Here it had become a question of survival. All she wanted to do was survive.
She shivered suddenly and realized that she had come naked from the bed and that the night air was cold. She turned and saw that Cole was awake. His eyes were caught by the moonlight as he watched her. They glimmered curiously, and again she wondered at his secret thoughts. Then his gaze fell slowly over the length of her and she realized again that she was naked, and that his very eyes could touch her like a caress.
"Are you all right?" he asked her.
She felt as if she were going to cry, and she didn't know why.
"I was just thinking about the war," she said quietly.
Something covered his eyes, some careful shield. "It seems far away right now, doesn't it? Then again, I don't think we're even fighting the same war as the rest of the country here." There was a harsh bitterness in his tone, and she suddenly felt cold, as if she had turned him against her, or as if she had even made him forget she was there. But then his eyes focused on her again, and they were rueful and surprisingly tender. "Don't think about it," he told her. "Don't think about the war. You can't change it."
She wanted to say something, but she couldn't find her voice, and so she nodded.
"Come back to bed. It's late," he said. Even when he whispered, his voice was so deep. It entered into her and became the wind again.
She forgot about the war. She forgot about the rest of the world. His voice, his beckoning, had that power over her. Her stomach fluttered and her nipples hardened, and she felt she had to cover herself quickly. She had become so bold, so brash. She was standing here naked as a jaybird, and they were talking, and she should have the decency to reach out for something and cover her nudity.
But she did not. She straightened and tossed back her head, and her hair, golden fire in the moonlight, tumbled down the length of her back. She walked toward him. If nothing else, perhaps they could have honesty between them. She honestly wanted him. She wanted these
nights. She wanted the way she felt in his arms, wanted this ecstasy that seemed sweeter than life itself.
She came, he thought, very slowly, very sinuously. She allowed a natural sway to come into her walk, and she moved with a feline grace and purpose that set his blood aflame. He was glad that covers lay over his body, for his response to her was instant and instinctive. He clenched his fists at his sides and waited for her. Waited until she stood above him. Then he reached out, pulled her down to him and held her in his arms. He savaged her lips, groaning with the sweet, aching pleasure of it.
He had never thought it could happen, but he had found an oasis with her. He had known she was beautiful, like a sunrise, like the corn that had grown endlessly in the fields before they had run with blood. He had known that he wanted her.
He had not known how badly, how completely, he would come to need her.
Her eyes were a distant sea that claimed him, and the golden skeins of her hair were webs that entrapped him and brought him softly into a dream of paradise. He could not love her, but he could want her, and he did. He hungered for her, as if he could not be filled. She sated him completely, but then she touched him again, or she moved, or she whispered, and he wanted her again. He had taken her from innocence and he had set the woman within her free, and though she came to him with sensual grace, she held on to something of innocence too, and he wondered at that gift. He had to touch her, had to run his fingers over the fine, delicate beauty of her face, had to press his palms against the lush curve of her breast. He had to breathe in her scent.
It had to end, he knew. But he groaned aloud as her nails stroked against his back, as her hips thrust forward. It had to end, he reminded himself…
But then he ceased to think and gave way to urgent need and fevered desire. He looked into her eyes, blue eyes that were soft, radiant and glazed with passion. He swept her beneath him, and he sank into her as he sank into the dream. She eased the pain. She gave him moments of ecstasy. He could not remember ever having needed a woman so badly. He could not remember so insistent a beat, so desperate, so thunderous a rhythm.
This was like nothing he had ever known. Beautiful, sleek, sensual, she moved beneath him. He became as taut as wire, then shook and shuddered, and spasms continued to rack him.
Later she slept. He cast an elbow behind his head and stared bleakly at the ceiling, shadowed in the moonlight.
It was wrong, he thought. When vengeance lay upon his soul and his heart was barren, it was wrong.
But he could not, would not, make himself cease. She had come to him with the deal. He had not wrung it from her.
That didn't excuse him.
