"Skeeter." His name was said quietly, with a steel edge of danger that brought him to a dead stop. His knees started shaking again.
"B-Boss?" he said, casting a reluctant look to his left.
Killian stood against the yellowed canvas wall, his hat pulled low on his head, his arms crossed. His mouth was wreathed in shadows, but even so, Skeeter could tell that the man wasn't smiling.
Lord, he wished he had a drink. Plunging his shaking hands in his pockets, he pitched toward Killian, stumbling to a halt beside him. "I ... I reckon you're wonderin' what I'm doing here."
"Where's Lainie?" Killian said.
Skeeter gave his boss a blank stare. "Who?"
Killian's jaw clenched. "The woman."
"Oh. Her." Skeeter's chin dropped. He had a sudden, almost overwhelming urge to piss his pants. "She ... left."
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Killian stiffened, pulled away from the wall. "Where to?"
Skeeter swallowed again. "I don't know, but she asked for my compass."
Killian's jaw tightened. "Tell me you didn't give it to her."
"Okay, I didn't."
Killian tossed his hat back and glared down at Skeeter through ice-cold eyes. "Did you give her your compass?"
He nodded, unable to push a single syllable up his parched throat.
Killian let out a long breath. "Then she's gone."
Skeeter nodded. He waited a heartbeat for Killian to shoot him. When he didn't, Skeeter relaxed. "If it helps, Mose never liked her anyway."
"No." The word was spoken softly, but with a razor-sharpness that clutched Skeeter's bowels. "That doesn't help much." Without another word, Killian shoved past Skeeter and barreled through the crowd, disappearing through the open canvas flap.
Skeeter breathed a sigh of relief. He'd lived through it. Thank God. "Hey!" he yelled out. "I ain't been laid yet."
A whore came runnin'.
Killian strode down the road toward his cabin. It took everything inside him, every scrap of self-control he possessed, not to break into a run.
Shoving the door open, he burst into the small, darkened room. Shadows lay heaped along the walls and floor. Moonlight sliced through the dirty windows, writhed on the wrinkled sheets, and gave the bed an eerie blue glow.
A scrap of paper caught his eye. It was on the table,
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stuck in place by the sharp point of a hunting knife. He grabbed the cold leather handle and yanked the knife out of the wood. Picking up the scrap of paper, he moved to the circle of lamplight to read it.
You should have helped me.
Fear backhanded him. His heart started beating so fast, he could barely think. Sweat broke out on his forehead, a cold, itchy trail.
She'll die out there.
The thought churned through his mind, brought a sick, sinking feeling to his stomach.
He tried not to care, tried to tell himself it was all for the best. What did he care if she died out there? What was she to him?
He shuddered. Now, there was a question he didn't want to answer. Didn't dare answer.
He crushed the note in his hand and threw it at the wall. It hit with a scratchy whisper and floated to the floor.
He fisted his hands and looked at the closed door.
Let her go, you fool.
But he couldn't. God help him, he couldn't let her go into the desert all alone. Out there, with no weapon and no guide, she wouldn't last two days.
"Christ," he hissed, already moving toward the door. It wasn't the smart thing to do, but he couldn't help himself. He had to go after her.
Amazingly, there was something of the hero left in him after all.
He grabbed the lantern off the table and barreled out of his cabin, running for the tunnel. He plunged into the darkness and stopped, his breathing coming in great, heaving gasps.
"Lainie?" he called out. The name vibrated through the stone wall and mocked him.
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No one answered.
Fear clutched his heart in a cold grip. He ran into the tunnel, splashing light along the walls and floor as he went. Up and down the twisting corridors, he ran calling out her name until his voice was hoarse.
Finally he broke stride and stumbled to a tired halt. He'd searched every passageway, every turn, and still he hadn't found her. He sagged against the damp stone wall, breathing heavily.
