he could barely look at the Major that night at the dinner table. The food was tasteless in her mouth. She couldn't stop thinking what Jake had told her about her husband raping and killing that poor woman. She was cold with revulsion, her thought processes slowed by the grisly images that occupied her mind as plainly as if she'd actually seen it happen.

She took a sip of water. "This is an old house. Who owned it before you?" As soon as she heard the words she was appalled at herself. Why had she said that? Shock was making her stupid.

McLain stiffened and his ruddy face turned a curious gray color. "Why do you ask? Who's been talkin' about it?"

The only thing she could do now was pretend casual curiosity. She was aware of Emma's sharpened interest, but didn't dare look at her cousin. "No one. I was just wondering about the house. How old is it?"

He looked around the room with furtive eyes, as if assuring himself there was no one lurking in the shadows. "I don't know. You sure no one said anything about it?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's Spanish missionary architecture, isn't it? It's lovely, and it must be at least two hundred years old. Don't you know?"

McLain took one more quick look around the room. No one had been talking about it; hell, there wasn't anyone left alive who knew about it except for Garnet, Quinzy, and Wallace, now that Roper had given Pledger his entry into hell. She was only asking because the house was old; Southern aristocrats like her put a lot of stock in old things.

"It's about that, I guess," he muttered, and wiped his forehead with his napkin.

"What was the name of the family who owned it before?"

"I don't remember." He said it too quickly.

Juana had entered with Lola to clear the table and heard Victoria's question. She shot the Major a hate-filled look and said, "Sarratt, señor. The family's name was Sarratt."

He bolted to his feet, his face flushing with rage. "Don't mention that name to me, you goddamn bitch!" he roared, sweeping his plate to the floor with a quick motion of his thick arm. "Get out! I'll kill you! Goddamn it, I'll teach you to meddle in things that're none of your goddamn business—"

Juana ducked as he reached for her, but he grabbed her arm and slapped her across the face with all his considerable strength. Lola shrank back, her fists crammed against her mouth to keep her wails stuffed inside. Juana was screaming and would have fallen from the force of the blow if he hadn't been holding her by the arm. Celia shrieked, her face white, and Emma was rising to her feet.

Icy rage exploded in Victoria. She could gladly have struck her husband down in that moment had she the means at hand. She lunged forward as he lifted his arm to strike Juana again and caught him by the wrist, her fury giving her sufficient strength to thwart him.

"Mr. McLain!" Her voice was cold and ferocious. Her blue eyes looked almost colorless as she stared at him, like ice pools around tiny pinpoints of black.

For a moment she thought he would strike her, too, he was so enraged at being balked in his intention to punish Juana. He turned on her with a snarl, but she stood her ground, her face white and her jaw set.

He froze, staring at her as the red color drained from his face. Slowly he let his arm drop.

"How dare you." She had to push the words through her clenched teeth; they were scarcely more than a hiss. "Those are neither the words nor acts of a gentleman. You have shamed and embarrassed me." Instinctively, she settled on the attack that would hit him at his most vulnerable point, his pretensions of respectability. Puny though it was, it was the only weapon she had against him.

He reddened again and darted a look at Emma and Celia, who were both staring at him in horror. Damn! The way the girl was looking at him now, she wasn't likely to let him get close enough to touch her, much less bed her. And Victoria was staring at him as if he'd just crawled out from under a rock, her patrician nose pinched in disgust.

It was all that Mex bitch's fault, throwing up the Sarratts to him, making him lose control. If he'd ever been able to find the hole that snot-nosed Sarratt whelp had crawled into when he died, he'd have spit on the carcass. But maybe he wasn't dead… He thought of the knife in his library again, which reminded him of that flashing knife and the boy's hate-filled eyes.

He felt as if his skin were swelling, as if he might burst. He looked at the silently accusing women, and their stares were like more knives, flashing in the darkness. He whirled and stormed from the room, walking so quickly he was nearly running.

Juana's sobs were quiet but they echoed in the silence left by McLain's exit. Victoria put her arms around the girl. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry."

Juana sobbed brokenly.

"Are you hurt?" Victoria asked.

The question affected Juana strangely. She gulped her sobs, raised her bloodshot eyes to meet Victoria's concerned gaze and said in an unsteady voice, "He'll hurt you."

