

### My Only Desire

### Andrea Parnell

My Only Desire

Copyright © 1993, 2013 by Andrea Parnell.

All rights reserved.

Published 2013 by Trove Books LLC

TroveBooks.com

Smashwords edition 1.0, November 2013

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Publisher's Note

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A print edition of this book was published by Zebra Books in 1993.

Cover design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers.

Visit AndreaParnell.com

Discover other titles by Andrea Parnell at Smashwords:

Guns & Garters Western Romances

Guns & Garters

Delilah's Flame

Devil Moon

Colonial and Gothic Romances

Dark Prelude

Dark Splendor

Whispers at Midnight

This one is for Dan and Trove Books who have expanded my universe.

**Table of Contents**

Prologue

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3

Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6

Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9

Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12

Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15

Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18

Chapter 19 • Epilogue

About the Author

Preview of Devil Moon

Also by Andrea Parnell

Copyright

## Prologue

1873 Colorado

The first shot brought Sunny Harlowe upright in bed. The second zinged through the oiled hide covering stretched and nailed across the cabin's only window. The bullet thudded solidly into the log wall behind her.

"Paul!" she screamed, grappling through still air and darkness at the empty pillow beside her. He wasn't there. Her heart tumbled within her chest, careening downward as if it would fall the whole terrified length of her. "Paul! Where are you?"

One bare foot hit the icy floor. Sometime during the night the fire in the grate had died out. The cabin was dark and cold as a cave. Paul must have gone out for more wood or to chase off some prowling animal. Her mind quickly corrected the thought. Paul would not have fired at the cabin, not even by mistake. That was someone else. Paul was in trouble out there.

She suppressed another cry. Her hands searched for the gun belt Paul always hung on the bedpost at night. Guided by fear, her fingers closed around the cold handle of the Colt and jerked it free, then froze as her eyes saw a glimmer of light. Thin as the shaft of an arrow, the beam ran from the bullet hole in the window covering to reflect off the barrel of the Winchester resting in the wall rack.

Dread hit her with the force of a cannonball, paralyzing all her senses except one. She could hear—as if it were thunder—the heavy thud and swish of horses' hooves cutting through snow. The pounding rattled the cabin walls. Riders. Claim jumpers. Bandits. Her throat closed, tight and painful, as if a hand gripped a deathlock on her neck. Paul was out there. Without the rifle.

Another shot shattered the frozen air. Sunny heard the agonizing cry of her name and the thump of a body falling to the snow. Paul. And everything. Hopes. Dreams. Everything that mattered out there in the snow. Dying.

"Reckon the woman's inside." The voice beat at her ears like the harsh rapping of a tin drum.

She wanted to scream but, numbed by cold and shock, could only stand and listen to the sounds magnified by the sharpness of her fear. She heard the grinding creak of saddle leather as a rider shifted his weight to dismount. Then another creak. A horse snorted, and she made out the scuffle of boots crushing ice-laden snow.

They were coming for her. Sunny's breath caught like a hook in her throat; her legs went limp, and she sank to the floor in the narrow space between the bed and wall. She moaned, knowing there was no escape, and drew herself into a knot.

" _No! No! No!"_ her mind screamed. It couldn't be ending. Not now. Not when she and Paul were almost ready to leave the diggings and go home to Ohio. Not when they had nearly enough gold to buy the farm they had dreamed about, to build a house, to have babies.

Scrunched back in the corner, her body shaking in reaction to the cold, Sunny's eyes stayed steady and fixed on the panels of the door. She prayed that by some miracle it would be Paul who next opened it. Over and over her mind cried his name. Paul. Paul wanted babies. Lots of babies. She thought of the one inside her, hardly large enough to change her waistline. She'd never seen a man as proud as Paul when she'd told him. He had wanted to pamper her, wanted her to take it easy, to stay in bed, which was foolish with all the work there was to do.

_No!_ Her mind screamed again from within a deepening pit of fear. No. She dug her nails sharply into the flesh of her empty palm, stopping only when she drew blood and the pain jarred her mind. She was turning crazy, sitting on the floor calling up memories, reliving dreams which had been blasted away by a bullet, while a hundred feet away killers decided what to do about her.

"Paul," she whispered his name hopefully. Maybe he was only wounded. Maybe the horsemen would rob and leave. They could have the gold. There was more to dig out. Enough for everybody who was willing to work for it, as she and Paul had worked. But even as her feeble hope mounted, the rising fear inside her crushed it down. Some weren't willing to work for gold. Some wanted it quick and easy and found their guns better tools than picks and shovels.

The wind started to whine, curling over the mountaintop above the cabin. All Sunny's instincts seemed to fail her at once. She needed Paul. She was no good without Paul. What could she do against these men?

A wave of nausea swelled and lifted in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't think. She couldn't salvage even the flimsiest plan from the growing panic in her mind.

"Paul, help me," she whispered as the wind quieted and the sound of footsteps intensified, then stopped.

She shook. The silence was worse than the noise. As it lengthened, Sunny shrank into the darkness, wondering how long it would be before they came for her, mercifully unable to see the savagery of the gunman who kicked over the body of her husband.

A star-shaped red stain marred the snow where Paul Harlowe had fallen.

"He dead?" The second man, swaddled like the other in a fur-lined coat and hood, sidled up as the first knelt beside the body and searched the downed man's pockets.