"Lainie," he wheezed, and bowed his head, fighting the pain of a sudden, blinding headache. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples, concentrating on the simple task. Anything to keep the image of her out of his mind, but of course, it didn't work. Everywhere he turned, he saw her. In the shadows along the wall, in the splash of light along the floor. And her words, so soft and musical, pounded through his mind like some rhythmic metronome, thudding through his heart with every footstep. / need your help ... your help ... your help. . . .
Why in the Christ had he turned his back on her?
His fear seemed such a small thing now, so inconsequential compared to her desperation. So what if he couldn't help her? He could get her back to Fortune Flats.
I'll get her back, God, he thought desperately. I'll send Skeeter with her. ... Just let her be all right.
Slowly he lifted his head. His eyes were gritty and tired and turned the world into a smeary blur of shadows within shadows. His headache intensified. He blinked to clear his vision.
"Ah, Lainie . . ." His tired voice cracked on her name. He shook his head.
"Killian?"
It was just a whisper of sound, so soft he thought
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he'd imagined it, conjured her voice from the shifting of the air.
Still, his breath caught. Hope hammered in his chest. "Lainie?"
"Over here."
He swung to the right. Light fanned out, touched a small, dark heap along the far wall. He took a hesitant, disbelieving step, then ran for her.
She lay curled in a ball, her knees drawn tight to her chest, her cheek pressed to the cold earth.
He dropped to his knees, almost afraid to believe she was really here. He set down the lantern and touched her cheek. Her skin was gritty and icy cold.
She turned slightly and looked up at him. Lantern light illuminated half her face, gave it the glow of warm gold.
"Lainie," he whispered, touching her cheek in a feather-stroke. "I'm sorry.. . ." His voice was thick and hoarse.
"I'm freezing," she whispered. As if to punctuate her sentence, she shivered hard.
He swept her into his arms and grabbed the lantern. Carrying her, he raced back to the camp and got her into his cabin, tucking her into the warm bed.
He sat down beside her as gently as he could. She lay on her back, her spiky hair a halo around her pale face. The grayed pillow mounded on either side of her face, made her look shrunken and incredibly fragile.
Fragile. He frowned slightly. That wasn't a word he'd ever considered in relation to Lainie. She was vulnerable, yes. But mostly she was hard and tough and determined. Hell, he'd never known anyone with a stronger will.
But now, seeing her in his bed, looking as lost as a child, he saw that she was fragile, too. Maybe more
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fragile than anyone he'd ever known. Behind all that bluster and defiance and cockiness, she was just as scared and lonely and alone as he was.
And she wanted his help.
The words hurt, caused a sharp ache in his chest. It was such a little thing she was asking. A normal man could do it with ease. But not him. Killian had been down that road before. He was a miserable failure at any kind of commitment�even one this small. He refused to let her count on him, refused to let her down.
She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her breathing shallow. "Thanks." The word was hoarse and ended in a cough.
He stared at her, trying to understand what it was about her that moved him so much, that scared him so deeply. She didn't look all that different from a hundred women he had known; she was no prettier, no sm
arter, no softer. But there was something ...
He thought of her as he'd found her, balled up and alone and crying in the dark. And suddenly he was furious with her, furious that she would risk her life in so careless a way. "You shouldn't have gone out there alone."
One thick black eyebrow arched. "Really? It's not like I had a choice."
He sat very still. That tension was back inside him, tightening his muscles. His jaw clenched, his hands fisted. He felt the anger rising through his blood like a quick-moving tide. "People always have a choice."
She struggled to sit up. Without thinking, he reached out to help her. The simple touch was electric; he felt a jolt of awareness sizzle through his blood. He yanked his hand back.
She must have felt it, too. She made a small, gasping
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sound and tilted her face up, staring at him through wide, unblinking eyes.
She angled back from him a little, as if the intimacy of their nearness was frightening. "Next time, I'll take a horse."
"Next time?" He sprang up from the bed and spun away from her, pacing the small cabin. Back and forth. Anger choked him, made it difficult to breathe. It took all his self-control not to pick her up and shake her until her teeth rattled.
"Yeah, Killian, next time," she said evenly. "I have a child to get back to."