"No, he will not." Victoria straightened, her blue eyes fierce. Things had changed; she wouldn't tolerate that monster's presence in her bedroom if he did happen to try… that again. She would scream the house down, she would vomit if he dared touch her. She would leave, take her family and leave in the morning.

But Jake had said to stay. He'd said he would take care of her. He had said it might not be for much longer.

What had he meant? That he was making plans himself to take them away from here?

The thought terrified her, but she knew she would take the chance. Running away with another man would brand her forever no matter what the circumstances were or the fact that her husband was a murderer. She would be ostracized from polite society, and the thought of it made her go cold, but what did that mean out here? Not as much as the thought of Jake. He frightened her, he infuriated her, but he made her feel so alive that she ached with the force of her own blood coursing through her body. To be with him without the benefit of marriage would cast her soul into mortal danger; to be without him would condemn her to death in life. He had become more important to her than her own life, and that, more than anything else, was what frightened her.

She calmed Lola; Juana herself had become rigidly dry-eyed and held herself away from comfort. "The Major won't do anything," Victoria assured them. She hoped she wasn't lying. Here was another responsibility; she would have to make certain they didn't suffer for her actions. She wondered how Jake would feel about having an instant household of six women, and smiled wryly. Whatever his plans, she was sure he wasn't prepared for that.

"Return to your duties," she said soothingly, patting Juana's shoulder. "I promise he won't do anything, and if he tries, scream for me."

Lola put her arms around Juana, who stiffly allowed the embrace. The red imprint of McLain's hand was turning into a dark bruise on Juana's face. Lola led her into the kitchen.

Celia's face was shuttered, she who was the most open of people. "I'm going to bed," she murmured, and fled the room.

Emma turned to look after the girl in astonishment and started to follow her, then stopped and turned back to Victoria. "Come up to my room," she said. "We can talk there."

Upstairs, they both seated themselves on the bed to talk as they had been doing since they were children. "Why did that happen?" Emma asked, going straight to the heart of the matter.

Victoria clenched her fists as she remembered what Jake had said; now she knew beyond any possible doubt that every horrible word of it was true. "Jake told me that the Major stole this ranch from the Sarratt family, by killing all of them. He said that the Major raped the woman—I don't remember her name—and then shot her in the head."

Emma turned white at Victoria's even-toned statements. "If it's true—" she gasped. "My God, you actually asked him about the Sarratts—"

"I wanted to see how he'd react." Her eyes burned. "My husband is a murderer, a rapist, and a thief. It was true, everything Jake said."

"What are we going to do?" Emma got up and began to pace the room. "We can't stay here, but how are we going to leave? I doubt Major McLain would lend us the money and use of his buggy. We'll have to think up some reason for going to Santa Fe again, and we'll leave from there, somehow."

"I can't leave. Not yet."

Emma gaped at her. "Why? You said yourself, he's a rapist and a murderer! How can you stay?"

"Jake—Jake asked me to stay."

"Ah." With that one syllable Emma signaled her understanding of everything. She paused, thinking through their situation. When she finally spoke, it was to say softly, "Victoria, you know I'll give you my support in any way you need it. You've always been the strong one, the one who somehow kept us all fed when there was no food. We might not even be alive today if you hadn't had the courage to sacrifice your happiness to marry the Major. But how can we stay? Why doesn't Jake simply leave with us?"

"I don't know." Anguished, Victoria stared at her cousin. "Perhaps he's planning to take us away; he only asked me to stay and said that it wouldn't be for long."

"Do you trust him?"

"Do I have any choice? He's the only protection we have." She could have trusted him if she thought he was doing it out of regard for her or even out of a sense of right and wrong, but she still had the uneasy feeling that he was doing it for his own reasons, and that they had nothing to do with justice or herself at all.

McLain was sweating profusely, his eyeballs moving swiftly back and forth beneath his closed lids. In his dreams he had just withdrawn from Elena's limp body when a hideous figure leaped at him from the black shadows in a corner of the room. It was the Sarratt whelp, with a wolf's head and glowing yellow eyes; instead of hands he had long, white, curving claws. He swiped at the Major's exposed genitals with those claws again and again, and in his dream McLain was screaming and rolling all over the room, but his body lay heavy and still in the bed, with only his hands twitching. The boy was tearing at his throat with dripping fangs, and the yellow eyes were glaring at him so close that McLain could see his own reflection in them. The claws finally reached his groin, and he screamed madly as his manhood was torn from his body—

He came awake with a jerk, his eyes flying open as he stared in terror around the dark room, expecting the hellish figure to leap on him from the corners. The shadows were expanding, pressing down on the bed. He couldn't move. He could only lie there, sweating, waiting for his own horrible death. His heart raced and the stench of his fear-sweat filled the room. The silence was unbroken by anything except his own labored breathing.