But he needed her…
That didn't excuse him, either. But it mattered. Somehow they had interwoven their lives, and that — as with so many other things — was simply the way it was.
That was simply the way it was.
But still he turned to her. He saw the beautiful curves of her body as she slept, and the tangle of her hair over her shoulders, falling to her flanks, wild and yet somehow virginal. He saw her features, her parted lips and the soft way she breathed. He saw her brow, and he touched it gently, trying to ease the frown line from it. She seemed so very young to have suffered so very much. But she was a fighter. No matter what they had done to her, she had come back up, kicking, fighting. Maybe that was why he couldn't leave her.
He had to leave her, he reminded himself. Soon.
This time it was he who rose. He walked to the window and looked out at the moon. He would have to leave soon, for a time, at least.
He watched the moon, and at last he shrugged. He'd get to the telegraph office tomorrow and hope he could get a message through. He didn't know how long he would have to be gone, but he didn't want her alone. Not now.
Just how long could he guard her?
And would he keep dreaming? He closed his eyes. Dreaming again and again, of one death, of another…
The question washed over his heart, cold as ice. He didn't know. No, he did know. Come hell or high water — or Yankees or Quantrill's raiders — he would find a way to guard her. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because this was a matter of honor, and there wasn't much honor left in his world.
And maybe it was because he wanted her so badly. Because she was the only antidote to pain. Because when he was with her he could almost forget…
He didn't want to forget.
Yes, he did. For those few moments.
Whatever the reason, he thought impatiently, he had struck a bargain. He would protect her. He would protect her if she grew hair all over her body and sprouted a full mustache, he swore to himself.
Then he smiled slowly. He was one hell of a liar, he thought, even to himself. She needed him, and he wanted her. That was the bargain.
No. He would protect her, damn it, and he would do it so that he never had to hold her bleeding in his arms. He clenched his jaw to keep from crying out. He would protect her because he could not let it happen again.
He breathed slowly and tried to relax.
He would protect her. He had the power. They would help each other, and then he would
ride away. The war had to end some day. Please, God, he thought bleakly. It had to.
The days passed and things were very much the same. After a few days Cole let Kristin ride with him. It was necessary, because the men were busy with the cattle. Kristin showed Cole the length and breadth of her land. She showed him the water holes, and where the land was apt to flood when the rains came too heavily. They went out together searching for a calf that had strayed, and they went into town to buy a length of fencing for the north pasture.
But things felt strange even though they were together. They were polite workmates, cool, courteous acquaintances. Kristin and Shannon always dressed for dinner, because Kristin was determined to cling to what was left of civilization in her life, and the evening meal was her chance to do that. But the conversation there was stilted, too. Cole seldom h
ad much to say to her that wasn't directly concerned with the ranch, with guns, with warnings about the future. She was never to wander around unarmed, and neither was Shannon. He didn't seem to need to warn Delilah or Samson.
He was always polite to Shannon. It seemed to Kristin that her little sister was growing up before her very eyes. Shannon would be eighteen soon, and she was beginning to look every inch the woman. Cole treated her like a child, not condescendingly but with a gentle patience that irritated Kristin. She would have liked some of that patience for herself. Sometimes she asked him very blunt questions, but he invariably ignored her or turned the tables on her. When she demanded to know why he insisted on being such a mystery to her, he merely replied that she had no right to know anything about his past or his future and that she shouldn't be asking.
It didn't matter if she walked away from him, and it didn't matter if she made a sharp reply. He just let her go, or he let her say whatever she wanted and then walked away himself.
But the nights were always the same.
There were times when she couldn't believe she was the same girl who had first met him, innocent, frightened, naive. Even when she felt her temper soar she longed for the night. And even if she turned away from him he stroked her back slowly, moving his fingers down her spine to her buttocks, so lightly that she thought she had imagined it. But his touch was lightning, and it always instilled the same seeds of desire within her. If she really tried to ignore him and he let her be, she sometimes resorted to a soft sigh, feigning sleep, and rolled against him… until he touched her again. Then she sensed his smile, and knew that he knew that she wasn't asleep at all, and that he didn't mind pretending that he needed her more than she needed him.