Sunny felt horror and dread invade her very soul as she, too, waited for the answer.

"Yep," said the first. He gave a grunt of disgust when he found nothing but a small, silver-handled pocketknife stamped with a pair of linked hearts. "Ain't much on him," he said, transferring the knife to his own pocket as he stood. "Must have his stash inside. You gonna get it? And the woman?"

A rumble of laughter came in an icy cloud of vapor. "Ain't I been burnin' for one? And not one o' them whores that's loose as an ol' boot." He laughed again. "Maybe this one'll put up a little fight."

Maybe. Anger and hatred sparked, then burgeoned, inside Sunny as she forcibly shut out the immobilizing echo in her mind, the one that kept ringing over and over. _Paul is dead. Paul is dead._

With a last shallow cry of despair she clamped her arms across her chest to still her shaking body. The gun in her hand felt as if it had frozen to her fingers, and she wondered if she would be able to pull the trigger when the time came. Or if she would even be able to move. Her limbs were stiff, and the frigid air cut her skin like shards of glass. Even breathing it hurt her lungs.

Odd, she hadn't noticed the cold until now. She shivered like a bare-branched tree in a gale. When the pair outside grew briefly silent, she heard her teeth chattering like a set of dice tossed about in a cup. She locked her jaw to quiet them. She couldn't afford to give in to the cold; she purged her consciousness of it as she had the echo.

Calling on a reserve of strength she hadn't known she possessed, Sunny slid across the floor, keeping low until she reached the rifle rack. She forced her stiff fingers to grapple for the Winchester. It would do more damage than the Colt, and she was a crack shot. Better than most men. Paul had seen to that.

Moving slowly, Sunny eased the Winchester from the hooks and rested the hard stock against her shoulder. The rifle was heavy, and the cold had made her weak. Rather than risk dropping it, she pushed back and braced against the wall. Her face was deadly white, her lips already tinged with blue. She was freezing, freezing to death while she waited to be murdered. She thought of Paul, so loving, so good.

As she felt her loss anew, another burst of anger surged within her and brought much needed heat to her body. The bushwhacker wanted a fight. She would give him one. She hadn't walked most of the thousand miles to Colorado or worn the flesh from her fingers digging out ore to snivel in a corner waiting to be raped and killed. She owed Paul more than that for loving her. She owed his baby a chance to be born.

Her determination to survive faltered but once. When the man standing watch shouted a warning to his companion, the rifle teetered in her grasp.

"You go easy, Stu." He laughed. "She ain't gonna be glad to see you after you gunned down her man."

"Don't matter." Stu chortled and stomped a path toward the cabin. "I'm gonna be glad to see her and to spread her a time or two before I kill her." He stopped and leveled a stout kick at the plank door. The impact ripped loose the leather hinges and sent the splintered boards into lopsided flight. "Come on out, honey," he shouted. "You got callers. Come on, honey. Show me what you got. You never know, you just might be good enough that I'll keep you as my woman."

Sunny's new round of shivering stopped as the man stared into the darkness, his gun ready as he waited for his eyes to adjust and pick her out of the shadows. She prayed and held her breath as she aimed the Winchester. At least for the moment she had the advantage. Her eyes were accustomed to the darkness and she had a clear view of a burly shape filling the doorway, well lit by the dawning crimson light of the sun.

"For Paul," she said.

He swung his gun toward the voice. Not fast enough. His pupils widened as he heard the click of the trigger and saw the flash of fire from the barrel just before the bullet tore into his chest and blasted him backwards onto the stoop.

"Ed—" came a strangled cry.

"Goddammit, Stu! I told you to watch out." Ed Beckler spun clear of the open doorway. Cursing, he hit the ground and crawled forward to grab the loose hood of his brother's coat, dragging him off the blood-splattered stoop.

Sunny flattened out on the floor, resting on her elbows so she could still fire the rifle. She could hear the one called Ed just beyond the door but couldn't get a clear shot without putting herself in the open. She could only wait.

The wait was short. A frenzied barrage of shots heralded wild bullets that shaved splinters off the logs above her head. They pulverized the clay chinking, filling the room with a cloud of dust. Sunny held her fire until she caught a glimpse of the gunman repositioning himself. She got off two rounds before he took cover behind the woodpile, and then she saved her shots, firing only when she saw her target raise his head. At best she was postponing her fate. She had only half a box of shells, no chance of outlasting him. And only as much time as her ammunition would buy her.

When the last of the shells was gone, she grabbed the Colt. Her cold fingers were almost too swollen to squeeze off a shot when, in the increasing light, she saw the man working his way toward the cabin. She forced her fingers to bend and fired four times. Then five. Six. He must have been counting. He was in the door the moment the gun emptied and across the room before she could reload from the gun belt. Boot leather scrubbed hard on the wooden floor as he made his way toward her.

The bullet she was trying to jam into the chamber rolled from her grasp. The gun was still empty and smoking when a snow-crusted boot kicked it from her hand. She cried out in pain and her heartbeat shuddered to a halt. Slowly, she looked up into the barrel of a rifle pointed at her head. Above it, a pair of eyes, fired by hatred, gleamed at her like burning coals.

"Filthy bitch!" he bellowed. "You killed Stu! You killed my brother!"

