by choice. No…I mean, yes! But it's more circumstance than choice."

"That still doesn't explain why you don't want to marry him."

"Because…because he doesn't love me. I mean, I don't love him. It's just all—"

"Love comes," Mrs. Haywood told her. "If it isn't there already," she muttered. "The way you two came in here, the way we found you together… You explain yourself to me, young woman."

"You just crawled into bed with him just like that…because of circumstances?" Martha Haywood's tone sent rivers of shame sweeping into Shannon. She felt as if she was trying to explain things to a doting and righteous aunt.

"You must have felt something for him. But then again, I'm not arguing that. Did you hear what you told me? You said that he didn't love you. So maybe you do love him. And maybe you're just afraid that he doesn't love you."

Shannon shook her head vehemently. "I promise you that he does not love me. And I do not love him. I was in love, once, during the war. I was engaged to marry a Yankee captain. He was killed…outside Centralia."

Mrs. Haywood finished with the hem and stood. "So you can't love again, and that's that. Why? You think that young man who did love you would want you spending your life in misery." She shook her head slowly and gravely. "The world has a lot of healing to do. And you should maybe start with your own heart. This Captain Slater seduced you under my roof, young lady. And you were curled up to him sweet as a princess bride this morning, so you're halfway there."

"Mrs. Haywood—"

"Papa has gone for the preacher. He is the local magistrate, so he's the law here. Oh, don't you worry none. Papa and me won't ever let on to anyone that we know your man's really a Slater. And the reverend will keep the secret, too. That is, if you two do the decent thing and marry up."

"You can't hang him for not marrying me!"

Mrs. Haywood laughed delightedly. "Maybe not, but there ain't no law against hanging a criminal. Captain Slater understands. Papa explained it to him real clearly."

"Mrs. Haywood—"

"Lord love us, child, but you do look extraordinarily fine!" She stepped back from the stool, gazing over Shannon and her handiwork with rapture. Tears dampened her eyes.

"Mrs. Haywood, this dress is beautiful. Your kindness to me is wonderful, but I still can't—"

"I had meant to see my own daughter in it one day. She was such a pretty little thing. Blond, with blue eyes just like you. And if I'd a caught her in bed with a Rebel captain, it'd have been a shotgun wedding, too, I promise."

"You…had a daughter?"

"Smallpox took Lorna away," Mrs. Haywood said softly. She wiped a tear from her cheek. "Never did think I'd put a young lady in this dress, so it's quite a pleasure."

Shannon sighed deeply. She should have just run away. She should have run from the house, screaming insanely, and then maybe the Haywoods would have understood.

But she just couldn't tell if they really intended to hang Malachi or not. If they weren't going to hang him for being a wanted man, surely they wouldn't for not being the marrying kind.

Still, she couldn't just run away. Not when they had locked him up. Not when they were holding all the weapons.

"Mrs. Haywood, please try to understand me—"

"Did you ever stop to think that Hayden Fitz just might get his hands on your man?" Martha asked her.

"What…do you mean?"

"Your man is going after your sister, his brother's wife. He ain't going to stop until he has her. He'll succeed with his mission, or he'll die in the attempt. I know his type. I saw all kinds during the war. Men who would run under fire; men who carried their honor more dear to their hearts than life. Your boy is one of the latter, Miss Shannon. So you tell me, what if Fitz gets his hands on the boy?"

"He…he won't," Shannon said.

"He could. I promise you, lots of folks wouldn't have paused like Papa and me. Fitz has power in these parts. Lots of it. He owns the mortgage on a dozen ranches, and he owns the ranchers, too. He owns the sheriff and he owns the deputies. So you tell me, what if Fitz gets his hands on this boy and kills him? What if you were free of us, and Fitz caught him and killed him anyway?"

"I don't…I don't understand what you're trying to say," Shannon protested.

"What if you're carrying that man's child and they hang him? What'll you tell your son or your daughter?"

Shannon felt herself growing pale, and she wasn't sure just what it was that Mrs. Haywood's grim words did to her. She had known all the while that they were entering into a dangerous world.

She knew that people died. She had been watching them die for years.

She felt ill and flushed and hot. Was she such a fool? Did everyone else think so rationally? The odds seemed so foolishly against them…

She still couldn't marry him. Not if she carried ten of his children, not if they were both about to be hanged in a matter of seconds. And suddenly she realized why.

She did feel for him. He had created a tempest deep within her heart, and it was with her always.

She didn't know how to put a name on the feeling. She didn't know if it was love or hatred or a combination of both. The thought of him with another woman had made her insanely jealous, and it had been humiliating to see how quickly he could still arouse her in the wake of her anger. Maybe their hatred had been mixed with love from the very beginning. Maybe circumstances were letting all her emotions explode here and now.

But she couldn't marry him.

She had heard herself. He didn't love her. And if he was forced into marrying, he would never forgive her. Not in this lifetime, or the next, and he would escape her as soon as he possibly could. She didn't want the misery for either of them.

If she was ever to have him, it had to be of his own free will.

"Mrs. Haywood, I can't—"

"Let's go into the next room. I hear voices. Papa must be in there with the preacher, and it's high time that we got on with the ceremony."

"Mrs. Haywood—"

The woman stopped and turned to her, her hands folded serenely before her. "Papa is not a patient man, young lady. And I'll wager he's got the shotgun aimed right at your Captain Slater's heart. Don't tarry, now. I don't want him getting nervous. The poor fellow might move in the wrong direction and Papa might decide to shoot him in the kneecap just to make sure that he sticks around."

With a smile she turned and opened the shelved door and proceeded into the parlor. Shannon hurried behind her. They didn't mean it. They wouldn't shoot Malachi, and they wouldn't hang him, either.

Would they?

She stopped short when she came to the entrance of the parlor.

Malachi was there. He was standing right in the center of the parlor.

Mr. Haywood had apparently decided to dress Malachi for the occasion, as well. He was wearing a ruffled white shirt and a pin-striped suit with a red satin vest and a black-lapelled frock coat. She'd never seen him dressed so elegantly, and her breath caught in her throat as she saw him. The beauty of his costume was offset by the raw menace in his eyes and the rugged twist of his jaw. She had never seen him so coldly furious, nor had his eyes ever touched upon hers with such glaring hatred and with such a raw promise of revenge.

For a moment she couldn't move farther. She couldn't breathe, and she believed that her heart had ceased to beat. Panic made her seize hold of the doorway, meeting the savage fury of his glare.

"Come in, come in!" Mr. Haywood called.

She still didn't move. Then she realized that the preacher was moving behind Malachi. He was a tall thin man with a stovepipe hat and black trousers and a black frock coat. He nodded to her grimly.

She heard a peculiar sound and looked at Malachi again…and saw that his wrists were shackled by a pair of handcuffs.

"Oh…really, please," she murmured. "Please, you all must understand…"

"Talk to her, captain. Talk to her quick," Mr. Haywood advised Malachi. He, too, was all spruced up in a silk shirt and brown trousers, which gave him a dignity he had lacked earlier. One arm was around his wife's shoulders; in the other, he carried the shotgun.

"Get over here!" Malachi snapped to Shannon.

The deep grate of his voice brought her temper surging to the fore. "Malachi, damn you, I am trying—"

She broke off with a gasp because he was striding her way with purpose and hostility. He might have been shackled but he managed to get a grip around her wrist, jerking her hard against him. She shivered as she felt the fire and tension and fury within him and felt his heated whisper against her cheeks.

"Get over here and marry me."

"Malachi, I don't believe them. I don't believe that they'll hang you if we don't marry."

He glared at her. "So you want to wait—and see?" he asked her slowly.

"I don't think—"

"You don't think! Do you want to wait until they tie the rope around my neck? Or maybe we should wait until I'm swinging in the breeze!"

"We could—"

"Shannon! Get over here and marry me now!"

"No! I will not—"

"You will, damn you!"

"I won't! Malachi, it wouldn't be right—"

"Right! You're talking about right? At a moment like this you're worried about right?"

"I don't love you!"

"And I don't love you, so maybe we're perfectly right!" His eyes narrowed to a razor's edge, raked hers with contempt. "They'll hang me, you bitch! Get over here and do it."

"What a wonderful way to ask!" she hissed sweetly.

His jaw twisted and set. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you."

"And I'm afraid I'm not listening."

His fingers tightened around her wrist with such a vengeance that she cried out softly again.

"Captain Slater!" Martha Haywood protested, calling from the center of the parlor.

He didn't ease his hold. She found herself watching the pulse at the base of his throat with a deadly fascination. She felt weaker than she had ever felt in her life. She had thought she knew how to match her temper to his.

But maybe she didn't.

He pressed her up against the door frame, hard. "Shannon, you can get out of this later. You can say that you were coerced. But for the love of God, get over there now."

Some demon steamed inside her then, and she didn't know quite how to control it. All of her seemed awhirl in a tempest of hot blood and raw emotion. His anger fed her own. And for once, he was powerless against her.

"I don't like the way you're asking, captain," she told him icily.

He wasn't powerless, not in the least. With a swift turn on his heel, he dragged her along after him into the center of the room. She was stunned when he fell down on one knee, maintaining his firm grip on her before the preacher and the Haywoods. "Miss McCahy!" he hissed, the words dropping like sharp icicles from his mouth. "Dear Miss McCahy— beloved. Do me the honor this day of becoming my lawful wedded wife!"

"That wasn't exactly voiced the way I always thought that I'd hear the words!" Shannon retorted.

"Please, please, please, my beloved darlin'!" he said, rising swiftly, his eyes like knives that sliced through her. She was shaking, knowing that she pushed him. But he could have protested, too. He could have done more than he was doing.

"One more please, captain. And make it a good one."

