He stared down at her. Her lips were wet and swollen, and her eyes were glazed. He was furiously angry with himself.
"Worthwhile?" he asked.
Kristin's mind was reeling. What did he mean?
"You don't even know how to kiss," he told her.
"What?" she whispered, too stunned to recognize the anger rising inside her.
"I'm sorry," he said. His voice was softer now.
"Damn you!" Kristin said. "I'll make a bargain with you! If you'll just stay —"
"Stop it!" he said harshly. "I'm sorry. I just don't have the time or the patience for a silly little virgin."
"What?" She stepped back, her hands on her hips, and stared at him. The insolence of him!
She wanted to scream and she wanted to cry.
"I don't want a love affair, Miss McCahy. When I do want something, it's a woman, and it seldom matters who she is, just so long as she's experienced and good at what she does. Understand?"
"Oh yes, I understand. But I need help. I need you. Doesn't that mean anything?"
"I told you, I don't want a virgin —"
"Well then, excuse me for an hour, will you?" Kristin snapped, her eyes blazing. "I'll just run on out and screw the first cowhand — oh!"
She broke off in shock as he wrenched her hard against him. "Shut up! Where the hell did you come up with language like that?" he demanded heatedly.
"Let me go! It's none of your business! It's a rough world here, Slater!" She flailed desperately against him. He didn't feel her fists, and he didn't even realize that she was kicking him.
"Don't ever let me hear you say anything like that again!"
"Who do you think you are, my father?" Kristin demanded. She was very close to bursting into tears, and she was determined not to, not here, not now — not anywhere near this drifter. He had made her feel as young and naive and foolish and lost as Shannon. "Let me go!"
"No, I'm not your father. I'm a total stranger you're trying to drag into bed," he said.
"Forget it. Just release me and —"
"You just stop, Miss McCahy!" He gave her a firm, hard shake, then another. At last Kristin stopped fighting. Her head fell back, her hair trailing like soft gold over his fingers, her eyes twin pools of blue fire as she stared into the iron-gray hardness of his.
"Give me some time," he said to her very softly, in a tone that caused her to tremble all over again. "I'll think about your proposition."
"What?" she whispered warily.
He released her carefully. "I said, Miss McCahy, that I would think about your proposition. I'll stay tonight. I'll take my blanket out to the bunkhouse, and I'll give you an answer in the morning." He inclined his head toward her, turned on his heel and started off toward the house.
CHAPTER THREE
When she walked back into the house, Kristin was in a cold fury. She didn't see Cole Slater anywhere, and for the moment she was heartily glad.
He had humiliated her, plain and simple. She'd been willing to sell honor, her pride, her dignity — and he hadn't even been interested in what she'd had to sell. She wished fervently that she wasn't so desperate. She'd have given her eyeteeth to tell the man that he was a filthy gun-slinger, no better than all the others.
Yet even as she thought of what she'd like to be able to say to him, she realized it would be a lie. He'd saved her from Zeke, from the man who had murdered her father. She owed him.
And she'd paid, she thought dryly. With humiliation.
Shannon wasn't around when Kristin reached the dining room. Delilah was there, though, humming a spiritual as she carefully picked up the fine crystal and china on the table. She glanced Kristin's way curiously and kept humming.
"Where's Shannon?" Kristin asked.
"Out feeding the chickens," Delilah said.
Kristin decided to help clear away the remains of the meal, but when her fingers clenched too tightly around a plate, Delilah rescued it from her grip. "Sorry," Kristin muttered.
"Kristin, for the sake of your mama's fine things, you go do something else here this morning, hm?"
Kristin stepped away from the table, folding her hands behind her back.
"You didn't ask where Mr. Slater had gotten himself off to," Delilah said.
"I don't care where Mr. Slater has gotten himself off to," Kristin replied sweetly.
Delilah shot her a quick glance. "The man saved our lives," she said sharply.
Kristin strode furiously across the room to look out the window. "He saved our lives… and he really doesn't give a damn."