He had a red beard. Nothing else about him penetrated her brain. Just the red beard—bushy, long, red like blood. Giving a fierce shriek, Sunny sprang at him before he could get off a shot. Reflexively, he swung the rifle, the way a soldier would, striking her on the side of the head with the heavy stock. The impact flung her against the far wall.

She thought her neck must be broken. She couldn't move, and the pain of the blow had blinded her. But she could hear him advancing to finish his work. She opened her mouth to scream but could only choke and gasp for breath. She scrambled, trying to rise and run, but her arms and legs were no more useful than those of a rag doll. With painful effort she managed to mouth a curse at the man bearing down on her, but the bitter words seeped out in a helpless whimper. She slumped bonelessly at his feet.

Swearing, Ed Beckler kicked her. The hard toe of his boot struck the soft flesh just below her rib-cage. Her agonized yelp fed his anger.

"Hurt, did it, girlie?" The snow-flecked red beard shook as he leaned over her. "Well, here's another."

He kicked again, forcing what remained of her breath out in a spasmodic gush. Sunny's hands jerked to her abdomen.

"Nooo," she moaned and, as another searing jolt of pain ravaged her body, lost consciousness.

Ed Beckler stepped back and looked at the crumpled girl in the flannel nightdress. She was a pretty one, with skin like fresh cream, her hair blonde and wavy. He'd seen her around town fancied up in a ruffled dress and a lace bonnet. It was the girl that had set Stu off, made him pick these diggings to rob. Damn her. Damn Stu and his hunger for women.

Breathing hard and heavy, Ed Beckler bent his knee and kicked the unconscious girl hard a third time, knocking her limp body aside so he could reach the straw bedding and rip it apart before he started prying up floorboards. "There better be gold in here," he growled, "so Stu didn't die for nothin'."

He was thinking he'd have to revive the girl and make her tell him where the stash was when the fireplace yielded what he wanted. One hearthstone stood out cleaner of soot than the others. Cursing that he hadn't noticed that first, Beckler pried the rock out with a pickax. The sack of nuggets and dust underneath eased the pain of his loss a little. Stu hadn't died for nothing.

Smiling, he pocketed the leather pouch and started for Sunny, wrenching his belt loose, aiming to do what Stu had intended. With lust, a flow of saliva spilled onto his lips and a tightness quickened his groin. He pushed his pants down and bent over the unconscious girl. With a grunt of impatience, he grabbed her by the hair and pushed her legs apart with a brutal swipe of his knee.

The blackness which held her broke for a moment as she felt his weight. Her eyes opened but a slit, though that was enough to see the monstrous face and the blood-red beard bearing down on her. She was trapped in a body that could not move, that could not fight him in any way. Had he broken her spine? Or had the blow to her head done the damage? She felt him groping at her gown, snatching it up. Then his hand, icy and rough, gripped her bared thigh. She yearned to screech, to tear herself away from him. She wanted to fight and save herself from rape, but the blackness kept sweeping in and out, disorienting her.

Ed Beckler savagely jerked the girl's head up for his kiss. His wet mouth plowed ruthlessly into hers. Her lips were cold and still, unyielding. _Like a dead woman's._ He tore his mouth away, shuddered and cursed. _Like Stu._ Repulsed, he roughly pulled his fingers from Sunny's hair and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. But he didn't leave her. He didn't need to kiss her to do what he wanted.

Freed of his grasp, Sunny's head flew back and struck the floor heavily, exposing the side of her face that had taken his first blow. Her skin was a gruesome blue, her jaw puffed to double its normal size, her eye but a blackened split in the swelling. A thin line of blood oozed from a cut and lay frozen and red on her cheek. To Ed Beckler she looked like a deformed creature, beautiful on one side, horribly ugly on the other. Unable to stomach the sight of her, he jerked back. His desire withered and suddenly he felt the biting cold on his exposed flesh.

"Sleep in hell, bitch!" he shouted, and flung her aside so that he did not have to look at her distorted face again. He snarled, righted his clothes, and fastened his pants. Still cursing her, he stumbled out the door and nearly fell over his brother's body. "Stu," he mumbled to himself. "I gotta get Stu outta here and get him buried decent."

He made quick work of dragging Paul Harlowe's body inside. With a final curse to husband and wife, Ed Beckler dashed an oil lamp to the floor and found a match in the litter he'd strewn about the cabin. A fire would cover his crime. Not that there were any lawmen around to worry about. But somebody might be near enough to have heard the shots. Miner's justice could be worse than that any judge handed out.

Beckler struck the match on the door jamb and watched it flame before he tossed it to the floor. He stepped back as tongues of fire snaked out of the oil and straw and licked greedily up the cabin walls, growing hot enough to melt the snow his boots had carried inside. Soon a black sphere of smoke whirled high in the sky and Ed Beckler, in its shadow, rode off. Stu's body was draped over the saddle of the horse he led. He rode hard, his head bowed low against the wind, though he was no longer worried about having murdered two people, only about how he was going to tell Wes what had happened to his little brother.

***

Sunny had a blurred memory of falling to the floor and another of an ugly face behind a red beard as it pressed against her own. She remembered little of what happened before the heat woke her, or the smoke, or the pain. It was hard to tell how she got to her feet and tumbled through the window into the snow. She had crawled away. The trail she left showed how she'd dragged her leaden body up the hill to the diggings. She'd found a blanket there and a pair of Paul's old boots and then she'd stumbled down twelve miles of mountain trail to reach Eureka.