"Please," he said. She had never heard anything that sounded less like an entreaty. He looked like some savage creature, and he didn't just want to chew her all up, he wanted to skin her alive first. But her demons told her they shouldn't be doing this.

He didn't wait for her answer, but turned to the reverend. "Go ahead, preacher man," he said dryly. "Get to it."

"No!" Shannon protested.

Mr. Haywood cocked the shotgun. The preacher began the ceremony.

Shannon listened to him in a daze. She could no longer run screaming into the street, because Malachi held her in a vise. Nor could she really risk it. Maybe Haywood would hang Malachi. She just didn't know.

The preacher was nervous. Looking at Malachi would probably make anyone nervous. Only the Haywoods seemed complacent.

Malachi answered the preacher in a cold raw fury, biting off each of his words. He spoke loudly and with a vengeance, enunciating each word. Love, honor and cherish. Till death did them part.

When her turn came, Shannon couldn't answer. She turned to him with one last fervent plea.

"Malachi, we can't do this—"

"Love, honor and obey!" he snapped at her.

"Malachi—"

"Say it!"

Shivering, she turned to the preacher. She stuttered out the words.

"The ring," the preacher said, clearing his throat.

"The ring?" Malachi said blankly.

"I've got it, Reverend Fuller," Mr. Haywood said. He stepped forward and placed a small gold band in Malachi's hand. Malachi stared at the man for a moment, fingering the gold. Then he slipped the ring on Shannon's finger, despite the fact that she was shaking so badly that her hands weren't still at all.

"We owe you again, Mr. Haywood," Malachi muttered.

"Don't worry. Price of the ring will be on your bill," Mr. Haywood said complacently.

"Hush, Papa! This is a beautiful rite!" Mrs. Haywood murmured.

It fit her tightly, snugly. Shannon felt the gold around her finger as smoothly and coldly as Malachi must feel the steel of the cuffs around his wrists. His eyes touched hers with a searing blue hatred and she thought that she could not wait to remove the ring.

Seconds later the preacher was saying that by the authority vested in him by the law of the great State of Kansas, and the greater authority vested in him by the glory of God on high, he now pronounced them man and wife.

Mrs. Haywood let out a long sob, startling them all. They stared at her. She blew her nose and smiled wistfully. "Don't mind me, dears, I always cry at weddings. Papa, release the groom from those shackles. He probably wants to kiss his bride. Reverend Fuller, could you do with a touch of Madeira? We've no champagne, I'm afraid. Maybe we've some across the way."

Reverend Fuller said that Madeira would be just fine. Mal-achi stared at Shannon venomously as Mr. Haywood came to him with a small key and freed him from the handcuffs.

"Captain Slater, a glass of Madeira?" Mrs. Haywood began.

But Malachi, freed, paid her no attention. He dragged Shannon into his arms and forced his mouth hard against hers with brutal purpose. His fingers raked her hair at her nape, holding her still for his onslaught. His tongue surged against her lips and forced them apart, raked against her teeth and invaded the whole of her mouth with ruthless abandon. Finally his mouth left hers and his lips touched her throat where it lay arched to him with deliberate possession. Then his mouth demanded hers again. His fingers trailed over the white lace of her gown with idle leisure and abandon, cupping lightly over her breast. The savage fury and heat of his kiss left her breathless, and with a searing sense of both clashing, tempestuous passion, and of deep, shattering humiliation that he would touch her so before others.

She felt the wrath in him deeply. It burned around him, and emitted from him in waves. She was amazed that he had married her; that he hadn't told the Haywoods to go ahead and hang him, and be damned. She hadn't thought that Malachi could be coerced into doing anything that he didn't want to do, but it seemed that they had managed to coerce him.

She tore away from him; he let her go. The back of her hand rose to her lips, as if she could wipe away his touch. "They should have hanged you!" she hissed.

He blinked, and opaque shadows fell over his eyes. He bowed to her in a deep mockery of courtesy.

"You were trying hard enough, weren't you?"

He didn't give her a chance to answer. He swung around to Mrs. Haywood. "I thank you for your hospitality, ma'am," he drawled with a sure trace of sarcasm, "but I think I've a mind for something a little stronger at the moment." He strode toward the front door, then paused, looking back. "I have fulfilled your requirements to escape the hangman, haven't I?"

"Sign your name on the license, and you're free to go," Mrs. Haywood said.

Malachi walked to the marble-topped table where the license lay. He signed his name with an impatient scrawl and looked at Mr. Haywood, his jaw twisted hard, his hands on his hips.

Mr. Haywood nodded to him grimly. Malachi cast Shannon one last glare and then he threw open the door, slamming it in his wake. Shannon stared after him as cold fingers seemed to close over her heart.

"Madeira?" Mrs. Haywood offered her with a winning smile.

Shannon mechanically accepted the glass of wine. She cast back her head and swallowed it down in a single gulp. It wasn't enough. Malachi was right about one thing—they both needed to head straight for the whiskey.

She set her glass down. The wine tasted like bitter acid in her present mood. "I'll give you your dress back, Mrs. Haywood," she said simply. She turned, nodded to the preacher and to Mr. Haywood, and ran up the stairs. She found both keys on the bedside table, and picked them up, biting into her lower lip with such force that she drew a trickle of blood.

Malachi might really be her husband now, but he wasn't coming into this room again. Ever.

Ever!

She couldn't admit it, not even to herself, that her fury came mainly from the fact that she was afraid that he wouldn't even try.

He had slipped a ring upon her finger, forcing her to issue vows, and then he had left her.

For a red-haired whore.

No, he wouldn't be coming in the room again. Ever…

* * *

"Why, Ma—Sloan!" Iris called out to him as he entered the saloon. She never would get accustomed to calling him by another name.

He nodded her way and walked up to the bar, tossing down a coin. "Whiskey, Matey, if you would, sir. Whiskey, and lots of it"

Iris, pretty as a picture in a quiet gray dress and blue shawl, hurried over to him. She slipped her arm through his. "I was about to leave. I'm going to take the buggy and head for Sparks and see what I might find out about your sister-in-law. Is it still safe for me to leave? What's happened?"

He looked at Iris, at the concern naked in her eyes. He felt her soft touch on his arm, and some of the anger eased out of him.

"It's safe." He caught her to him and tenderly kissed her forehead. "You're a fine woman, Iris. Funny, ain't it? You really are such a fine damned woman no matter what your vocation. And her…"

"Your…traveling companion?"

"The little darlin'…yes. Shannon." He grimaced, staring at the ceiling, then he laughed bitterly. "My traveling companion. The curse of my life! The sweet little—hellcat!"

"What did she do now?"

"Damned little witch. I should have let you floor her yesterday, Iris. Hell." Matey put the whiskey bottle in front of him and he took a long, long swallow, gasping as the liquor sizzled its way down his throat to his stomach. He looked at the bottle reflectively. "I should have floored her myself."

"Malachi…" Iris realized that she had used his name, and she looked quickly around. The saloon was nearly empty. Only Matey might have heard her, and Matey minded his own business. "Let's go to my room, Mr. Gabriel," she said softly.

Malachi looked at her speculatively and picked up the whiskey bottle. "Yes, Iris, let's go to your room."

She led him up a flight of stairs in the rear and opened the first door.

She had a real nice room for a working girl, Malachi thought. There was a big bed with four carved posters and a quilted spread, a braided rug on the floor, a handsome dresser and a full-length mirror on a stand.

"Nice," Malachi murmured. He drank more of the whiskey. He drank deeply, then he crashed down on the bed. He reached out for Iris with a slow smile curving into his lips. She sat down by his side, but watched him speculatively. He stroked her arm, and soft, feathery tendrils of desire swept along her flesh. She wanted to be touched by him. She had almost forgotten the feeling of wanting to be touched.

She pulled her arm away. He swallowed more whiskey, leaving one last slug in the bottle. Then he just lay there, staring at the ceiling.

"I want to kill her, Iris. I want to close my fingers right around her lovely white throat, and I want to squeeze until she chokes. I want to take my hand…" He raised his right hand as he spoke, studying the length of his fingers and the breadth of his palm, flexing his fingers. "I want to smack my hand against her flesh until it's raw…I want to shake her until her damned teeth crack!"

"Malachi, what happened?" Iris asked him softly.

His eyes fell upon her. His lip curved into a twisted, wry grin. "I married her. For real."

Iris lowered her eyes, swallowing. "Why?"

"They said they'd hang me if I didn't. They're convinced that she's a sweet young innocent and that I seduced her."

"Didn't you?"

"No. Yes. Hell, she's almost twenty now, she's as sweet as raw acid, and as to her innocence…"

"Yes?"

"She seduced me equally. No one innocent has a right to look the way she does…naked."

Iris would have laughed if she didn't feel such a peculiar hurt deep inside.

It wasn't that he had married the girl. It was the way he spoke about her.

"Now who is it who thought that you weren't married to begin with? Who thought that she was…seduced?"

"The Haywoods. They said they'd hang me."

"Of course they would want to hang you! You're worth a lot of money, dead or alive. There's a bounty on your head. If they know that you're not married, then they know—"

"They don't care who I am. They don't intend to let the knowledge go past themselves—and the reverend, of course," he added bitterly.

Iris exhaled softly. "Thank God for that!"

Malachi grimaced. "They weren't going to hang me for being a Confederate, a bushwhacker, or Cole's brother. They wanted to hang me because I seduced Shannon!"

Iris inhaled deeply. She couldn't believe that she was going to defend the other woman, that beautiful young woman with the sky-colored eyes, alabaster skin and the sun-drenched fall of long, curling hair.

But she was.