It went on…
It went on until she woke up one morning, cold and alone. That wasn't so unusual. He was able to get by on much less sleep than she. But somehow she didn't think he had awakened and gone downstairs. She felt a growing sense of dread.
He was gone.
She heard sounds. A rider. Wrenching a sheet from the bed, she raced to the window and stared down at the paddock area. A man had just come riding in on a big bay horse.
She put her hand to her mouth, biting down hard to keep from crying out. He was dressed in gray. She studied the uniform and gold trim.
Cavalry. The man was a Southern cavalry officer.
She turned around and dressed quickly, finding pants and a shirt and her boots. She told herself that she was a Southerner, that she had been born a Southerner and that only Quantrill had made her fear and hate her own people. She tried to smile, reminding herself that Shannon's great hero was Jeb Stuart, a Southern cavalry officer.
It didn't help. Fear raced through her, and she wondered if the officer had been sent by Zeke or his men.
Cole had told her never to walk around unarmed. She had proven she could use a Colt six-shooter and use it well. She slid her narrow gun belt over her hips and nervously checked to see that her weapons were loaded. Then she started down the stairs.
The house was silent. Where was Shannon? she wondered. She couldn't help it. She had awful visions of her beautiful sister caught in the stables with the men all out on the ranch, caught and thrown down in the hay and viciously raped.
She swallowed and tried to tell herself that she was panicking for nothing. But the house was silent, and she still sensed that Cole was gone. Not just off on the ranch somewhere — gone. She couldn't have explained how she knew. It was an emptiness. It festered inside her, and it held her in an awful anguish.
But this…
This was more urgent. "Delilah?"
No one answered her. Delilah was not in the kitchen, and neither was Samson. She didn't hear the baby crying, and she had no idea where Shannon was.
And the cavalry officer hadn't come to knock at her door.
She crept out the back door, careful to keep it from slamming behind her. Walking as quickly and silently as she could, she came around the corner of the house. The man was gone, and the horse was gone.
Her heart was beating much too quickly. She dropped low and raced over the dry sand to the barn. She followed the line of the buildings, coming closer and closer to the corner.
She paused and inhaled sharply. Her blood raced, and she tried desperately to still her erratic breathing.
She rounded the corner and she came face-to-face with an Enfield rifle.
Behind it stood the man in the Confederate cavalry officer's uniform. It was worn and faded, the gold epaulets frayed.
"Drop it!" he warned her. His eyes were teal, a beautiful color. They were also sharp as razors.
She realized that she was aiming the Colt at him.
"You drop it!" she barked.
He smiled. She realized that he was young and very, very good-looking. And familiar in some way she couldn't quite put her finger on.
"This Enfield can blow a hole right through you."
"It's not a totally dependable weapon."
"At this range? Impossible to miss."
"A Colt will scalp you faster than an Indian would dare dream."
He was tall, masculine and elegant in the worn uniform. He didn't intend to harm her, she was certain. But she didn't lower the barrel of the gun. She had learned not to take any chances.
"Kristin McCahy?"
"Yes."
He laughed and lowered the rifle. "Why in God's name were you sneaking up on me like that?"
She jammed the Colt into her holster, instinct assuring her that she was in no danger. She shook her head ruefully.
"I'm sorry. This is my property. And you are a total stranger, you know. Slinking around on it. My property, that is. I mean… who the hell are you?"
"Slinking?" he inquired indignantly, but there was a twinkle in his eyes. He swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply, an elegant and manly cavalier. "Miss McCahy, I assure you that Slaters do not slink."
"Slater?" she demanded with a quick frown.
"Captain Malachi Slater, ma'am. Cole's brother. On leave — and on new duty, or so it seems. You mean to tell me that Cole didn't say anything?"
She felt as if her knees were going to crumble. Cole was gone. And he hadn't even said goodbye.