"He's riding out?"
Kristin exhaled slowly. She could see Shannon by the barn, tossing feed to the chickens. If she had any sense she would leave. Shannon was precious to her, just as Delilah and Samson were. She should do whatever was necessary to protect them.
But the dream was precious, too. The dream and the land. And where would she go if she did leave? She could never embrace the Southern cause — she had been treated too cruelly by the bushwhackers here for that — nor could she turn against Missouri and move into Yankee territory. She wanted desperately to fight, but she was helpless.
It didn't matter where she went, Richmond, Virginia or Washington, D.C. Nowhere was life as cruel and violent as it was here on the border of "bleeding Kansas." Nowhere else did men murder each other so callously.
"Kristin?" Delilah said.
"Slater…" Kristin murmured. Her pride was wounded, she realized. She had offered up her finest prize — herself— and he had informed her crudely that he wasn't interested.
"Kristin, if you're mad at that man for something, you remember the rest of us here. You understand me, missy?" Delilah came toward her, waving a fork. Kristin tried not to smile, because Delilah was deadly serious. "Quantrill's men get ahold of us and they'll think nothing of a hanging. You saw what they did to your pa. I got a baby boy, Kristin, and —"
"Oh, Delilah, stop! I'm doing my best!" Kristin protested. She tried to smile encouragingly. She couldn't quite admit to Delilah yet that she had offered her all and that it hadn't been enough. She hadn't even tempted the man.
She clenched her teeth together. She'd like to see him desperate, his tongue hanging out. She'd like to see him pining for her and be in the position to put her nose in the air, cast him a disdainful glance and sweep right on by. Better yet, she'd like to laugh in his face. If it hadn't been for this war, she could have done just that. She could have had any rich young rancher in the territory. She could have had —
Adam. She could have had Adam. A numbing chill took hold of her. Adam had loved her so much, and so gently. Tall and blond and beautiful, with green eyes that had followed her everywhere, and an easy, tender smile.
Adam was dead. The war had come, and Adam was dead, and she had few choices. Yes, Slater had humiliated her. But part of it was the fire. Part of it was the feeling that he had embedded in her, the hot, shameful longing for something she didn't know and didn't understand. She had loved Adam, but she had never felt this way when she had been near him. Never. Cole Slater did frighten her. She didn't like the feelings he evoked in her. They shattered her belief in her own strength.
"Cole Slater is staying tonight," she told Delilah.
"Well, glory be!"
"No, no," Kristin said. "He's bunking with the hands for the night. He'll, uh, he'll probably be gone by morning."
"By morning?" Delilah repeated blankly. "Kristin, I don't want to suggest anything that ain't proper, but chil', I'm just sure that if you tried being friendly to the man…"
"Delilah," Kristin murmured, her sense of humor returning at last, "I'm sure I don't remember what proper is anymore. I tried. Honest to God, I tried." She shrugged. "I'm not going to do you any good around here. I'll see you in a bit, huh?"
She hurried toward the stairs, giving Delilah a quick kiss on the cheek as she passed. She felt the older woman's worried gaze follow her, but by the time she reached the landing, she had forgotten about her.
&
nbsp; The house felt so empty now.
Delilah and Samson and their baby had the rooms on the third floor. Kristin's and Shannon's were here on the second floor. But Matthew's room was empty now, as was the big master bedroom where her father and mother had slept. The two guest rooms were empty, too. They hadn't entertained guests in a long, long time.
Kristin walked down the hallway, not toward her own room but toward the room that had been her parents'. She opened the door, stood there and smiled slowly. Her mother had been dead for years, but her father had been unable to part with the big Bavarian sleigh bed that his wife had so cherished. After her death he'd slept in it alone. And it was beautiful still. Delilah kept the mahogany polished and the bedding clean, as if she expected Pa to come back anytime.
Kristin walked into the room. There were giant armoires on either side of the window. One still held Pa's clothes, and the other still held her mother's.