"Malachi, if the Haywoods forced you into a marriage, you can't really blame her." She paused, frowning. "Did she tell them…who you really are? Did she demand that you marry her? I mean, they are real God-fearing folk. Did they do it? Or did she force and coerce you?"

"What?" He stared at her blankly.

"Malachi, you can't hate her if they forced it. Maybe you can't even really hate her if she did make them force you into it. She isn't…well, she isn't my kind of woman. If you took advantage of her, maybe she had a right to force you—"

"She didn't force me."

"Then—"

"The bitch!" he exploded. "They're sitting there swearing up and down that they will hang me—and she's refusing! She's sitting there arguing with a shotgun. I was barely able to make her spit out the words! She would have made me hang."

"Then…"

"She's a witch, Iris," he said softly. He swallowed the last slug of whiskey. Iris hoped he wasn't heading for one heavy drunken stupor; even an experienced drinker like him would have trouble with the amount he had swallowed in the last ten minutes. "She's a witch," Malachi continued. "I mean to touch her, and I'm furious, and I want to hurt her. And I don't quite understand it, 'cause I'm hurting myself. I dream of her eyes. I dream of her reaching out to me. And then sometimes she touches me and I feel everything in me exploding just to touch her back, to feel her softness, to see her smile, to see her eyes glaze with wanting… She teases and she taunts, and she loves like a wildcat, like a pagan temptress, then she bares her claws and she swipes out and she draws blood, Iris, blood."

Iris smiled slowly. He still wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the ceiling. He turned around and suddenly grasped her hand. He kissed her fingers, and she shivered, feeling the sensual movement of his lips and beard against her flesh. "She's not like you, Iris. She's not like you at all. You can't ever talk to her, you can't reason with her. She's a witch…I've been fighting her forever and forever, Iris. Always fighting. She would have let me hang, can you believe that?"

"They wouldn't have hanged you," Iris said.

"She didn't know that."

"Maybe she did."

"She didn't, and that's a fact." He sat up. His eyes glittered. "Well, she has married me now. And she's going to pay for it!"

"Malachi, you were mad because she wouldn't marry you."

"She wanted them to shoot my kneecaps, the witch! But now, now she's mine…"

He fell back. His eyes closed.

Iris watched him for a minute. He was asleep. She smiled ruefully. "She may be a witch, but you're in love with her," Iris said softly.

She set the empty whiskey bottle on the dressing table, and decided to leave him where he was. Let him sleep off the bottle of whiskey he had swallowed in ten minutes, and maybe he'd go back to his tender young bride in a better state of mind.

She picked up her portmanteau and hat, walked to the door and blew him a kiss sadly. "I'll be back tomorrow, captain," she said softly. "Even if you do love her, I've got to help you."

She turned around and left him. If she hurried, she could make it to Sparks, spend plenty of time there and still be back in Haywood by the morning with all the information she could gather. She had friends in Sparks. Friends of the best variety for what she needed now. They were smart, beautiful women. And they knew the men of Sparks.

She looked back with a wistful smile.

Malachi slept peacefully.

Iris shrugged. He probably needed the rest.

She left, letting him sleep on.

And on…

Shannon changed and returned Martha Haywood's gown immediately, thanking her. She didn't want to wear Malachi's shirt any longer than she had to, so she determined to go into the mercantile and find another. Martha followed beside her, talking about her own early years of marriage.

"They were a hoot and a holler, I do tell you. Why, we were madder 'n wet hens at each other time and again, but then, I don't really remember what one of those arguments was about."

Shannon found a pretty soft blue blouse with teal embroidery along the bodice. She set it on the counter with boxes of ammunition. "First off," she told Martha Haywood softly, "we've got the same conflicts between us that just set a whole country to war."

"The war is over," Martha reminded her.

"Secondly, I knew a man once who was always gentle. He never had a temper about him."

"You'd have been miserable in a year."

Shannon gasped in horror. "That's not true! I was in love with him, I was deeply in love with him—"

"And you can't let it go. Still, it's true. You'd have been miserable in a year. Now, I don't think that you and Captain Slater will be getting along real well for a long time to come. But I think you'll come to realize that you have more in common than can be seen."

Shannon flushed. She set her hands on her hips. "He's been over at the saloon all day, Mrs. Haywood."

''Well, go on over and get him then. If you want him back, go on over and get him."

Shannon bit her lip, pretending to study the beautiful new blouse. "It's wonderful embroidery," she said softly. Then she smiled at Mrs. Haywood. "I don't want him, Mrs. Haywood. I don't want him near me again, and I mean it. He's been over in that saloon all day…" She swallowed fiercely. "Mrs. Haywood, could I have a tray sent up to me? I think that I want to retire early."

"It was a hard tonic for him to swallow, Shannon, being manipulated by us and all. I'm amazed that he was as docile as he was. And it must have been darned hard on him when you turned him down—"

"He didn't want to marry me."

"You refused to marry him when we might have hanged him!"

"You wouldn't have hanged him. Thank you for trying, Mrs. Haywood. I need to lie down for a while."

"It's very early," Martha told her anxiously.

"Yes, I know. Now, you're running a tab on everything, right? I should be ashamed. We came out of the war much better than many folks. I do have money."

"We're running a tab, Mrs. Slater."

Mrs. Slater. The name sounded absurd, and she hated it!

Malachi had been in the saloon for hours and hours now. And if he tried to tell her that he wasn't with the redhead this time, she'd probably scream and go mad on the spot.

Impulsively, she kissed Mrs. Haywood on the cheek. "I really need to lie down," she said softly. "Thank you so much for everything."

Shannon stepped into the parlor. She realized that she was absently twisting the ring around her finger. She tried to wrench it off. It was too tight. Soap might take it off.

On impulse, she hurried to the door to the street and pushed it open. Things were quiet, very quiet. An old bloodhound lifted his head from his paws across the way on the saloon veranda. He looked at Shannon, then dropped his head again. Two men idly conversed down the way before the barber's shop, and that was it.

Shannon strode down the steps and across to the saloon. She entered the building, assuring herself that she wasn't going to do anything but order herself a brandy.

She pushed through the swinging doors. The saloon, she saw, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, was almost as quiet as the street. A lone rancher sat in the back, his hat pulled low over his eyes, hiding his face. A blond harlot in crimson silk sat upon the bar, absently curling a strand of hair around her finger.

The barkeep was drying glasses. He looked at Shannon warily.

"May I have a brandy, please? And could you put it on my husband's tab?"

He shrugged uncertainly, found a glass, filled it and set it before Shannon. She nodded her thanks and swallowed the brandy down. She looked around the saloon again. Malachi was definitely not there.

Kristin would be horrified that she was standing in the saloon, Shannon thought. But then Kristin had always been more conventional, and Kristin had always had a better hold on her temper. Well, maybe not. Kristin had waged a few battles with Cole, and Cole was such a lamb in comparison with Malachi. None of that would matter to Kristin. A lady shouldn't be in a saloon like that.

Even if she was wondering what her husband of five hours was up to.

He wasn't in the saloon.

"Have you seen, er, Mr. Gabriel?" she asked the bartender sweetly.

The blond woman answered, looking her up and down and smiling sweetly. "He's still sleeping up in Iris's room, last I heard."

Shannon felt dizzy. It was as if the whole room went black, then seemed to be covered in a red haze.

"Thank you very much," she said pleasantly. "When you do see him again, please tell him that he is most welcome to remain where he is, and that he will not be at all welcome elsewhere. Thank you."

"Wait," the woman began.

But Shannon cut her off with a clipped, commanding tone, her chin high, her eyes a cutting, crystal blue. There was a note of warning in her voice. "Please, just see that he gets my message." She'd had no idea that she could speak quite so commandingly, but the woman's next words died on her lips and Shannon turned and left the saloon. In the middle of the street, she suddenly paused, doubled over and let out a deep, furious, and anguished scream.

Martha Haywood came running out of her parlor. "Oh, dear, oh dear, what is it?"

Shannon straightened. "Nothing. I'm fine, Mrs. Haywood."

"You're fine!" Mrs. Haywood exclaimed. "That didn't sound at all like fine to me!"

"Well, I wasn't fine until I did it. Now, I am fine. I promise you." She wasn't fine at all. She felt as if she was being ripped apart on the insides by sharp talons. She wanted to kill Malachi. Slowly. She wanted to stake him out on the plain and allow a herd of wild buffalo to trample him into the dust. She wanted to watch the vultures come down and chew him to pieces. She wanted…

She wanted him to come back so she could tell him just how furious she was. And how hurt. How deeply, agonizingly… hurt.

"I am fine, Mrs. Haywood," she repeated, smiling, stiffening. She clung to her temper. She would never forgive him. Never. She stood as tall as she could, straightening her shoulders. "Just fine. If you'll excuse me… Can you please see to it that I'm not disturbed until the morning?" She pushed past Martha and hurried into the house. She raced up the stairs and went into her room, locking the door and assuring herself that she had both keys.

She gasped, trembling, as she looked around.

Martha Haywood had tried so hard to make it welcoming!

Hot water steamed in the bath and there were fresh flowers beside the bed. A silver tray with cold meat and pastries sat on a table, and across the bed lay one of the most beautiful white satin nightgowns she had ever seen. There was a note on it. Shannon picked it up. "Every bride deserves a new thing of beauty. Wear it with our warmest wishes. Martha and Hank."

She set down the note and sank onto the bed, and suddenly she was softly sobbing. Every woman harbored and cherished dreams of just such a gown on her wedding night. And every woman cherished her dreams of a man, magnificent and gallant and handsome. A man who would hold her and love her…

She had the gown, and she had the man. But the dream had dispersed in the garish light of reality.

Malachi did not love her.

She lay on the bed and gave way to the flood of tears that overwhelmed her, and then, when her tears dried, she stared at the ceiling and she wondered just how long she had really been in love with Malachi. They'd never had a chance to be friends. From the start the war had come between them.