He was still after him. The bastard hadn't died. He was still out there, with his flashing knife, waiting for his chance, waiting to catch him alone, waiting…

Finally McLain summoned enough courage to stumble from the bed and light a candle. The frail, solitary flame illuminated only himself and cast the remainder of the room into even deeper shadows. He needed more candles, more light. An oil lamp—yes, that was what he needed. A couple of oil lamps.

His hands shaking, he found three more candles and lit them, putting them around the room to diminish the shadows. He wanted more, but he couldn't make himself open his bedroom door to go downstairs and get them. What if the Sarratt whelp was waiting, crouched, on the other side of the door? He'd just wait until daylight and make sure he had lamps in here before another night fell. If he just had enough light, there wouldn't be any shadows for the whelp to hide in and he would be safe.

Jake patted Sophie's rump as he walked behind her to let her know he was there, but he was still ready to leap out of the way of a well-placed kick. He didn't trust her manners that far. He noticed that she was showing signs of coming into season, and he decided not to ride his own horse on today's outing with Victoria. It would be safer if he rode another mare, for both Victoria and himself.

"You got that damn mare settled down yet?" McLain asked, walking up behind him.

Jake glanced at the man, noting his red-rimmed eyes and unshaven jaws. He looked as if he'd been drunk all night. The cold hatred that lived inside Jake hardened more, as it did every time he looked at McLain. "She'll do," he said. He didn't add that he doubted she would ever be docile; Sophie's spirit would always burn too hot for that. She would always be contrary and arrogant, and love to run. "She's coming in heat."

McLain grunted. "Try her out with another stallion tomorrow morning. If she's ready, put Rubio with her."

Jake gave a short nod. McLain shifted his feet. "You taking Victoria for a ride this morning?"

"I don't know." Every muscle tensed. He didn't want to talk about Victoria with McLain. He hated hearing her name come from the man's filthy mouth, hated knowing that she bore the McLain name.

"Show her around the ranch," McLain said abruptly. His eyes were glittering.

Jake shrugged. "Sure." McLain's insistence was a bit strange, but it was too convenient for Jake to worry about it.

"I'll send her out. Why don't you show her North Rock? She'd like that."

"The Rock's about a two-hour ride."

"You said she's a good rider; she can make it." McLain turned and hurried to the house. Jake's eyes narrowed as he watched him leave. This was strange. It was almost as if McLain were throwing Victoria at him, but for what reason?

Maybe that episode in Santa Fe with Pledger had made him suspicious; maybe McLain thought he could catch Jake being too familiar with his wife, and give him a reason to put a bullet through his head. No one would say a word about it; a man had a right to protect his family. The whole idea sounded just like something Garnet would think up.

Jake saddled Sophie and another mare; in less than half an hour Victoria appeared wearing her riding habit. She looked pale, but bright spots of color burned in her cheeks. She didn't look at him as he lifted her into the saddle.

"Where are we going?" she asked once they were away from the house.

"No place in particular. Just riding." The last place he was going was to North Rock.

"I didn't want to ride today."

He eyed her consideringly. She seemed more upset now than she had the day before. Damn her lady's conscience; whenever she had time to think, it undid whatever progress he'd made with her. Anger, still close to the surface after his meeting with McLain, roiled inside him. He'd be damned if he'd let her back away from him again. "Because of what happened between us yesterday?" he asked in a hard voice.

"Nothing happened!" She bit her lip, ashamed of her swift disclaimer because it wasn't true. Hiding from what she felt wouldn't make it go away.

"The hell it didn't, lady," he snapped, reining the mare he was riding closer to Sophie.

She finally cast him a quick, desperate glance. His green eyes were glittering dangerously under the shadow from his hat brim. "I know," she said, and swallowed. "I'm sorry. It's just—" She swallowed again. "I asked him last night who owned the ranch before him. He wouldn't answer, and when Juana said the Sarratts had owned it he became violent and hit her." The words were jerky, her voice strained. "It's true, what you said, or he wouldn't have acted like that. I can't stand being here, living in the same house with him. How much longer will it be, Jake? Are you going to take us away from here? I'll go anywhere you want if we can just leave."