"Blanche." Sunny staggered into Blanche Elton's whorehouse, her hair and brow laced with ice crystals, her belly tight and cramping.

With the cold and the snow, it was a busy night at Blanche's, but the madam called two of her girls from their work and found an empty bed behind a curtain. In a matter of minutes she had the shivering Sunny tucked beneath thick, warm covers.

"Ettie, get me some of those hot bricks," Blanche ordered, adding her fur cape to the quilts on Sunny's bed. "This girl's near dead. If she doesn't have frostbite, it'll be the only miracle I've ever seen."

"Blanche." Sunny mumbled the name and then bit down on her lip as a pain tore her in two. Her mind spun into semi-blackness. Blanche's face, powdered, rouged, but kind and caring, floated above her, wove in and out of her faltering vision. Blanche was a friend. A woman she wouldn't have spoken to in Ohio. She couldn't have. Back then she hadn't known women like Blanche existed. Naive brides in calico dresses didn't know about brothels.

Paul hadn't liked it much at first, her being friends with a scarlet woman. But she had needed a friend, a woman friend, and there were no married women around. Sunny was the only one. Not anymore, she remembered as another pain ripped through her. She was a widow. _A widow._

"You get warm, honey. Then tell me what happened." Hurriedly Blanche peeled the wet boots and nightgown off Sunny. As the lamp light flickered over the girl's naked body she drew her breath in sharply. "Lord, child!" she cried, seeing the ugly bruises on Sunny's abdomen and encountering the blood-caked lump on her head. "What happened to you? Did that husband of yours..." Color faded instantly from beneath Blanche's roughed cheeks. "No, he wouldn't. Not that sweet-natured man. Oh, God!"

"He's dead," Sunny whispered. "Murdered." And then the blackness swallowed her.

***

The sound of a bullet brought her upright in bed. Sunny screamed and looked around in complete confusion at the curtained enclosure as she tried to sort out the odd mixture of sounds. A tinkling piano, a tingle of bells, female laughter, men shouting.

"Just a drunk trying to shoot the stars down." Blanche, wrapped in velvet and lace, pushed aside the curtain and came to the bedside. She put a hand on Sunny's forehead. "Lie back."

The sound of bells stopped when Blanche did. For Sunny they were a reassuring sound. Silver bells. Blanche wore them pinned to her petticoats. Bells. The sound of a friend. Obediently she collapsed into the pillows as Blanche had ordered.

"The hurting's stopped," she said hoarsely, sliding her hands across her stomach, finding it tender but no longer filled with blades of pain. "I'm better."

"You bet you are, and three days getting that way." Blanche nodded cheerfully but was too slow turning her face away. Her troubled eyes told what she hadn't planned to say for a while.

"No." Sunny clutched Blanche's wrist. "Tell me it isn't true."

Blanche swallowed hard then looked at the girl. "You lost the baby, Sunny."

Sunny's sob was thin, hardly more than a whispered sound, more inside than out. Lost. Gone. Vanished. Her baby. Before she knew him. Her last link to Paul. She turned her face into the pillows, hiding her eyes, but she didn't cry. She was too hollow, too dry for tears. She didn't think she would ever cry again. What she would do was find the man called Ed and see him pay for what he'd done. Hidden in the pillows, her face turned cold and hard beyond her nineteen years. A long time would pass before the harshness died out of her eyes.

"Paul..." she murmured. It was a question, a goodbye, a promise.

"I sent men up to the cabin." Blanche hesitated, deciding not to tell Sunny the searchers had hardly been able to distinguish Paul Harlowe's bones in the ashes. "They buried him."

Sunny thanked her.

"Has there been a stranger with a red beard around?" she asked in the next breath.

Blanche took a cautious pause before answering. "There's been one. Spending free," she told Sunny. "Is he the one?"

If he were, he couldn't have picked a worse place to spend his ill-gotten gold. Sunny Harlowe was the darling of the mining town, a mascot to the men in Eureka. In their eyes she was sweet, pure as the best gold. She reminded the rough miners of the wives and children they had left behind or those they hoped to have. They liked her pretty, modest dresses and her friendliness. The miners had branded her "Sunny" for the ready smiles she gave each of them. To a man, every one of them had counted on being a godfather to the first baby born in Eureka.

"Could be." Sunny measured her words and bit back the angry excitement rising within her. She didn't want to accuse an innocent man. She'd make sure the man with the red beard was Ed, and then she'd kill him. "You got a gun I can use?"

"No!" Blanche spun around with an incredulous stare. Sunny Harlowe was hardly more than a child—sweet, feminine. Paul Harlowe should never have brought her to rough mining country How she'd survived was beyond Blanche. Beneath the bruises she was frighteningly pale; she hardly had the strength to lift her head. But Blanche brightened in spite of herself. She had to admire Sunny's fighting spirit, even if she didn't approve of it. Forcibly curbing her smile, Blanche sat herself down on the mattress. "No," she said more gently. "Not for you to go gunning after a man who's half-killed you already. Leave that to the menfolk."

In the end Sunny won the argument. Once the girl was on her feet, Blanche agreed she shouldn't be unarmed with a killer on the loose. A killer who would be anxious to eliminate a witness to murder. When she took the Derringer, Sunny promised Blanche she wouldn't do anything foolish. Sunny didn't think it was foolish to walk into the Songbird Saloon and cock the pistol right in Ed Beckler's face.