But she would never forgive him for this. Never. Come what may, he would never touch her again.

Whether he'd been coerced into marriage at gunpoint, it hadn't been her doing; she'd tried her best to stop it all. He'd had no right to go straight to the red-haired whore, and she would never forgive him.

After a while, the shadows of twilight played upon the windows. The bath had grown chilly, but she decided to indulge in it. She carefully set a chair under the doorhandle first; she wasn't taking any chances.

There was a bottle of wine with the food on the table. Shannon sipped a glass as she bathed quickly.

She even donned the beautiful satin gown.

In time, she stretched out in bed. She closed her eyes and she remembered him the evening before, coming into the room with a vengeance and a purpose. Sweeping her up, holding her.

Claiming his rights, when they weren't in truth married.

But now she was his bride.

Eventually, she closed her eyes. She had her Colt by her side, fully loaded. If he tried to return, she would demand that he leave quickly enough, and she would enforce her words.

But this night, their wedding night in truth, he did not return.

Toward dawn, she cried softly again.

He was her husband now. He did have certain rights.

But he wasn't coming back. Not that night.

CHAPTER TEN

At two in the morning, Malachi stirred. His head was killing him; his mouth tasted as if he had been poisoned, and his tongue felt as if it was swollen in his throat. A clock ticked with excruciating, heavy beats on the mantel.

He staggered out of bed and peered at the clock. When he saw the time he groaned and looked around the room. Iris was gone. She was a good kid. She had gone to Sparks, trying to help him. He was sleeping in her room, while Shannon…

Oh, hell.

His head pounded with a renewed and brutally savage fury. Shannon…

Shannon would be sleeping, too, by then. If she wasn't sleeping, it was even worse. She'd be furious, hotter than a range fire.

He threw himself back on the bed. The hell with her. They were going to have one fabulous fight, he was certain. It couldn't be helped.

He was going to be a rational man, he promised himself. He was going to be level and quiet. He was going to be a gentleman. Every bit as much a gentleman as the Yank she mourned.

The hero…

Well, hell, at this moment, it was easier for a Yank to be a hero. Rebs weren't doing very well. Just like she liked to tell him—they had lost the war.

Darlin'…the South will rise again, it will, it will, he vowed to himself. Then he remembered that he had just promised himself that he was gong to be reasonable.

They were married to one another.

His head started pounding worse as his blood picked up the rhythm, slamming against his veins. He was married to her…for real. If he had a mind to, he could walk right across that street and sweep her into his arms. He could do everything that the rampant pulse inside him demanded that he do. He could meet the blue sizzling fire in her eyes and dig his hands through her hair and bury his face against her breasts. He could touch her skin, softer than satin, sweeter than nectar, he could…

Rape his own wife, he thought dryly, for she sure as hell wasn't going to welcome him.

She would have let him hang! He was the one with the right to be furious. Granted, he would have come for Kristin with or without Shannon—he had meant to come without her—but it was still her sister he had traveled into enemy territory to save.

He could have been in Mexico by now. He could have been living it up in London or Paris. There was no more cause, no South left to save. It was over.

It should have been over.

He exhaled. He wasn't going to go to her now. She'd surely bolted the door against him. And the house would be silent. Dead silent. It just wasn't the time for a brawl, which is what it would be.

If she didn't just shoot him right off and get it over with.

She wouldn't shoot him. She was his wife now.

Yeah, a wife pining for a divorce, or pining to become a widow quick as a wink.

The turmoil and tempest were swirling inside him again. He didn't want to start drinking. He rose and went to the washstand and scrubbed his face and rinsed out his mouth, availing himself of Iris's rose water to gargle with. He felt a little better. No, he felt like hell. He felt like…

Racing across the street and breaking the door down and telling her that she was his and that she would never lock a door against him again, ever…

He groaned, burying his head in his hands. They were just a pair of heartfelt enemies, cast together by the most absurd whims of fate. She was in love with a dead man, and he wasn't in love at all. Or maybe he was in love with…with certain things about her. Maybe he was just in love. Maybe there really was a mighty thin line between love and hate, and maybe the two of them were walking it.

He walked to the window and stared at the night.

The new moon was coming in at long last, casting a curious glow upon the empty street.

They were forgetting their mission. Kristin…they had come all this way and met with physical danger, culminating with the last encounter with the Haywoods. They had come together in a burst of passion, and they had exchanged vows, and now they were legally wed, man and wife, and despite it all, they were still enemies, and despite it all, he could still never forget her, never cease to want her.

He walked over to the bed and lay down, folding his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Iris would come back, and then he would have a better idea of what to do next. Cole must have heard what was happening by now. Jamie, too. And once they had heard about Kristin, they would have started moving this way.

He and Shannon had to start moving again. They had to cease the battle and come to a truce and worry about their personal problems later.

It was the only logical move…the only reasonable one.

He gritted his teeth hard against the fever and tremor that seized him again. He steeled himself against thoughts of her. He wanted her so badly…he could see her. He could see her as she had been in his dream, rising from the water, glimmering drops sluicing down her full, full breasts… water running sleek down the slimness of her flanks, down her thighs…

He could see her eyes, dusky blue, beautiful as they met his in the mists of passion. He could almost feel her moving against him, sweetly rhythmic. He could hear her whispering to him…whimpering, crying out softly and stirring him to a greater flame, a greater hunger…

Logical, reasonable. This was insane.

He was a gentleman, he reminded himself. He had been raised to be a Southern gentleman; he had fought a war to preserve the Southern way of life, perhaps the great Southern myth. He didn't know. But he had been taught certain things. He loved his brother; he would always honor his brother's wife. He believed in the sanctity of honor, and that in the stark horror of defeat, a man could still find honor.

Logic…reason. When the morning came, he would defy the very fires within him. She would not be able to ask for a more perfect gentleman. As long as she didn't touch him, he would be all right.

The perfect gentleman.

If not quite her hero.

Someone was turning the knob of her door.

Shannon didn't understand at first just what was awakening her. Something had penetrated the wall of sleep that had come to her at last.

She lifted her head and she listened. At first, she heard nothing.

Then she heard it. The knob was twisting. Slowly. Some weight came against the door. Then the knob twisted and turned again and again. Someone was trying to be quiet; stealthy.

She rose, biting into her lower lip.

It was Malachi, at last.

She leaped out of bed and ran to the Haywoods' lovely little German porcelain clock. She brought it close to her eyes and looked at the time.

It was almost three in the morning.

She spun around. The knob was twisting…

Malachi. Damn him! He had finished with his whore, and now he wanted to come back to her to sleep! On her wedding day!

Oh, granted, it was no normal wedding day!

But still…

She hated him! She hated him with a vengeance! With everything inside her. How could he? How could he drag her—force her!—into this horrid mockery of marriage, and then spend the day with a harlot. After last night…

It was foolish to give in to him, ever.

She hadn't meant to give in to him.

Ever.

She had simply wanted him, and therefore, it had never been so much a matter of giving, it had been a matter of wanting. Of longing to touch, and to be touched in turn. Of needing his arms. Of needing his very height, and his strength. Of hearing his voice with the deep Southern drawl, of feeling his muscled nakedness close to her…

She had loved once.

And she loved now, again. Perhaps he could never understand. And if she valued not only her pride but her soul and her sanity, he could not know.

Not that it mattered. She could never let him in; she could never let him touch her again. He couldn't come straight from his whore to her. Whether emotion entered into it or not. He just couldn't do it, and that was the way that it was.

Her eyes narrowed; she was ready for battle.

But the doorknob twisted one last time, and then she heard footsteps—soft, soft footsteps!—moving away from her, down the hall and then down the stairs, fading away into the night.

"Malachi!" she murmured in misery.

So there would be no fight, and no words spoken. She could not go to battle, and she could not give of herself or take, for he was gone, leaving her again.

She lay down and cast her head against the pillow in misery. She stared straight ahead and ached for what seemed like hours and hours.

He had gone back to her. Back to his old friend. Back to the red-haired harlot.

She could not sleep. She could only lie there and hurt.

At three in the morning, the last of the locals threw down their cards, finished off their beers or their whiskeys and grunted out their good-nights to Matey and to Reba, the golden blonde who played the piano at the Haywood saloon.

Reba started collecting glasses. Matey washed them, telling Joe, his helper, to go on and clear out for the night. Joe had a wife and new baby, and was grateful to get out early for the evening.

Reba tucked a straying tendril of her one natural beauty, her hair, back into the French knot she wore twisted at her nape. She looked across the saloon to the dark shadows and paused.

They had both forgotten the stranger. It was peculiar; she had thought that he had left earlier.

But he had not. He was still there, watching her now. She could feel it.

He raised his face, tilting back his hat.

He was a decent-looking fellow, Reba thought. Sexy, in a way. He was tall and wiry and lean, with dark hair and strange, compelling light eyes. The way he looked at her made her shiver. There was something cold in that look. But it made her grow hot all over, too, and there weren't many men who could make her feel anything at all anymore.

This one made her skin crawl. He also made her want to get a little closer to him. There was something dangerous about him. It was exciting, too.

"Mister," she called to him. "We're closing up for the night. Can I get you anything else?"

He smiled. The smile was as chilling as his eyes.

"Sure, pretty thing. I'll take me a shot and a chaser…" His voice trailed away. "A shot and a chaser and a room— and you."

"You hear that, Matey?" Reba called.

"Got it," Matey replied with a shrug. The drinks were his responsibility. It was Reba's choice, if she wanted to take on the drifter this time of night.