He surged forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, lifting her off the bed. "You idiot! Don't you know that you could have died out there? If I hadn't come along . . ." His throat thickened suddenly, made it impossible to force the words out.
He let go of her and stumbled back. She crumpled onto the bed, but didn't look away. Those dark eyes lifted to his, asked for a million heart-wrenching choices.
He jerked around and strode to the stove, grabbing a coffeepot. The pots clanged and clanked as he fumbled through the dry goods with shaking hands.
She'll do it again. And maybe next time, he wouldn't be there to save her. Maybe next time, she'd make it farther and he'd never find her again. The thought scared the shit out of him.
Lainie watched him trying to make coffee. He was burrowing through the pots and pans like a madman.
He was angry . . . and scared.
She frowned, sitting up straighten "Killian? Come here."
He froze. He sat there crouched in front of the supplies, his long, silver hair a tangled curtain that swung
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below his collar. Then, slowly, he got to his feet and turned around.
She slipped out of bed and walked toward him. They came together near the warmth of the stove. He looked down at her and she could see the anger in his eyes, and the fear, too.
"What are you so afraid of, Killian?"
He took forever to answer, then almost too softly to hear, he said, "You."
Warmth moved through her at the simple word. She shivered slightly and almost smiled. He glanced away for a moment. She could see the barely banked anger in his face, in the tightness of his jaw and the taut skin around his eyes. Finally, almost reluctantly, he looked back down at her.
Their gazes met, held. For a dizzying second, Lainie couldn't breathe. They were alike, somehow. Both lonely and lost, both afraid of connecting with other people.
And suddenly she understood. He'd let Emily down. John MacArthur Killian, the legendary Texas Ranger, had let down his own wife. He hadn't been there when she needed him and�somehow�she'd died. He blamed himself.
Lainie knew how that felt. She'd spent years�a lifetime�blaming herself for her parents' irresponsibility. She'd taken it all onto her slim shoulders; they'd left because she was selfish and unlovable. Somehow, it was her fault that they didn't love her.
Killian had done the same thing. He'd taken Emily's weakness as his failing. That's why he was here, an outlaw living among social outcasts.
Lainie had asked the one thing of him he couldn't give. Or didn't believe he could give. Help. Because to
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give it, to help her, he'd have to believe he was a good man.
She wanted to reach out to him then, to trail her fingertips along his beard-stubbled cheek. But she didn't. A lifetime's worth of fear held her immobile, wanting what she knew she couldn't have. "I'm not like Emily," she said quietly.
The color drained from his cheeks, left him pale and drawn. His voice fell to a strained, throaty whisper. "What do you mean?"
She swallowed hard. "I've already . .. survived what Emily went through."
Silence crashed into the cabin.
"Oh, my God," he said in a rush of breath. "That's what your nightmares are about . . . why you don't sleep-----"
She shook her head slightly. "That's . . . part of it." She looked up at him, trying to tell him so many things with her eyes that she couldn't put into words. "It was really ... ugly and it took me a while to get over it, but I did get over it. I survived."
"Alaina .. ."
The way he said her name almost broke her heart. Before she knew it, she was moving toward him, her face tilted up to his, her gaze steady. She saw the compassion in his gaze, the pain, and it drew her.
He barely touched her at first. She leaned infinitesimally toward him and closed her eyes. Suddenly, violently, his arms closed around her, held her so tightly, she couldn't breathe. She felt the slow, even thudding of his heart against her body, heard the soft whisper of his breath at her forehead.
She'd been waiting all her life for this moment, this touch, this simple understanding of her pain. Blinking back tears, she pressed her face against his shirt, breathing in the masculine, familiar scent of him. And suddenly it seemed possible that they were soul mates.
She reached up to touch him. "Killian�"
Lowering his head, he whispered harshly in her ear, "Jesus, Lainie, what are you doing to me?" Then he pushed her away and spun around, raising his hands. "Enough," he growled. "Enough."
She blinked, confused by the sudden change. "Enough, what?"