Beckler looked up and choked on a mouthful of tobacco juice he'd been about to aim at the nearest spittoon. His first thought was that he should have put a bullet in the girl.

Sunny stared into Beckler's clouding eyes without flinching. "You killed my husband."

The ruckus in the room stopped. Sunny had not only Beckler's attention but that of every miner and painted lady in the place. Desperately aware he was like a man dropped into a viper's pit, Beckler's face turned as red as his beard. He made a hacking sound as he cleared the burning tobacco juice from his throat. The air in the house was frosty, but beads of sweat mushroomed on his brow. His lips twitched. "Not me," he stammered. "I ain't killed nobody."

Sunny touched the barrel of the pistol to his brow. "You and your brother. Stu. His name was Stu."

Beckler's eyelids flickered too fast, his fingers twitched on the whiskey glass he held. He glanced nervously at the man beside him. "This here's my brother," he said. "Wes Beckler. Only brother I got. Ain't that right, Wes?"

Wes got no chance to confirm that he was or wasn't.

"Wes Beckler." A miner across the room stood, a big fellow in a plaid wool parka. His hand rested on the handle of a gun tucked into his wide leather belt. "Ain't he the one that's wanted up in Arborville for robbin' a couple of fellows?"

"That's right," another man, a grizzled old fellow named Ollie, chimed in. "Wes Beckler. Arborville's offerin' a reward for him."

"Ed, you damn fool," Wes swore as he scrambled to his feet, in his haste slamming his chair to the floor.

Seeing the girl momentarily distracted by his brother, Ed Beckler did what any vicious animal would do when backed into a corner—he attacked.

His elbow caught Sunny heavily in the chest and sent her reeling backwards. Ed came at her, forgetting in his rage that he was likely to be shot down by any of the two dozen men drinking and gambling in the Songbird. He wanted to kill Sunny Harlowe.

"Like I should have done at the cabin," he muttered, reaching for his gun. But he hardly had it out of the holster when Sunny fired off two shots from the Derringer. Beckler gave a surprised groan. He pitched forward, clutching his blood-soaked shoulder, and hit the floor coughing and sputtering. "Shit! Wes..." he moaned.

Wes Beckler looked at the line of gun barrels aimed his way and lifted his hand slowly from the pistol at his side. "Don't look at me, boys," he said. "I ain't his keeper. If Ed's got himself in trouble, I don't know nothin' about it."

"That right, Sunny?" Chick Mason, the burly miner in the plaid coat, asked as he scooped Sunny from the floor.

Except for the color of his hair and beard, which was light as cotton, Wes Beckler was the image of the downed Ed. Sunny gave him a careful look. "I've never seen that one," she answered. She inclined her head toward Ed, sprawled on the floor cursing. She wasn't sure the Derringer had come any closer to killing him than a peashooter would have, but at least he knew now what a bullet felt like. She waved the empty gun at him. "This one killed Paul and left me to burn in the cabin."

A roar, one that made Ed Beckler paler than his loss of blood had, shook the room. He might have been hanged then and there if Chick Mason hadn't taken charge. "Haul him out to the coop," Mason ordered. "Patch him up a little. We'll give him a trial. And _then_ we'll hang him."

Wes Beckler shrugged as they yanked his brother out of the saloon. "Sorry for the trouble, boys, miss." He put his hat on, noting that many of the guns in the room remained trained on him. A weak smile flickered on his lips as he gave a parting nod and started to walk away. "Reckon there ain't much I can do for Ed by stayin'."

A big hand clamped Wes Beckler's shoulder before he made a second step. "Just hold up." Mason turned to his friends. "Arborville's offering a reward for this one. I think it ought to go to Sunny. She's the one who turned him up. What do you say, boys?"

The drinkers and the gamblers of the Songbird Saloon were, for once, in complete agreement. Wes Beckler joined his brother in Eureka's coop.

***

"The Becklers didn't have much gold on them, neither one of them," Chick Mason told Sunny. "Ed must have hidden what he stole from you and Paul."

Sunny's eyes narrowed and a glint of hard light showed in them at the mention of her husband's name. "You will hang him?" she asked.

"Count on it," Mason assured her as he pressed a canvas bag into her hands. "This here's the reward money from Arborville and a little something me and the boys made up for you. It'll help some."

Sunny thanked him. "It'll get me to California. That's all I need."

"Sure hate to see you go, Sunny. We all do." Mason eyed Blanche Elton beside Sunny on the wagon seat. The blonde madam had decided to move her girls to California, aiming to open a first-class saloon in San Francisco. "You take care of her, Blanche."

"I will." Waving a farewell, Blanche snapped the reins. The horses jerked the wagon into motion, sending up a tittering round of giggles from the girls in back.

Chick Mason waved them off, shaking his head as the team joined a train heading west. It was a shame what the killing had done to Sunny Harlowe. She'd been the most gentle, feminine creature he'd ever known, all softness and sunlight. Now she was hard as steel and there was a look in her eyes colder than snow at midnight.

## Chapter 1

1878 California

Price Ramsey rolled himself over in a tousled feather bed, awakening with his face buried in a perfumed pillow. The sweet floral scent was a quick reminder he had not spent the night alone. Opening one eye a crack, he got a blurry glimpse of pink cabbage roses papered on the walls of an untidy bedroom. The floor was scattered with clothing—a pair of satin garters, a pink corset, petticoats everywhere. His trousers were tossed atop a bedpost.