Reba brought the shot and the beer over to his table. He grasped her wrist so hard that she almost cried out and pulled her down beside him. She rubbed her wrist, but thought little of the pain. Lots of men liked to play rough. She didn't care too much. Just as long as they didn't get carried away and mar the flesh. If he wanted to be a tough guy, though, he could pay a little more.

"You got a room?" he asked her.

"That depends," she said.

"On what?"

He was a blunt one, Reba decided. She flashed him a beautiful smile, draping one long leg over the other, and displaying a long length of black-stockinged thigh. She ran a finger over the planes of his face, and found herself shivering inside again. His eyes were strange. They were so cold they might have been dead. They calculated every second. They were filled with something. She didn't quite recognize what it was.

Cruelty, maybe…

She shook away the thought. A lot of men looked at women that way. It made them feel big and important. Still…

She started to pull away from him. She almost forgot that she made her living as a whore, and that she didn't mind it too much, and that the pay was much better than what she bad been making as a backwoods schoolteacher on the outskirts of Springfield.

Should she? She was tired; she wasn't in any desperate need for money. She should just tell him that it was too darned late for her to take a man in for the night.

"I got gold," he told her. "Is that what it depends on?"

Gold. He wasn't going to try to pawn off any of that worthless Southern currency, and he wasn't even going to try to pay her with Union paper. He had gold.

"All right," she told him at last.

And unknowingly sealed her fate.

He stroked her cheek softly, and looked toward the stairs. He smiled at her, and Reba silently determined that she had been mistaken—he was just a tough guy, not a cruel one. And he was handsome. Not nearly as handsome as Iris's friend Sloan, but he had all his teeth, all his hair and all his limbs. And that wasn't so common these days.

A working girl could always use a little extra cash.

"Where's your friend?" he asked her.

"Who?"

"The redhead."

Strange, he was talking about Iris. Reba started to answer, but then she paused, stroking his arm. "Iris is occupied for the evening." She smiled.

The stranger lifted his glass toward the saloon doors. "The husband, eh? That the blushing little bride was looking for."

Reba chuckled. "It's a good thing the groom is occupied. The maid over at the Haywoods' told Curly—Curly's the barber—that Mrs. Gabriel has bolted down for the night. Sloan Gabriel would need four horses to ram the door down."

"Is that a fact?"

"'Course, Iris says he'll do it. When he—when he's good and ready, he'll go over and break right in. Determined type. He doesn't take nothing off of her."

"Doesn't he, now?"

"Not Sloan Gabriel."

The stranger's lip curled. "Sloan Gabriel, eh?"

"That's right. That's the man's name. Why?"

"No matter. It's just a good story. I watched the woman earlier. She needs a lot of taming." He paused, sipping at his whiskey. "You think Mr. Gabriel will just break the door on down to get to her, eh?"

"To teach her a lesson."

"And he's here now. Right here in this fine establishment."

"Ain't that a laugh."

"Yeah. It's a laugh. But, hey, now…" He swallowed the whiskey in a gulp, then drained his beer. He set the glass down on the table hard. "No matter at all. What matters now is you and me. Let's find that room of yours, all right?"

Reba nodded swiftly, coming to her feet. She took the stranger's hand and called good night to Matey as they walked up the stairs. She passed by Iris's doorway and hid her smile of secret delight.

Sloan Gabriel was in there, all right. Still sleeping away, after consuming his own bottle of whiskey. Iris had asked her to look in on him now and then, and she had been glad to comply. He was still sleeping peacefully, and his golden wife assumed he was enjoying the daylights out of himself. She didn't know why she didn't tell the stranger. It was a funny story. It was great.

But Iris had acted as if she didn't want too many people to know where she was going.

Reba shrugged and hurried to her own door.

When they entered her room, the stranger closed the door. Reba turned around, smiling at him. "Want to help me with a few buttons, honey?" she asked. She sat down at the foot of the bed, a woman practiced with her craft, and slipped off her shoes. When that was done she slowly slid off her garters and started peeling away her stockings one by one. He watched her, standing by the door. Reba smiled with pleasure, certain that she had this drifter well in hand.

"What's your name, honey?" she asked him.

"Justin," he said.

"Justin what?"

"Justin is all that matters."

"All right, Justin, honey." She smiled and licked her tongue slowly over her lips, as if she gave grave attention to her stockings. He was quiet, then he spoke suddenly, pushing away from the door.

"Turn over," he told her.

"Now, honey, no funny stuff," she said. He didn't smile. She added nervously. "Honey, any deviation—any slight, slight deviation—will cost you a fortune." Little pricks of unease swept along her spine, but she kept smiling anyway.

Her smile faded when he suddenly strode across the room and jerked her around by the arm, pressing her down into the bed, face first. He tore at her chemise and petticoats, ripping them from her with a vengeance. Gasping, smothering, she tried to protest.

"Shut up," he warned her.

"No! No, please—"

Reba tried to twist around. He slapped her hard on the cheek, sending her head flying against the bedpost. Stunned, she still tried to resist. She hadn't the power. He shoved her over and down.

A scream rose in her throat when he sadistically drove into her. But her scream went unheard, muffled by her pillow.

In time, either the pain dulled, or she passed out cold.

When she awoke, it was morning. She felt the sun coming in through the window.

She tried to move, but everything about her hurt. Her cheek and eye were swollen where he had beaten her. She hurt inside, deep inside. She would have to see the doctor, and pray that nothing was busted up too bad. God, she was in agony.

She was afraid to open her eyes; he might still be there. She didn't feel him, though. She lifted her lashes just slightly. Then she dared to twist around.

He was out of the bed. He was dressed, and he was staring out her window, toward the Haywoods' store and hotel across the street.

Suddenly, he stiffened and straightened. She saw him set his hand on his gun at his hip.

"There he goes," he murmured. He swung around, as if sensing that Reba was awake. She closed her eyes, but not fast enough. He came over to her, wrenching her up. "You shut up, bitch!"

"I didn't say—"

He slapped her again. Reba gasped, screaming for all that she was worth. Matey would be up and about; someone would hear.

"Oh, no you don't!" He slammed her pillow down on her face, pressing hard. Reba twisted and gasped, and the pain entered her lungs as she could draw no air. He kept talking. As she grew dizzy, she could hear him. "You ain't ruinin' it for me, honey." He started to laugh. "What's one little whore, when the golden girl is right across the street? If you're right, Slater is in there, getting through to her for me right now. I tried to get to her last night, but I was afraid to bust the door down myself. I might have had the whole town down on me. I slipped out, and I slipped back in, and nobody knew it at all. I came back to the saloon…and to you, too, honey. I'm gonna kill Slater, and I'm gonna make her wish that she was dead. You can imagine how good I am at that, huh, honey?" Dimly, she heard him laugh. "You can imagine. You can just imagine." He pressed harder and harder upon the pillow.

Her struggles ceased.

Finally, he tossed the pillow aside. She was still and silent. "I wouldn't have had to kill you if you'd just known how to keep that whore's mouth of yours closed." He tipped his hat to her. "It's closed now, honey. Sure am sorry. It's just that you don't compare. No, ma'am, no way, you just don't compare. I'm gonna have me that girl, and I'm gonna kill that man."

He looked outside. Malachi Slater was heading across to the livery stable. Looked like time to take a walk himself.

"Shannon!"

She had awoken, hearing him call out her name in annoyance. He banged on the door. She pressed her fingers against her temple and ignored him.

"Shannon, open this door."

"No!"

"Don't give me a hard time now, Shannon McCahy. I've got to get in."

"It isn't McCahy anymore, is it?" she demanded bitterly through the door. "Get away from here!"

She waited. There was silence for a moment. "Shannon, open the door. Now."

"You arrogant Reb bastard!" she hissed at him. "Go away. I'll never open the door."

She heard his sigh even through the door. "Shannon, I am going to try not to fight with you. I am going to do my best to get along with you, Shannon, because—"

"Your best! Malachi, go!"

"Shannon, I really am trying. Now, open the door and—"

"You're an ass, Malachi. A complete ass!"

"Shannon, I am trying—darlin'. But keep it up, and you'll pay. I promise," he said very softly.

"Go away!"

"Shannon, I'm giving you ten seconds. One—"

"You should have knocked when you came last night."

"I didn't come here last night. You're dreaming."

"Nightmare, Mr. Slater. If I was dreaming, it was a nightmare." She paused, then said with disgust, "You liar!"

"I didn't come near you last night, Shannon. But so help me, I'll come near you now!"

It was a threat. A definite threat. After everything that he had done!

She spat out exactly what he should do with himself.

He slammed into the door. The noise brought her flying up in panic, searching for the Colt. The wood splintered and sheared around the lock, and the door soared open.

Malachi stood in the doorway, looking much the worse for wear. His clothing was rumpled, his eyes were red, and his temper hadn't improved a hair.

Not that the night had done much for Shannon's.

She lifted the Colt and aimed it straight at his heart. "What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded huskily. She couldn't quite find her voice.

He eyed the Colt but ignored it. He stepped into the room, kicking the door shut behind him. "Shannon, I am going to try and talk reasonably. I—"

"Malachi, get out of here. Or else I will shoot you. I will not kill you. I will aim—"

'"Don't you dare say it!" he snapped at her.

"Say what?"

"You know what!"

"All right! I'll shoot at—"

"Shannon!"

"Malachi, I don't want you here. I married you to save your damn neck and you can't even stay with me for two seconds."

"I had to beg you to—"

"You forced me to say those words."

"You know, I'm remembering right now just how bad it was. Dropping down on my knees to beg you to—"

"Beg! You get out, now! Or I will put a bullet right where it might count the most!"

"Why, darlin'," he drawled. "You are my beloved wife, and I can come to you whenever I choose."

"The hell you can."

"The law says I can," he told her softly.