She stopped her tumbling flow of words, waiting for him to tell her that they would leave soon. But he was glaring at her and the silence was filled only by the sound of the horses' hooves and breathing, the jingling of bits and creak of leather. She floundered in a sea of agonized embarrassment. Had she so completely misread him? Had he not meant, after all, that he'd take them away?

"Don't mention the Sarratts to him again." Jake's voice was as hard and dry as an empty riverbed.

Victoria went even whiter. She lifted her reins and nudged Sophie with her heel, urging her to greater speed. With Sophie, it didn't take much urging. She leaped forward as if propelled by a spring, and Victoria was glad of the mare's excess of spirit. She wanted nothing more than to get away from Jake Roper, from having to look into his face and see her own stupidity.

Jake cursed and spurred his horse after her. If the mare he was riding hadn't been a quarterhorse bred for speed over the short distance, he wouldn't have overtaken her as quickly as he did. When he drew even with Victoria, he leaned over and snatched the reins from her hands, easing Sophie to a slower pace.

"Don't try that again," he snapped, angered by the risk she had just taken. She didn't know the speed of which Sophie was capable, or how headstrong the mare was.

"Or you'll do what?" she shouted, shoving at his arm. "Let go!"

He gritted his teeth. "Victoria, settle down," he said with sorely strained patience, trying to hold on to his temper.

Even through his anger, he was a little amazed at her defiance. From the first, she had dared him when even armed men walked softly around him. The lady might be straitlaced, but she wasn't a coward.

She dropped her hand and turned her face away from him. "I apologize." Dear heaven, how many times was she going to have to apologize to him today? As mortifying as it was, she might as well face it. "I misinterpreted your words yesterday. I thought you meant that we—" She stumbled to a halt, unable to find a phrase that left her any dignity.

All he could see was the pale curve of her cheek. "You didn't misinterpret a goddamn thing," he said low.

The look she gave him was so uneasy that he wanted to take her in his arms right then, but they were still too close to the house. He'd be a fool to take that kind of a risk, especially now with Ben on the way. If he just remained patient, he'd have both her and the ranch, but the strain was so intense that his powerful hands were knotted into fists. "Let's get farther from the house," he muttered. "I know a place we can go."

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs, but she followed him. He was as much an enigma to her now as he had been the first day she'd met him, and she was terrified that she was putting not just her life but also Emma's and Celia's in his hands. He was a gunfighter, a man who made a living by dispensing death. She couldn't read his thoughts, couldn't feel that she knew him as anything other than unpredictable. But she would rather be with him and in danger than live a safe life without him.

They rode without speaking at an easy pace for half an hour. They were in a lovely, narrow valley, carpeted in yellow snakeweed. A crown of aspens stood on top of the hill, waving gently in a breeze they couldn't feel down in the valley. Jake led them toward the aspens.

When they were among the trees, he reined in and dismounted. "No one can see us in here," he said, reaching up to clasp her waist and lift her down. He didn't add that the high ground made it hard for anyone to approach unseen, either; no point in scaring her when his suspicions might be unfounded. His first urge, feeling her slim body in his hands, was to pull her close and take his fill of her. Her faint, sweet scent teased him. His loins hardened and grew heavy to the point where he almost didn't care that now wasn't the time or the place. It wouldn't take long to flip up her skirt if that was all he wanted, but he wanted more than a few minutes of rutting. He wanted all of her, he wanted to drown himself in her sweetness, wanted it too much to risk ruining his plans by pressing her too hard.

He carefully tied Sophie's reins to a tree limb, though he trusted his own mount to remain with just a ground tie, letting the reins drag on the ground. Victoria still avoided looking at him, at least until he reached out and took her hand, carrying it to his mouth for a brief kiss. Then she gave him a brief glance full of distress, and he wondered what she was thinking. He'd never before met a woman who had such a multitude of prickly morals, like a cactus. She was still living in a fantasy world ruled by courtly manners; what did it take to open her eyes and make her realize that life in the West was rough and the only rule was to stay alive by any means necessary?

"Let's sit down," he suggested, and with his boot scraped together a mound of pine needles. She sank down on the pile, carefully arranging her skirt to cover her low, dainty boots. He sprawled beside her and propped himself on his left side so his right hand and arm were free.