Frowning, he pushed long fingers through a tangle of hair in his face, not his unless it had grown a foot overnight. With another sweep of his big hand, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, awakening fully. He became instantly conscious of a warm weight against his loins. Her name? Nanette. Or was it Babette?

The woman deepened her long, slow breaths as he eased away from her plump buttocks. "Annette," he mumbled, remembering. Annette Zenger.

Sunlight streamed through windowpanes flanked by fluffy dimity curtains and bows. The room was too hot, stuffy, but he felt a kind of coldness within, an emptiness a night with a woman he hardly knew couldn't fill. Sometimes—not often if he could avoid it—he wondered why he kept trying to fill the void. He wasn't even sure anymore what it would take to fill it or why he wasted time thinking about it. He'd had his dreams once, plans for building and sharing something lasting, a legacy his children and their children after them could hold on to.

But his plans hadn't worked out and along the way he had given up most of the dreams. He'd found something to replace them—whatever was new. And as soon as it got old, he moved on to something else. He'd worked for a time on a sugar plantation in the Caribbean, then started farming in Brazil, then sold out and headed into the mountains to look for gold. Now it was California and a stint in a medicine show which covered the little something extra he was doing on the side. Soon he'd try his hand at ranching. And after that, who knew?

What he did know was that he had little reason to complain. The pretty blonde woman had given him a few hours of pleasure and made him forget—briefly—that anything was lacking in his life. Sooner or later another woman would do the same, and then another, until his nights ran out or he quit caring. Abruptly, Price blinked his eyes hard and swore under his breath. He'd been staring at the time-darkened ceiling like a man in a deep trance.

His jaw hardened with irritation as he felt the old feeling lingering when there was no accounting for it. Why now? He'd spent the second half of the night in restful sleep in a soft bed with a soft woman. It made no sense that his muscles were tight and aching as if he'd run a long foot race instead. He stretched, but it didn't help relieve the tension or stop the onset of more unwanted thoughts.

"Damn," he mumbled. Damn the shadowed memories that clung in the depths of his mind like moss on a shaded tree. This had to stop. Price pushed the covers away and swung his long legs toward the edge of the bed. What the devil was going on in his head? He glanced at the sleeping woman. Even if what he'd shared with her weren't permanent, it was a dandy temporary respite.

Roused by his movements, Annette woke. "Morning, Price, honey." A lazy grin spread wide on her doll-like face. To stop his retreat she laid a hand on his bare thigh and stroked upward, her soft fingertips running seductively through his thickening hair. "Don't leave," she said huskily.

He felt a quickening where she touched and was tempted to pull her close against him and enjoy more of what she offered. She was lovelier now than she had been in the candlelight when he took her to bed—her fair, wavy hair streaming over her shoulder, her full breasts peeking from beneath the sheets. But he didn't. He had already gotten what he came for, information and intimacy. Besides, he had an abiding rule never to linger with a woman as tempting as Annette Zenger. He might not know what he wanted but he sure knew what he didn't want. He'd never let himself be tied to a woman he'd soon tire of, no matter how lovely she was.

A few months ago he had broken his rule and nearly gotten himself snared in a satin trap. Miss Penelope Peck of St. Louis had talked herself into believing he was going to marry her. He'd had to ride out of Missouri in the black of night.

Remembering that close call was enough to make him gently push Annette's hand away. Staying still too long made his mind start rambling. He had news to share with his partner, news that was worth something and would add one more link to the chain he was about to wrap around an old adversary, Thaddeus Lord. Now there was a thought that made him feel better.

He smiled at Annette. "Sorry. Got to, darlin'," he said. "Dr. Delos likes to get rollin' early."

Disappointed, Annette watched him slide from the bed and unabashedly wash himself at the basin across the room. Soon she was propping up on a pillow to get a better view. Just looking at Price Ramsey was almost as good as having him in her arms. Tall, well over six feet, he was long limbed and sleekly muscled. His hair was a rich, silky black. She had never seen a man as nicely put together. And his voice, smooth as honey dripping off a hot rock...

Price smiled and winked a raven-lashed eye as he stepped into his black serge trousers; Annette felt a shimmy of excitement inside. He had the contemplative eyes of a mountain cat, a panther, golden sparkling eyes she could believe glowed in the dark. He was superb in the dark, and she had enjoyed twining her limbs around him and feeling his fierce penetration into her body. He had been relentless, taking her time and again until for the first time in her life she had needed to plead for mercy. Annette breathed out a long fluttering sigh and dropped back on the stack of ruffled pillows. Too bad. She was refreshed now and he was going. What's more, she was going to find any other lover lacking after Price Ramsey.

Buttoning up a cobalt blue silk vest, Price strolled over to the rumpled bed and gave Annette a parting kiss. "A little somethin' to remember me by," he whispered, producing a frilly, lace-edged handkerchief from behind his back. "Sweet and pretty like you, darlin'."

Annette clasped the scrap of cloth to her bosom. "I'll wear it next to my heart, always." She hooked her fingers around Price's hand. "Can't that old coot wait awhile? Can't we—"

"Now, Annette, darlin'." Price patted the back of her hand, then slipped his free of her grip. "Dr. Delos is no old coot. He's a scientist and a genius. You'll be telling yourself that after a few weeks of using that Rosepetal Skin Cream you bought from him." He stroked her cheek lightly, feeling her tremble beneath his touch.