We don't take to change easily here, Kristin thought. She smiled. It was the Irish blood, Pa had always told her. They were too sentimental. But that was good. It was good to hold on to the past. It helped keep the dream alive. Someday Pa's grandchildren would have this room. Matthew's children, probably.
If Matthew survived the war. It couldn't be easy for him, a Southern boy fighting in the Yankee army.
Kristin turned away. If Zeke Moreau had his way, none of them would survive the war. And when he was done torturing and killing, he would burn the house to the ground.
She started to close the door. Then she hesitated and turned back. She could suddenly see Cole Slater stretched out on that sleigh bed. It was a big bed, plenty big enough for his height and for the breadth of his shoulders. She could imagine him there, smiling lazily, negligently. Then suddenly, a whirlwind, a tempest of heat and fire…
She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes tightly and swore. She was sick of thinking about Cole Slater, and she was sick of remembering how grateful she had to be to a man who made her feel this way.
She slammed the door to her parents' room and hurried to her own. She threw her good dress on her bed and did likewise with her silk slippers and her corset. She slipped on a chemise, a cotton shirt, a pair of breeches and her high leather boots, and headed straight for the stables. She didn't bother with a saddle, but grabbed a bridle from a hook on the wall for Debutante and slipped into the stall to find her horse.
Debutante was an Arabian mare, a gift to Pa from one of the men he'd done business with in Chicago. She was a chestnut with white stockings, a deep dish in her nose and a tail that rode as high as the sun. Kristin loved her. She was amazed that the horse hadn't been stolen yet, but so far she had managed to have the horse out in the far pasture when the various raiding parties had swept through.
"Hello, you beautiful thing," Kristin whispered as she slipped the bit into the mare's mouth. Debutante nudged her. Kristin stroked the horse's velvety nose, then leaped on her back. Debutante nudged the stall door open, and Kristin gave her free rein as they left the stables behind.
It felt good to ride. It was good to feel the wind strike her cheeks, to feel the coolness of the air as it rushed by her. She was glad she had come bareback. She could feel the power of the animal beneath her, the rhythm of her smooth gallop, the great constriction and release of superbly toned muscle. Kristin leaned close to Debutante's neck. The horse's mane whipped back, stinging her cheeks, but she laughed with delight, glad simply to be alive.
Then Kristin realized she was being followed.
She wasn't sure how she knew she was being followed, except that there was an extra beat to the rhythm churning the earth, something that moved in discord.
She tried to look behind her. Her hair swept into her face, nearly blinding her.
There was a rider behind her. A lone figure, riding hard.
Panic seized her. She was already riding like the wind. How much harder could she drive the mare?
"Debutante! Please! We must become the wind!" She locked her knees more tightly against the animal's flanks. They were moving still faster now. The Arabian mare was swift and graceful, but the horse behind them seemed to be swifter. Either that, or Debutante's stamina was fading.
"Please!"
Kristin leaned closer to the mare's neck. She conjured up a mental image of the terrain. Adam had once owned this land. Ahead, just to the right, was a forest of tall oaks. She could elude her pursuer there.
The trees loomed before her. She raced the mare into the forest, then reined in when the trees became too dense for a gallop. She moved to the right and to the left, pushing deeper and deeper into the maze of foliage. Then she slid from the mare's back and led her onward.
Kristin's heart was pounding as she sought shelter.
If Zeke had come back, if he found her now…
She would pray for death.
But he was alone this time, she thought, praying for courage. She could fight him.
A twig snapped behind her. She spun around. She couldn't see anything, but she knew that her pursuer had dismounted, too, that he was still following her.
The branches closed above her like an arbor. The day was not bright and blue here, it was green and secretive, and the air was cold. She began to shiver.
She wasn't even armed, she realized ruefully. She was a fool. After all that had happened this morning she had ridden away from home without even a pocketknife with which to defend herself.
Kristin searched the ground and found a good solid branch.