He turned to her, gave her a look so bleak, she felt its impact like a slap. "I can't do this. Tomorrow I'm sending you to Fortune Flats with Skeeter. That's the help I'll give you."
She moved toward him, strangely disappointed. It should be a victory for her, a triumph. He'd said he'd get her back. But all she felt was abandoned. "But�"
"But nothing." He backed up, keeping the distance between them. "Stay the hell away from me, Lainie." His voice was harsh, raw.
Before she could answer, someone knocked on the door.
"Come in," Killian said sharply.
The door swung open and Viloula stood in the doorway. In her hands she carried a small jar. There was a glassy, faraway look in her eyes and her hands were shaking. She looked at Lainie. "I have one last ting to try."
Lainie took a step toward the old woman. "What is it, Viloula? You look worried."
Viloula gave her a weak, lackluster smile. "I been up all night reading .. . and t'inking. Den I fought about dis." She held up the vial. The contents glittered like gold dust, caught the light, and seemed curiously alive. "Dis might tell me how to get you back home."
Lainie drew in a sharp breath. Hope exploded in her
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heart, but she quickly suppressed it, unwilling to let herself believe. "How?"
Viloula looked from Lainie to Killian. "Follow me."
"Now?" Killian asked, frowning.
Viloula gave him a look so stark in its fear that Lainie was stunned. "If I doan do it now, I might not find de strengt' to do it."
"But, Viloula�"
"Now," she said sharply. Then she turned and left the cabin.
Chapter Sixteen
They walked together in a heavy, awkward silence, no one knowing what to say. Finally, after what felt like hours, they came to the place Viloula had chosen. On a lip of land just above the camp lay a flat plain, circled by towering walls of jet black rock. Overhead, the sky was a midnight blue veil studded with bright lights. As they watched, a star shot across the heavens, leaving a glitterin
g white shower in its wake.
A sign, Viloula thought with a relieved sigh. She had chosen the right place.
"Killian, build us a fire," she said, spreading her coat out on the ground. "Lainie, you sit here."
Watching Viloula carefully, saying nothing, Lainie stepped over a pile of rocks and sat down on the coat. Within moments, Killian had a fire going, and he and Lainie were seated beside it.
Viloula placed the jar on a flat rock and stood back, studying it. Firelight caught the glass and spun through it in a kaleidoscope of color, turning the contents into a glittering pile that resembled crushed copper.
All Viloula's life, she'd prepared for a moment like this, waited for it. She'd believed�always believed�in the infinite possibilities of the universe. Her mama, the great obeah healer, Genvieve, had whispered in Viloula's tiny ears of the impossible and the improb-
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able. She had grown up knowing that someday she would be touched by the impossible, would taste its sweetness, be touched by its hot magic.
The moment was here; she could feel it in every quickened beat of her heart. And she was afraid.
She stared down at the bottle. Years ago, she'd gotten it from an old Indian, a blind man named Pa-lo-wah-ti who'd told her that someday she would need it. In it, he said, she would find the visionary answer to a great question.
She reached for the bottle, not surprised to find that her hands were shaking. Curling her fingers around the cold glass, she wrenched off the cork top and swallowed the drug, washing it down quickly with water from her canteen.
"Viloula!" Alaina called out. "What are you doing?"
The reaction was immediate. Viloula's knees melted, her shoulders rounded. Slowly, feeling every motion, she crumpled to her knees.
"Vi?"
She heard Alaina's high-pitched, frightened voice, but it seemed to come at her from a million miles away. She tried to smile, but her lips were heavy, uncontrollable, and her mouth was so dry, she couldn't speak. Her arms were deadweights pinned to her side. She felt the powdery brush of dirt beneath her fingertips.
How long ago had she taken the drug? She couldn't be sure; time seemed to be spiraling away from her. She glanced down, and the ground seemed alternately to be too close, then too far away to focus on. Below, glistening with firelight, lay the discarded bottle. It looked fragile and unimportant without the inner magic of the narcotic. A hollow vessel of clear glass.
Tiny rocks bit into her knees. She felt each individual pebble, each twig, as a spear of fire through her joints
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