"The law plans on stringing you up—darlin'. Maybe we ought not tempt fate."

"Well, then, Mrs. Slater, I say that I can." He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the broken door. His lashes fell with a lazy nonchalance over his eyes, but she could see the slit of blue beneath them, wary and hard.

She was trembling. She couldn't let him see it. She kept her hand as steady as she could manage on the Colt.

"You chose your bed, captain. You just go on back to it."

"Darlin', I'm tired of you spying on me, and I'm damned tired of your being a brat. I didn't come to fight—"

"You shouldn't have come at all."

"Put the gun away, Shannon."

"Get out!"

"I can't, not now—"

"Malachi, get away from me, now!"

"Put the gun away, Shannon. Put it away now! I'm warning you as nicely as I can, but I mean it." It sounded as if he was growling at her. She gritted her teeth and smiled sweetly.

"Malachi, since I am the one with the gun, I'm warning you."

"You'll be damned sorry when you don't have the gun."

"Don't threaten me."

"You vowed to obey me."

"You vowed to cherish me. It was all lies. So no, captain, you go on back across the street to your whore. You're not going to touch me."

"You're one Yank I do intend to touch, my love."

She pulled back the trigger on the Colt, letting him hear the deadly click. "Get out. You know that I can aim."

"I haven't come to do anything to you. I've come because this is my room, and you are my wife. Put the gun down. I have every right here, and you won't shoot me."

"You have no rights here, and I will shoot you!"

He took a step toward her. She fired, with deadly accuracy. The bullet whizzed by his face, so close that it clipped his beard before embedding itself into the thick wood of the door behind him. He stopped, staring at her, the muscles in his jaw working. He was surprised, but he was not afraid. "You shot at me!" he said, his voice harsh and low. "You actually shot at me!" He took another step toward her.

"You fool!" Shannon warned him, backing away. She fired again, and drew blood this time, nicking his ear.

But it did no good. He was upon her, wrenching the Colt from her hand. His fingers dug around her upper arms with a trembling force, and he picked her up and tossed her like a sack of wheat upon the bed. She struggled to rise, but he caught her and pushed her back. He straddled her, pinning her down, and she saw the naked amazement and wrath in his eyes. "You little bitch! You really would have killed me!"

She wriggled and kicked, struggling fiercely. "If I'd meant to kill you, you'd be dead, and you know it."

He eased his hold on her to touch his ear, feeling the trickle of blood. She used the opportunity to surge against him, freeing her hands and swinging at him. She caught him on the jaw with a good punch, and he swore savagely, securing her beneath him again. The beautiful white satin bridal nightgown was twisting higher and higher around her hips with every fevered moment. "Let me go, Malachi."

"Oh, no, Shannon, you're the one who wanted to play rough. Well, let's play rough, shall we?"

And he wrenched the gown up high on her thighs with his free hand. He released her to unbuckle his trousers, and she screeched, jumping up. He caught her arm, twisting her down.

"You shot at me!" he hissed at her.

She swung forward, trying to hurt him, trying not to cry.

"And you slept with the red-haired harlot, so leave me alone!" She slammed against his chest and thrashed out with her legs. She heard him groan in pain and she knew that she had gotten him good.

But he fell against her again, and her hair caught and pulled in his fingers. "I didn't sleep with her—"

"Oh, no! Don't try to play me for a fool, Malachi."

"I did not sleep with Iris. She's a real friend, an old friend. I should sleep with her. She is kind, and caring. And warm. But I wasn't with her last night. I slept in her bed, but not with her."

"Liar!"

"No!"

He pushed her flat against the bed. Tears stung her eyes and she writhed and struggled against him. "Liar!" she accused him again. But his lips met hers, and she didn't understand what happened at all.

"I am not lying!" he swore, and his hatred contoured and marred his features.

"Please…"

He assaulted her…but she met his fury with her own. His mouth forced down hard upon hers…but her lips parted to his, and she met the invading thrust of his tongue with the passionate fury of her own. When his lips broke from hers, she cried out his name. She didn't know if it was a plea, a broken whisper, a beseechment that he leave her…or a prayer that he stay with her.

Whatever it was, it changed his touch. He went very still. Shannon was amazed that she had freed her hands, only to wind her arms around him, only to rake her fingers through his hair. She felt the touch of his fingers, slowly curling around her breasts over the satin of the gown.

"I am not lying!" he vowed again, and softly. He rubbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and felt it swell to his touch. She felt the softness of his beard, and the sweet, burning tenderness of his kiss. He ravaged her body still, but with care, with passion, but with some strange lust gone, so gentle that she arched and writhed and twisted toward him, maddened to feel more and more of it…

Then he thrust into her, deep, full, grinding, and defying all his previous gentleness. Bold, determined, sure, his fingers and his eyes locked with hers as he claimed her completely and cast her shuddering to her depths with the ecstasy of feeling his body within her own, burning within her, a part of her mind, her heart, her frame…her soul.

"Malachi." She whispered his name again as he began to move within her. She held him, embraced him, caressed him. Fever and tempest were with them as they whirled and whirled in a dark and furious and timeless storm that stripped away pretense…

And even hatred…

Satisfaction burst upon them, as volatile as the burning cannon fire of the war that had raged around them.

He pulled from her when it was over. She lay silent; he lay looking at the ceiling.

"What are we doing to one another?" he said softly. But he didn't look her way. He rose. Shannon could not move, not even to adjust the satin of the gown over her hips. She heard him doffing his borrowed clothes, donning his own trousers and shirt and boots. She still did not move.

He paused at last. "We've got to go. Get up. Get dressed. I'll explain when you come down, but I've got some good news as far as freeing Kristin is concerned. Hurry. We need to get moving."

He walked to the door. When he reached it, he paused for several seconds.

"I'm sorry, Shannon. Really sorry. It…it won't happen again."

He was gone. She listened dully as his footsteps faded away on the staircase. Listlessly, she curled into herself. She had to get up. She had to get dressed and ready. They were going after Kristin. This was what it was all about…

She dragged herself up. Then she leaped up from the bed, anxious to call him back because she realized now she could still hear his footsteps. She had to tell him that she was sorry, too, so very sorry… "Malachi!"

He was coming up the stairs, coming back to her. She raced to the doorway.

A man was coming up the stairs. He was wearing a feather hat, and his head was bowed low, and the brim covered his face. But it wasn't Malachi. A sense of danger suddenly sheared along her spine.

At that moment he reached the top step and raised his head.

She stared straight into the evil leering face of the bushwhacker, Justin Waller. "Howdy, Shannon. Excuse me— howdy, Mrs. Gabriel," he said softly. "My, my, my, I have been anxious to catch up with you. And you do look particularly pretty this morning."

"You!" she cried, swinging around to dive for the Colt.

"Me! Justin Waller, Mrs. Gabriel. Why, yes'm, I've turned up again, and I am…anxious!"

The Colt was on the floor somewhere. She groped frantically, opened her mouth to scream. The sound that issued from her was a breathy gasp. He caught her around the waist. She opened her mouth to scream again, and his hand clamped tight over her mouth. "No, no, my little darlin'," he crooned, his face taut against hers, his pleased grin displaying his teeth. "You do have to hush! The captain might have gone for the horses, but the Haywoods are downstairs, and I planned to leave kind of quiet like. I do want to deal with Malachi Slater, but not here. Not now. You're going to be real, real quiet for me."

Shannon tried desperately to inhale and bite his hand. He laughed, reaching into his pocket with his free hand, and produced a soaking, foul-smelling scarf. He removed his hand from her mouth. She gasped in quickly to scream, but before she could issue a sound, he dropped the scarf upon her face, and she inhaled the potent drug upon it.

The room spun and faded and went opaque, and then disappeared entirely from view.

Justin Waller waited. Her eyes fell shut; she went limp beneath him. He pulled the scarf from her face at last, and lifted her dead weight over his shoulder.

At the top of the staircase, he hesitated. He heard Slater talking in the kitchen.

Quickly, quietly, he ran down the stairs and out the front door. The street was quiet. He smiled. He walked calmly to his horse, tossed Shannon over the animal's flanks, and mounted behind her lolling body.

And rode serenely out of town.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

When Malachi returned with the horses, Iris was already waiting for him, seated in a small buckboard wagon. She was wearing green brocade with a cocky little feathered hat, and the green went exceptionally well with her red hair.

Malachi tethered the horses and looked at her. "You're a beautiful woman, Iris," he told her.

She smiled and didn't flush. "Thanks, Malachi. You didn't need to say that."

"You don't need to come."

"Yes, I do," Iris said. "You don't know anything about the back entrance to Cindy's house. And you won't be able to run around in the town of Sparks, I promise you. You won't be able to do your brother one bit of good if you're arrested along with his wife."

"I don't like putting you into danger," he said softly.

"I won't be in any danger. Cindy's a friend of mine. I come into Sparks often enough. I'm known there."

"Still—"

"Malachi, I swear that I will be in no danger.

Malachi still didn't like it, but he knew he had no right to dictate to Iris. And her trip to Sparks had been monumentally important.

She had found Cole. He'd been sitting in the local saloon, his hat pulled low over his head. She hadn't recognized him herself at first, not until she'd leaned back and seen his silver gray eyes. He'd been wearing ranch clothes and a Mexican serape and his face had been covered with the rustic start of a beard and mustache. He hadn't looked at all like Cole.

He'd recognized Iris, though. Before she could talk to him, he'd come up quickly to buy her a drink, then he had told her he was going by the name of Jake Egan.

Iris had brought him to Cindy's place, a big gabled house her friend owned on the outskirts of town. It was a cathouse, of course, and Shannon was sure to hate it, but that was where they were going now.