"Mmmm," Annette cooed. "If you ask me, you're the genius. I'll bet Dr. Delos never thought of using skin cream the way we used it."

Price chuckled. Maybe he ought to mention to Delos that his Rosepetal cream added a new dimension to lovemaking. No. Delos wouldn't appreciate the testimonial if he couldn't use it to pitch his formulations and Miss Zenger wasn't likely to confirm any such astonishing properties in public. Bowing slightly, Price swiftly kissed her again then donned his fringed buckskin coat and picked up his hat. "I reckon he never had anyone like you to inspire him, darlin'."

"Bye, honey," Annette called after him. "You come back this way soon."

***

"Sun's up." Delos Hixley sat on the seat of a red, barrel-shaped caravan hitched behind a matched pair of gelded bays and listened to a rooster crowing from a barnyard fence nearby. "The boy had better show up soon," he grumbled. This was becoming a routine, Price keeping him waiting while he took his time saying farewell to some sweet miss.

Inordinately inconsiderate. He was getting damn tired of it, too. Damn tired. They had important things to do, more important things than seeing what was under every skirt in California.

Giving a dispirited sigh, Delos poured out the cup of now-cold coffee he had thoughtfully saved for Price. The boy had stamina. He had to grant him that. Even in his youth he couldn't have made love to a different woman every night. On the other hand, women hadn't thrown themselves at Delos Hixley the way they did at Price Ramsey. Why that curvaceous Miss Zenger hadn't waited until the presentation was over before she hauled him away last evening.

Delos wished he'd had the presence of mind then to ask where Miss Zenger lived. If he had, he could go looking for Price. As it was, he could only sit and stew and deduce that they weren't going to make Lincoln Flats in time for an afternoon show. Of course Price had been known to perform his shooting act by torchlight, but he didn't like doing it that way. Too risky. The crowds were never as good after the sun went down either. At least he had a good supply of the elixir bottled and the ladies' skin cream made up. Lincoln Flats had more women than Hazelton. Women made the best customers. He could thank Price for that.

A farm wagon loaded with hay rolled past him and continued down the dusty street and turned toward the livery. A couple of youngsters carrying cane poles, a dog following them, gave him curious stares as they climbed through a whitewashed board fence and made for a lily-dotted pond. A woman across the street carried two pails of milk from a barn to her house. Everybody in Hazelton seemed to be up and stirring. Delos groaned. Except Price. Where was that boy?

Delos strained his eyes, looking up and down the street for Price Ramsey's towering figure. More wagons rolled into town. Riders rode out of the livery and past the caravan parked in the narrow alley beside it. Occasionally one of the horses in the corrals out back would whinny and one of the bays would snort and shake in response, a shimmer of light glinting off the brass-studded harness. Like the man who had hooked them in the traces more than an hour ago, the animals were impatient to be on the road.

"He's done it again," Delos said to the animals who responded to the familiar voice with a flittering of ears and a stamping of hooves. He settled back in the seat as if preparing for a nap. "A gold eagle says he stays curled up with that woman until cobwebs form on the spokes and wheels of this conveyance."

At a loss for anyone to take up his bet, Delos grumpily folded his arms across his chest. Above his head and the black stovepipe hat he wore, tall gold letters on the caravan's bright wall proclaimed: _Dr. Delos, Treatments and Remedies Extraordinaire_. The man, as neat and elegant as the gold lettering, sat drumming his fingers on his sleeves until he saw the tardy Price round the corner of a boarding house. Pretending to be oblivious to his partner's arrival, Delos slowly pulled his watch from his pocket and studied the scrolled face as if he were seeing it for the first time.

Whistling a tune, Price crossed the street. A hasty glance at the town clock confirmed that he was long overdue meeting Delos, which meant he wasn't going to receive a warm welcome. He turned into the alley and sauntered up to the waiting caravan, assessing the straight set of his partner's back. An agile hop brought him to the seat beside Delos. In an instant he had his fringed coat off and folded across the seat back. Another moment, and he released the hand brake at his side and took up the reins.

"Beautiful mornin'," he remarked. Delos made no reply, his clouded gray eyes fixed on his watch. Price waited for a response. None came. His high spirits undaunted, he snapped the reins and sent the team lunging forward. "All right, so I'm a little late," he admitted, his drawl not nearly as pronounced as it had been a few minutes before when he had talked with Annette.

"Late?" Delos caught himself before he bumped back against the caravan as the horses proved their eagerness to get under way. Straightening up in the seat, he ceremoniously pocketed the watch. "You were gone so long I thought I'd be standing witness to a wedding."

The remark brought a moan from Price that almost converted Delos's disgruntled expression to a smile. Since the day that sprightly little Miss Peck in St. Louis had asked Price if he preferred to wed in June or July, the subject of marriage had been a sore point with his partner. Not that he was fooled by that charade. Price had a stronger reason for his love-'em-and-leave-'em way with women. Something that had happened years ago. A shame. The boy took himself too seriously at times.

"Not amusing," Price retorted as the wagon lurched onto the main road. "Not a bit amusing." He gave the reins a brisk snap, speeding up the horses. "You'll dance at my funeral before you attend my wedding."