"Cole —"
"He had a few things to attend to. I'll be with you for a while. If you don't mind."
She did mind. She minded terribly. Not that Malachi was here, but that Cole was gone. She forced herself to smile and to extend her hand. "Why, Mr. Slater, I'm thrilled and grateful for your appearance. Completely thrilled and entirely grateful."
"Thank you, Miss McCahy." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Then his blue eyes met hers again and she was certain that he knew everything. And there was something in his gaze that suggested that he understood her feelings.
She withdrew her hand suddenly. "Oh, my God!"
"What?"
"You're a Confederate officer."
He stiffened, and his jaw took on a stubborn set that reminded her of his brother. "Miss, last I heard, Missourians were still considering themselves Southerners — for the most part, that is."
Kristin nodded vaguely. "Well, yes, Mr. Slater. But this is a border country. Half the land around here is occupied by Federal forces."
"Don't worry about me. I'll change into civilian clothing quickly, and I'll avoid the Federals."
She shook her head again. "It's just that, well, I have a brother who is a —"
"A Yankee?"
"Ah… yes, a Yankee."
He looked a lot like Cole. A whole lot. He was very tall and very broad-shouldered in his dress shirt and cape, and at the moment he looked very severe, as if he were about to explode.
But he didn't explode. He suddenly started laughing. "Well, it's one hell of a war, isn't it, Miss McCahy? One hell of a war."
Suddenly the wall behind them exploded. Wood chips went flying from the solid impact of a bullet.
"What the hell?" Malachi shouted. He dragged her to the gro
und, shielding her with his body. Once again there was the sound of gunfire, and another bullet tore into the walls, sending more wood chips cascading down on them.
"Damn it, what the hell!" Malachi repeated.
What the hell indeed? Kristin had no idea who was firing at them.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Kristin lay facedown on the ground, dirt in her mouth, with Malachi on top of her, protecting her. Finally the firing stopped and she heard soft footsteps.
"Get off her, Reb!" Kristin almost laughed out loud with relief. It was Shannon.
"Watch it with that thing, little girl," Malachi said slowly, easing himself away from Kristin. He had angry narrowed eyes leveled on her sister. Kristin sprang to her feet and stepped between them. Shannon's temper was flaring, and her eyes were sparkling dangerously.
"I'm not a little girl, Reb, and I swear I'm damned accurate with this Colt," Shannon replied.
"Why, you little —" Malachi began.
"Stop, stop!" Kristin begged, reaching for the gun. She couldn't imagine trying to explain to Cole Slater why they had murdered his brother. "Shannon —"
"He's a Reb, Kristin. He's probably one of Quantrill's —"
"Don't you know a regular cavalry uniform when you see one, girl?"
Kristin lost patience and swung around. "Mr. Slater, please, just for a minute, shut up. Shannon, this is Cole's brother."
"Brother?"
Her eyes wide, she looked at Malachi, then at Kristin again. "Are you sure? They don't look much alike!"
"We have identical big toes," Malachi snapped sarcastically. Shannon stiffened.
Then, suddenly, there was the sound of another explosion. The three of them stared at one another blankly. Wood chips flew as a second bullet struck the barn wall above their heads.
"Get down —" Malachi began.
"Drop that gun!" The order was spoken in a commanding, masculine tone.
Shannon wasn't about to obey. She spun around, aiming. Malachi swore and slammed his fist down on her wrists. The Colt fell to the ground, and Shannon turned on Malachi, swearing and flailing at him with her fists. Malachi swore in return, and Kristin wondered how the two of them could be going at one another this way when someone else was firing at all three of them. They were warning shots, she realized. She stared blankly across the yard and saw that another man had come out of the shadows of the porch. He was younger than Cole and Malachi and dressed like a rancher in high boots, a long railway frock coat and a slouch hat that sat low on his forehead. Malachi paid no attention to him. As he came forward, the stranger tipped his hat to Kristin.
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