Another twig snapped behind her. She dropped the mare's reins and crouched down against an oak. Someone was moving toward her.
Someone was behind her.
She spun around, the branch raised, determined to get in the first blow.
"Son of a bitch!" he swore.
She had gotten in the first blow — just barely. The man had raised his arm, and the branch struck it hard.
The impact sent her flying, her hair in her eyes. She landed in the dirt, and he was on top of her in an instant. She slammed her fist into his face, and heard a violent oath.
"Stop it! Kristin!"
He caught her wrists and straddled her.
She blinked and went still. It was Cole Slater.
"You!"
He rubbed his jaw. "You pack a hell of a punch."
"A hell of a punch?" she repeated. "You — you —" She was trembling with fear and with fury. She didn't mean to strike him again but she was nearly hysterical with relief, and she moved without thinking, slapping him across the face.
She knew instantly it was a mistake. His eyes narrowed, and everything about him hardened. Kristin gasped and looked around her for another weapon. Her fingers curled around a branch, and she raised it threateningly.
Cole wrenched the branch from her grasp and broke it over his knee, then pulled her roughly against his chest.
"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.
She had never seen him so furious, not even when he had gone up against Zeke and his gang of bushwhackers. Then he had seemed as cool as a spring stream. Now his eyes were the dark gray of a winter's sky, and his mouth was a white line of rage.
Kristin clenched her teeth hard, struggling to free herself from his grip. "What am I doing? You scared me to death."
He pulled her closer, and when he spoke again, his words were a mere whisper. "You're a fool, girl. After a morning like this you take off into the woods, without a word, without a care."
"I'm not a fool, and I'm not a girl, Mr. Slater, and I'd appreciate it, sir, if you would take your hands off of me."
"Oh, great. We have the grand Southern belle again."
Kristin gritted her teeth, wishing she could stem the rising tide of rage within her, rage and other emotions. He was too close. He was touching her, and she could feel the power of his anger, the strength of his body, and she was afraid of her own reactions.
"Let go of me. Just who the hell do you think you are?"
"The man who saved your life."
/> "I'm getting tired of eternal gratitude."
"Gratitude? A crack with a stick?"
"I didn't know it was you! Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you let me know —"
"You were running that mare a little fast for casual conversation."
"Why were you chasing me?"
"Because I was afraid you were going to get yourself in trouble."
"What were you afraid of? I thought you'd decided I wasn't worth the effort."
"I hadn't made any decisions yet. You are a girl, and you are a fool. You didn't give Moreau's men a chance to get far enough away. I didn't save you this morning for a gang rape this afternoon."
"Well, Mr. Slater, I wouldn't have been an annoying little virgin then, would I?"
Kristin was stunned when his palm connected with her cheek. Tears stung her eyes, though she wasn't really hurt. She hadn't expected his anger, and she hadn't imagined that she could humiliate herself this way again.
"Get off me!" she demanded.
"I don't want to hear it again, Kristin. Do you understand me?" He stood and reached down to help her up. She ignored his outstretched hand, determined to rise unaided, but he wouldn't even allow her to do that. He caught her arms and pulled her up. She hated him at that moment. She hated him because she needed him. And she hated him because this heat filled her at his touch, and this curious longing grew within her. She was fascinated by the scent of him, amazed by her desire to touch his face, to feel the softness of his beard…
To experience the sweeping wonder of his kiss once again.
She jerked free, and the leaves crackled under her feet as she whistled for Debutante. He followed behind her, dusting his hat off on the skirt of his coat.
"Kristin…"
She spun around. "You know, I've been wondering where you come from. You certainly aren't any Southern gentleman."
"No?" he queried. They stared at one another for a moment. Then his lips began to curl into a rueful smile. "I'm sincerely beginning to doubt that you're a Southern lady — or any kind of a lady, for that matter."
She smiled icily. She could manage it when he wasn't touching her. Then she turned away from him, squared her shoulders and walked toward her waiting mare.
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