Cole told Iris that Jamie was just over the border, and he had gotten word to him. The three of them planned to converge in Sparks, and take matters from there. Thanks to Iris and her friends, they would have a good place from which to plan and work.

Iris glanced toward the Haywoods. "Your wife ain't pleased, I take it?"

He shrugged. "I haven't told her yet."

Iris frowned. "But—"

"We had an argument. We didn't get that far," Malachi said briefly.

Iris lowered her head and a smile stole over her lips. "I hope you told her that I wasn't with you—"

"Iris, it doesn't matter—"

"It matters to me! I'd just as soon she not shoot me."

"She's not going to shoot you, Iris."

"Malachi—"

"Iris, the matter is solved."

"I don't think so, Malachi."

"And why is that?"

Well, as you might have noticed, Mrs. Slater isn't out here yet."

Malachi swore softly. He started up the porch steps toward the front door.

"Malachi!" Iris called to him. "I'm going to run back in. Reba might be up by now and I want to thank her for covering things for me yesterday."

Malachi nodded to her and hurried up the steps and opened the door to the parlor. Mrs. Haywood was just coming out of the kitchen with a big parcel in her hands. "Here you are, Captain Slater. Some of my best summer sausages and biscuits. And when you're heading back through, you make sure to come and see us."

Malachi nodded stiffly. "Surely, ma'am," he said, and he looked up the stairway. "Has she come down yet?"

Mrs. Haywood shook her head. "Maybe you should go on and hurry her along."

He nodded again. Mrs. Haywood was still staring at him.

"We wouldn't have hanged you, captain, you know."

"I'm glad to hear that, ma'am."

"And we couldn't have forced you into marrying your lady—not unless you wanted to."

He hesitated, staring at her. "Now, Mrs. Haywood—"

"Never mind. Maybe you're not ready to admit that. You go up and hurry her along. I'll take the vittles out to the buckboard. Iris is going with you?" Mrs. Haywood's eyes danced with merriment. "What a lively trip. I wish I were going. I wish that I was twenty years younger!" she said, and she laughed.

A slow smile curved Malachi's lip. He saluted her. "Yes, ma'am, it would have been nice to have you along."

Mrs. Haywood, chuckling, headed toward the door. Malachi went to the steps and started up them, two at a time.

He came to the door and noticed the splinters around the broken lock. He had already paid Mr. Haywood for the damages, but seeing the door made him feel ill. He had sworn he wasn't going to lose his temper, and he had. He had sworn that he wouldn't touch her in anger…and he had. He wanted to leave this place now. More than anything, he wanted to leave this place. Nothing could really be solved between himself and Shannon until Kristin was rescued, or…

Until they all died in the attempt.

"Shannon!" he called out sharply.

He stepped into the room. She was nowhere around. Other than that, the room was exactly as he had left it, not half an hour ago. "Shannon?" he called out again.

Damn her. She was angry, and she was playing some trick. Never! He never could trust her, not for one damned moment! He thought she had understood how close they were coming to Kristin.

He wandered to the foot of the bed and sank down upon it with a weary sigh. Where had she gone? Mrs. Haywood hadn't seen her downstairs. And…

He looked across to the hall tree. Shannon's shirt and trousers were still hung on it.

He rose, a frown knitting his brow. He went over to their saddlebags and ripped hers open. Her dress was still there. Wherever she had gone, she had gone wearing the slinky satin nightdress she had worn this morning.

He jumped up, trying to tell himself that she might have run into the mercantile store to buy something. More underwear, a new shirt, perhaps. Another one of the embroidered blouses like the one on the hall tree…

Malachi ran down the steps. Just as he reached the parlor, he heard screaming from the street. He burst out of the door and ran down to the street, his booted footsteps clattering over the wood of the steps until he hit the dust.

Iris was in the middle of the street, her arms around the blond, Reba.

Reba was lying in the dust, wrapped in a blanket, and held tenderly by Iris. Her eyes were closed. Her face was parchment white. A trickle of blood seeped onto the blankets.

The Haywoods were there, bending over.

"What happened?" Malachi demanded.

"She shouldn't have moved. She was trying to get to you. She wants you to kill him," Iris said, her voice rising hysterically.

"Kill who?" He looked from Iris to Reba. Her eyes remained closed. He leaned down and picked her up. He

glanced at Martha Haywood for assent, but the sturdy matron was already shooing him toward the house. "Right into the parlor, Malachi. Bring her to the couch. I'll send Papa for the doctor."

He hurried inside with the blond whore and laid her carefully on the sofa. He knelt beside her as Iris followed, smoothing back her hair. She had been beaten. Her lip was swollen, and one of her eyes was almost shut.

Her other eye opened slowly. She almost smiled, a caricature of a smile. "He wanted your wife, Mr. Gabriel. He wanted your wife."

"What?"

His heart thudded, then seemed to stop for a moment. Cold fear fell harshly upon him. He took Reba's hand in his. "Please, we know you're…hurting." The way the blood seeped from her, she was probably dying. Maybe she knew it; maybe she didn't. "Try to tell me."

She moistened her lips, nodding. "Kill him. You have to kill him. I saw him watching you. He was waiting for you to get to her; he couldn't make the noise to reach her. He tried…last night. Then he came up to my room with me." She paused. Tears trickled down her cheeks. "He's got your wife, Mr. Gabriel. He thinks I'm dead. He thinks he's safe… Get him. Kill him. He—" She tried to find breath to speak, and made one final effort. "He said that his name was Justin."

Malachi shot up. Iris and Mrs. Haywood stared at him. "Justin Waller," he said. "He followed us. I underestimated him. I thought I'd lost him."

He turned and strode toward his horse, checking that his Colts were in his gun belt. When he reached the bay, he leaped upon the animal, and then just sat there. He didn't even know which way to ride.

East. Back the way they'd come.

Justin Waller wouldn't dare head farther west into Kansas.

He'd killed a lot of men in Kansas. Maimed and wounded them. Someone might recognize him.

East. He had to return eastward.

He set off at a gallop, and realized a second later that he was being followed. He turned and saw that Iris had mounted Shannon's big black gelding. With her skirts and petticoats flying, her fine green dress bloodstreaked and ruined, she was racing after him.

He reined in. "Iris, go back! What do you think—"

"Malachi, she's dead. Reba just died."

"So go back! This man is an animal. I'm better off alone."

"Your wife may need me," Iris said quietly.

Malachi locked his jaw, he was suddenly shaking so hard. That Shannon might be touched by the madman hurt…hurt so badly that he couldn't help her…

"All right, come on," he told Iris.

He leaned forward over the bay's neck, urging the animal forward, and they galloped eastward again at a breakneck pace. How much time did Justin Waller have on him already? How much time did Justin Waller need?

He didn't dare think. He rode.

It was the sickness in Shannon's stomach that finally woke her. She didn't know what he had used in his scarf to knock her out, but the smell of it had invaded her system, and her mouth tasted horrible, and she was certain that she was going to be sick any minute. She didn't care much about being sick. It might make her feel better. Except that there was a gag in her mouth, tied so tightly over her lips that she was afraid that she would choke to death upon her own fluids.

She tried opening her eyes carefully. The sunshine shot into them like knives. She had thought that she was moving; she was not. Her wrists hurt her because she was tied to a tree. The sun was overhead, streaking through the leaves. She was in a copse, surrounded by rocks and foliage and trees. She couldn't move at all, for rough nooses looped both of her wrists, and her arms were pulled taut around the circumference of the tree.

She closed her eyes again. The dizziness still assailed her. She willed it to go away.

There was a sound in the woods. She opened her eyes quickly. Justin Waller was coming through the bushes. There was nothing she could do. Absolutely nothing but stare at him, and hate him with everything in her.

"Hello, little darlin'," he crooned. He hunkered down by her, smiling as he tossed his rifle down at her side. He ran his hand over her thigh, moving the satin of her gown upward to her hip. She kicked and thrashed at him, and the motion almost made her sick. He laughed, enjoying her inability to really do anything, anything at all.

"I'd like to remove that gag, honey, and hear everything that you have to say to old Justin. You're going to apologize, do you know that? You're going to tell me how sorry you are for everything you ever did to me. And then you're going to tell me that you'll never leave me again. And you're going to tell me how much you want me, you're going to ask me to be nice to you."

He lifted his hand to her cheek, and ran a finger down her throat. He idly stroked a line down to the rise of her breast, and he laughed again at the rage that filled her eyes when he cupped the mound.

"You're thinking that Slater will come and kill me, aren't you? Well, he's going to come. That's why you're here. I'm going to meet him on the road, and then I'm going to kill him. And then I'm going to come back for you. But do you know why you're here in this nice little cove? 'Cause if I die, Miss McCahy, you're going to die, too. He'll never find you. Only the snakes and the buzzards will know where you are. Maybe a rattler will come by. And maybe not. Maybe you'll just bake slowly in the sun…and you'll be glad to die, you'll want water so badly. Then the birds will come down and you know what they like to do first? They like to pluck out eyes…"

He sighed, letting his hand drop. "I'd really like to stay. But—"

He broke off, listening. From somewhere, Shannon could hear the sound of hoofbeats.

Justin's face went dark. "How the hell did he know so damned fast?" he muttered. "Must not have done in that whore properly…" He stared at Shannon. "No matter, darlin'. Don't fret. Don't miss me too much. I will be back."

He rose, clutching his gun, and thrashed his way through the undergrowth. The sound of the hoofbeats was coming closer and closer. Shannon closed her eyes.

Malachi.

He would never abandon her, she thought. No matter how mad she made him, no matter how they fought…

Even if he hated her. He would never abandon her.

But would Malachi be expecting Justin to ambush him? And Justin meant to do just that. Sit in wait to prey upon Malachi, shoot him down in cold blood from the shadows of the bracken on a summer's day.