"I'm making some plans," he said after a minute. "I'll get you away from McLain, but it'll take a little time."

She picked up a stick and drew it through the dirt. "What about Emma and Celia?"

"Them, too." No problem at all, he thought. Of course, she didn't know that his plans were to replace McLain, not to leave.

"How long will it be?" she whispered. "I can't bear it much longer."

"I don't know exactly. You'll have to be patient until it's time." It was almost intolerable, letting her walk into that house as McLain's wife, and if it was that bad for him, how must Victoria feel? But she had to for now. He'd make it up to her afterward, when the ranch belonged to him and Ben again.

She turned her head away from him, wondering how he could ask that of her if he felt even half as strongly about her as she did about him. The hard answer to that question, she was afraid, was that he didn't. Pain squeezed her insides, but she kept her eyes dry and her chin steady; whining wouldn't do any good. If he didn't love her, then he didn't love her. At least he wanted her enough to be with her, which gave her the chance of eventually winning his love.

Jake caught her chin in his gloved fingers and turned her face toward him. "Don't pout," he said with a hard edge in his tone. "I'm doing what I can and you'll just have to be patient."

"I'm not pouting," she said.

"Then stop turning your head away from me."

She looked at him directly then, blue eyes steady under her level dark brows. "I don't know anything about you, or understand anything. I think I'm entitled to a certain amount of worry."

His mouth tightened. "I don't rightly see how you can say that after yesterday. There's something between us, Victoria. Whether you 'understand' it or not. Why the hell else would I put myself out to help you?"

"I don't know. That's what worries me." She saw a flicker of expression in the dark green of his eyes, but it was gone before she could read it. "You keep so much of yourself hidden, no one can get to know you. I feel as if I'm putting myself in your hands without knowing anything about you."

"You know I want you."

Her blue eyes looked bruised. "Yes," she said. "I know that."

He wanted to feel her skin and he impatiently pulled off his gloves, then touched her face again. His fingers delved into her hair, while his thumb stroked the velvety texture of her cheek. The sunlight filtering through the trees dappled her hair; he trailed a strand through his fingers, picking out shades ranging from palest gold to auburn to light brown. Her skin looked almost translucent, while her eyes were shadowed with secrets he couldn't fathom. A surge of lust heated him so fully that he broke out in a sweat. God, he had to have just a little of her, a taste, a feel, or he'd explode.

"Don't worry about anything," he muttered, hooking his hands under her arms and pulling her toward him. "I'll take care of you. Just trust me, and don't say anything to anyone." His mouth closed over hers, and Victoria found that while he was holding her, at least, she didn't worry about anything at all.

Celia heard someone coming and quickly scrambled into her hiding place in the loft, afraid that it was Garnet trying to catch her alone as Victoria had warned her he might. She was as agile and silent as a cat as she stretched out to press her eye to a crack in the floor.

It wasn't Garnet, she saw; it was the Major, slowly walking the length of the barn and peering in all the stalls. "Celia," he softly called, his tone cajoling. "Are you in here? I've got something I want to show you."

She didn't move, except for closing her eyes to blot him out of her sight. She could barely stand to look at him anymore; there was something about him that she found repulsive, though she couldn't have explained exactly what it was. It was as if there was a dark cloud surrounding him, a darkness of evil. At first she had tried to like him, for Victoria's sake. But she'd failed and now it was all she could do to tolerate even being in the same room with him.

"Celia," he called again. "Come here, girl. Let me show you something."

A cold chill ran over her body. She didn't move as she watched him leave the barn, his head swiveling as he looked for her. She would stay hidden until Victoria returned.

The Major had said they were riding to North Rock, but Garnet was a fair hand at tracking and from what he saw they weren't even heading in the same direction as the Rock. He followed carefully, making certain he didn't chance upon them before he knew it. They had ridden into a valley and he hesitated to follow them there; they would be able to see him from any vantage point. Taking the chance that they would return the same way, he picked his spot, hiding his horse below a small crest and choosing a huge clump of boulders the size of a small house as his own hiding spot.

He kicked a few small pebbles out of his way and sat down. With his rifle resting in a small notch in the rock, his hat tilted to keep the hot sun out of his eyes, he waited.

Sophie shied restlessly when Jake settled Victoria in the saddle, and he briefly considered putting her on his own mare instead. But after her little sideways dance Sophie settled down. "Keep a good grip on the reins," he said as he swung into his own saddle. "She's flighty today."