Malachi was coming closer. Shannon could feel the hoof-beats pounding the earth. There was more than one horse. He wasn't alone. Maybe that was something that Justin hadn't counted on.

She tugged at the ropes that held her, but Justin could tie a secure knot. The more she twisted, the more hopelessly tightly she was bound. Tears stung her eyes. If she could just call out. If she could warn him that it was going to be an ambush.

Willing herself not to panic, not to give up, she twisted her head, biting at the gag. At first, she felt nothing.

Then she felt it loosening.

The sound of hoofbeats had slowed as the riders had en-tered the narrow trail through the forest. Shannon bit desperatley against the material slicing her mouth. There was a give and then a tear. She twisted and spit again. The gag slipped enough for her to draw in a huge gulp of sweet air, and then scream for all she was worth.

"It's a trap, Malachi! Don't come any closer! It's an ambush! Be careful, for the love of God—"

As she screamed, Justin Waller suddenly appeared through the shrubs, and she saw the murderous hatred in his eyes.

"Stupid bitch!" he swore. His palm cracked across cheek so hard that she was dazed.

She felt a little trickle of blood at her lip but that didn't deter him in the least. He stuffed the gag into her mouth and secured it, winding a strip of rawhide tightly around her head. It cut searingly into her mouth, and she could barely breathe, much less issue the softest cry.

He smiled, pleased with his handiwork. "Our time is coming, sweet thing," he promised her.

He jumped to his feet, carelessly holding his repeating rifle. The sound of hoofbeats had ceased. The forest seemed quiet.

"Slater!" Justin screamed.

Shannon took some small pleasure in realizing that she had ruined his original plan. He couldn't possibly ambush anyone. He was the one whose whereabouts were now known.

"Slater, I'm going to shoot her. Right through the head."

She couldn't help the shivering that seized her. Justin Waller would do it. He would shoot a human being just as quickly and easily as he would swat a fly. There would be very little difference to him.

He aimed the rifle at Shannon. She caught her breath, and her heart seemed to cease to beat. She wanted to pray; she wanted to ask God to forgive her all her sins, but she didn't seem to be able to think at all.

Malachi's face filled her thoughts. His slow, cynical smile curling into his lip beneath his mustache. His eyes, bluer than teal, deeper than cobalt, secretive beneath the honey and gold arches of his brows. In those seconds, she imagined his face. And she wished with all her heart that she could see him.

She prayed at last, and she prayed that he not be fooled into giving his life for hers…

The rifle exploded with a loud blast. Dust flew up, blinding Shannon. But she wasn't hit. He had aimed at the ground, right beside her feet. He aimed again, and she quickly closed her eyes as pieces of bark sheared from the tree and flew around at the impact of the explosion. Shannon choked and screamed deep in her throat. More shots exploded against the tree. She almost longed for him to hit her so that the torture of waiting for a bullet would end.

"Come on out, Slater. One of these shots is going to hit her! Or maybe one of them already has. Maybe she's screaming deep, deep down inside, and you can't hear her…but you can hear me. Come on out, Slater, you coward, damn you!"

There was a rustling sound behind them. Justin swung around, shooting at the bushes. Bracken broke and flew, and the earth was spewed up in a rain of dirt. But when the noise died away, there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Justin hunkered down in the dirt, looking anxiously around. The silence was awful. It dragged on forever.

Shannon thought that she might have passed out again. It seemed that she closed her eyes and opened them again, and the sun was falling. The sky was streaked with beautiful, dark colors. Twilight was coming on.

And she was still tied to the tree. Justin was less than ten feet away from her, his rifle over his knee. He still stared out into the bracken as the night fell.

A fly droned around Shannon's face, and landed on her arm. She leaned against the tree, desolate, despairing.

"I think I've killed him. I thought he was out there, but maybe I've killed him," Justin muttered to himself.

He twisted around and looked at Shannon and saw that her eyes were open. Low on the ground, he crawled to her. He reached up with his knife toward her head, and she wondered with horror what he intended to do. She tried not to shrink from him, but she was terrified, and she couldn't help it. He smiled, liking her fear.

But he didn't cut her. He slipped the blade into the rawhide tie that he had bound so tightly around her head. He slid it, and let the scarf gag fall from her face. She inhaled, gulping in air. She would have screamed, but it seemed like such a foolish thing to do. There was probably no one to hear her.

Maybe Malachi was dead. Justin had mowed down half the foliage around him, and sheared away rock and trees. He could easily have hit Malachi. He could be out there anywhere, lying injured, dead, dying…

Justin stretched his length against her body. She didn't kick him and she didn't speak. She stayed still, her head against the tree, and stared at him. He was insane, she decided. Some men would come back from the war and tremble through the night at the memories of the horrors they had seen…of the death they had themselves delivered. But Justin Waller had used the war. He had loved it, reveled in it. It had allowed him to rape and murder freely. And now it seemed that he had learned murder and rape as a way of life.

She would give him no satisfaction, she swore.

"You've nothing to say, sweet thing?" he whispered against her flesh. He touched her cheek and ran his hands down to her breast again. "Our time has come. Your lover is dead, and we have the whole night ahead of us. Your mouth is free. You can scream and scream and scream…"

She gazed at him. "You're pathetic," she said softly.

He grabbed her thigh, pinching it mercilessly. She wasn't going to cry out, but the pain came so fiercely that she did.

"Talk to me nicely, little girl. Talk to me nicely. Tell me that you won't take off again. No more tricks. And maybe, just maybe, if you're good, real, real good, I'll let you live."

She lifted her chin. She ignored his hand upon her thigh, inching up the satin of her gown. "Death might be very simple, Justin," she said.

He started to laugh again. "Yeah, it just might be. But you ain't going to die. Not until I'm through with you." He cupped her chin in a cruel grip and moved his face close to hers.

She managed to twist away. "I will throw up on you," she threatened. "I swear, I will throw up all over you. That drug is heaving up and down inside of me."

He jerked away from her as if he had been burned. He stared at her, and then he chuckled and stroked her chin again. "You are a one, Miss Shannon McCahy. I've waited a long time for a woman the likes of you. A long time."

He leaned toward her again. She prayed that the earth would open up and swallow them whole.

The earth did not open up, but there was suddenly a massive rustling in the bushes near the road. Justin jerked away from her and stood up on the balls of his feet with his rifle ready. Shannon watched him with renewed fear. "Son of a bitch! Sit tight, sweetheart. I'll be back, and we won't waste any more time." He jumped close to the tree, then bent down and disappeared into the low brush.

Shannon strained frantically against the ropes that bound her. Maybe Malachi lived. Maybe he was out there thrashing around, needing help. Justin would hunt him down. He would hunt him down and shoot him between the eyes. Justin Waller might be a raving lunatic, but he had fought with the bushwhackers, and he had learned a lot about guerrilla warfare. He was wiry and athletic. He was an able opponent. Malachi…

"Watch out!" she screamed aloud. "Malachi! If you're there, watch out!"

Justin did not return to shut her up. She bit her lip, looking to the bracken. Night was just starting to fall. Suddenly, from around the tree, a hand fell over her mouth. Fear curdled within her again. With wide, startled eyes she twisted around.

It was Malachi. He had found his hat. It sat jauntily atop his head, the brim low, sheltering his eyes. He brought a finger to his lips, and she exhaled, so dizzy with relief that she nearly fell. Hunched down low beside her, he smiled the crooked, rueful smile that had stolen her heart.

"Are you all right?" he asked her swiftly.

She nodded. "Malachi—"

"He didn't—he didn't hurt you?"

"He hasn't had much time. He's been watching for you through the day. Oh, Malachi! Be careful! Please, just get me out of here. He's dangerous. He's sick. He's—"

"Shh!" He brought his finger to his lips again. He seemed to hear something that she could not. "Can you make it just a few minutes longer?"

"Malachi—"

"Can you?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"Shh!" He didn't untie her. He slunk back into the brush behind the tree.

"No!" Shannon whispered. She heard the branches breaking and a soft tread upon the earth. Justin Waller was returning. He was returning, and Malachi had left her for him…

"Weren't nothing," Justin said. "Weren't nothing at all but a rabbit or a squirrel. I left you for a rabbit. Can you beat that? My nerves are raw, honey, but you're gonna fix that."

Laughing, he dropped the rifle. He fell down on his knees beside her, and he stroked her calf. She kicked out in a rage. He fell upon her, the whole of his length covering her, smothering her. She started to scream and writhe, and Justin smiled, bringing his leering features level with hers.

"Moment of truth, honey darling mine—"

He broke off at the sound of a gun cocking, right at the base of his ear.

"Moment of truth," Malachi said harshly. "Get up. Get off my wife."

Shannon watched as Justin Waller went as stiff as a poker and slowly rose. Malachi didn't miss a beat. The barrel of his Colt remained flush against the man's head.

"She ain't your wife. Not for real—Mr. Gabriel."

"She is my wife—for real, Mr. Waller. And I don't take kindly to you touching her. In fact, I don't take kindly to much that you've done."

There was another rustle in the trees. Malachi didn't move a hair. Justin sneered, and despite herself, Shannon stiffened. Iris Andre stepped in among them. She had a small pearl-handled knife in her hands. She hurried toward Shannon, knelt beside her and started sawing the ropes that held her.

"Just how many woman do you need, Slater?" Justin taunted.

Malachi walked around in front of him, aiming the Colt at his heart. Shannon looked gratefully to Iris as the red-haired woman freed her. Maybe she was a whore. Maybe she had been sleeping with Malachi. But they had come together to save her, and for that, she had to be grateful.

Iris flashed her an encouraging smile. Shannon rubbed her wrists.