Victoria leaned down to pat the satiny neck. "She seems all right."

"She's coming in heat."

Victoria blushed. "Oh," she said faintly.

Jake led the way out of the trees, bending low to avoid limbs and keeping a sharp eye on Sophie to make sure she didn't try to brush Victoria off. Sophie mouthed the bit impatiently, not liking it that the other mare was in front of her. Without waiting for Victoria's instruction, she lengthened her stride until she was half a neck in front and plunged out of the treeline with every intention of taking the run that had been denied her.

Victoria held the reins steady, pulling back enough to let Sophie know she wanted her to slow down but not enough to hurt her soft mouth. The mare snorted, shaking her head at the pressure. Jake kneed his mare up beside her. "Can you hold her?"

"Yes. She wants to run. Why don't we let them have some fun?"

Remembering how Sophie could run, he shook his head. "This horse can't keep up with her. Just hold her in; we'll let her run one day when I'm riding my stallion."

Several things happened simultaneously. Sophie, impatient with the restraint, reared a little and twisted away from Jake's mare. Victoria was slung to the side, but managed to retain both her seat and the reins. Jake cursed and leaned forward to grab her bridle as a sharp crack split the air ahead and just to the right of them.

Victoria barely registered a swift buzzing sound when Jake lunged from his horse, his momentum taking him clear across Sophie and knocking Victoria to the ground with him. She landed on her back and for a moment saw nothing but black and scarlet spots. Just as her vision began clearing, Jake grabbed her and jerked her roughly across the ground to a clump of bushes. "Stay here," he snapped.

She hadn't any choice; she couldn't manage to move with any coordination. In a daze she watched him run for his horse and jerk the rifle from its scabbard. Then, bent low, he ran back to her.

"Are you all right?" he asked, not looking at her. He was scanning the rest of the valley.

"Yes," she managed to say, though she wasn't certain. She noticed the red stain on the light blue of his shirt, and shock propelled her to a sitting position. He'd been shot! Someone was shooting at them.

"Let me see your arm," she said, scrabbling for the handkerchief in her skirt pocket.

He didn't look around. "It's all right, just a burn. It didn't go in."

"Let me see," she repeated stubbornly, getting to her knees and reaching for him.

He pushed her down and gave her a brief, cold glare. "Stay down. He could still be watching."

Victoria set her mouth and hooked her fingers in his belt, then tugged. He lost his balance and sat down beside her. "Damn it—"

"He might shoot you again! You're a larger target than I am."

Jake's eyes were like splintered ice. "He wasn't shooting at me. If that damn horse hadn't shied, you'd be dead."

She stared blankly at him. Why would anyone want to shoot her? "Someone was probably hunting." That had to be it; she couldn't imagine, couldn't let herself think that it was anything else.

He grunted. "Any hunter who's that piss-poor of a shot is going to die from hunger. There's no way two people mounted on horses look like a couple of deer or anything else but what they are." He pulled his pistol from the holster and handed it to her. "Do you know how to shoot?"

She had handled single-shot dueling pistols; during the war it had seemed wise to know something about weapons. She closed her hand around the worn handle and lifted the heavy weapon. "Some," she whispered.

"Then shoot anybody you see, except me," he instructed. Then he was gone, slipping around the clump of bushes and out of sight.

She sat immobile, alert to every small sound. His mare was peacefully cropping grass a short distance away, but she couldn't see or hear Sophie. Birds called, insects hummed, and a light wind sifted through her hair. It was almost an hour before she heard him call, "It's clear." She scrambled up to see him walking toward her, leading Sophie.

"Whoever it was is gone," he said. "He shot from those big rocks. Must have waited for a while, from the signs. Just one man, and his tracks head straight toward the river." Tracking would still be possible, if he had the time, but he didn't. He had to get Victoria back to the ranch. He'd look around afterward, but by then whoever had done it would have had plenty of time to wipe out his tracks.

She insisted on checking the seeping burn on his upper arm and tied her handkerchief around it. Her cheeks were pale but she hadn't screamed or gotten hysterical even when he'd knocked her out of the saddle. Her hair was straggling half down her back, she was dusty from head to boot, and her skirt was torn. She didn't look much like a lady now, but the steel in her backbone was unbowed. He didn't know who had tried to kill her, but he was damn sure going to find out. Then there'd be one bastard less on this earth.