Delos pulled his hat down more snugly on his brow. "I will arrange your funeral if you keep me waiting so long past sun-up again. Remember all play and no work makes Price a—"

"—happy man. You should try it, Delos." Laughing, he reached over and tugged sharply on Delos's carefully groomed, silver-streaked beard. "Might put a curl in those chin whiskers."

"Ouch! Damn your shenanigans!" Scowling, Delos rubbed his jaw. He never felt cheerful in the morning, not even when he wasn't kept waiting. Seeing Price looking so happy annoyed him. "One of us has to tend to business," he complained. "I'll bet you didn't uncover anything about Lord Mining doing pillow talk with Miss Zenger."

"Wrong again, Delos." Price grinned. "Miss Zenger, you see, is always interested in a new man in town. Last week an agent from Lord Mining spent a few days at her boarding house. Must have done a little bragging to impress the lady, then begged her not to mention his employer to anyone. She didn't know why, but he spent a lot of time looking over land files in the records office." Having set Delos straight, Price eased his tight hold on the reins and let the horses settle into a less brisk pace. "What did you find out in the bar?"

Delos's scowl deepened. He straightened the lapels of his charcoal-gray coat. "Nothing," he mumbled. "Nobody in Hazelton knows a thing about Lord Mining's plans for the valley."

"Just like in Wallis and Sand City," Price mused. Delos nodded. "When do you think Lord will make his move?"

"His next move, you mean." The lackadaisical expression on Price's face gave way to a stern one.

"The big one is what I mean, taking control of the valley."

"Fortunately for us, he can't move too fast. Hopefully, not nearly as fast as we can in cutting him off."

Delos took a cigar from his inside coat pocket. He carefully snipped off the end with a silver trimmer from another pocket and offered the stogy to Price.

Price nodded and accepted. "Thanks."

Delos prepared a second cigar for himself, then struck a match which served them both. Relaxing, he drew in a deep draught of the pungent tobacco. "Ever wish you had stayed back in Georgia on Oaknell with your brothers?"

Price gave Delos a quizzical look. Was this a softhearted way of asking if he were sure he wanted to tangle with Lord again? The answer, however, didn't require much thought. "No," he replied. "A few years after the war I knew I didn't belong there anymore. My older brother Morse got married. Burch will, too, one day. Oaknell will strain at the seams to support two families."

Price didn't mention the other reason he had chosen to roam two continents instead of helping his brothers rebuild Oaknell. He suspected his younger brother Burch had told that tale when the three of them had met in St. Louis last spring. Rosanne Ramsey, Morse's wife was the other reason. If Morse hadn't married her he would have asked her himself. The corners of his mouth tightened. Not quite the truth. Why deceive himself? He had asked her, and she had told him she was marrying Morse.

Morse owned the bulk of Oaknell and he was settled, the kind of man who would make a good father and husband. Not like him, she had said. Not like him. Morse wasn't wild. He hadn't kissed every girl in the county, or worse. She would never have to worry about his brother that way. Morse wouldn't ask her to up and leave for a wilderness in South America. Morse would give her the kind of life she had known before the war. She wanted that. Needed that.

He didn't blame her. His only regret was that he'd fought with Morse over her. For what? In the end, the choice was hers. Beating Morse hadn't made him look any better in her eyes. She had made the right pick. He had a restless nature. He'd have made her miserable, and that would have made him miserable. She had spared them both. Morse had wanted him to stay, even after the fight. But he couldn't, just as he couldn't go back now even though he was over it. He knew, as Rosanne had then, that he wouldn't make any woman a good husband. She was happy with Morse. It was better for everyone if he weren't there.

Price caught Delos's sharp eyes on him. Price's brow furrowed in a deep frown. He flicked the long ash off the end of his cigar. "Why the hell did you ask me about Oaknell?" he growled.

Delos smiled. The sun was halfway up in the sky and he was beginning to feel like the jovial huckster who mesmerized crowds at will. "I just wanted to be sure you don't have any regrets about what we're undertaking."

"Damn it, Delos." The golden eyes blazed as Price turned off the road and guided the horses beneath a shade tree. Delos had an irritating way of knowing how to play his moods. "The next time you want to know something, ask me outright," he snapped.

"I will." Delos wasted no time in following the new directive. "Why are we stopping?"

"Because I need a cup of coffee and a shave," Price snarled, jumping down and noisily opening one of the caravan's side compartments. "And a little peace and quiet, if you don't mind."

Delos climbed down and stood beside him. "I will respect your need for peace and quiet," he said cheerily, "if in the future you will remember that I don't like to be kept waiting."

"One of these days, Delos—" Price threatened.

"One of these days, you'll thank me for making you think. Like this!" Delos shouted and tossed an empty coffee tin into the air.

Price whirled and drew the black-handled Colt holstered at his side. "One, two, three!" he called out as the trio of bullets zinged into the tin before it hit the ground and clanked to a rest against the rotting stump of a tree. Price, legs spread wide, every muscle primed by the flow of adrenalin racing through him, twirled the smoking pistol twice around his finger then smoothly deposited it in his holster.

Delos lifted craggy, silvered brows revealing the humor shining in the eyes underneath. "Got it out of your system now?"

"What?" Price asked, glancing at Delos as he broke out a new tin of coffee.

"Ventilating me," Delos said nonchalantly.

Price laughed as he measured out the dark grounds and filled the soot-stained coffeepot with water from the small keg housed within the compartment. Delos had done it to him again. He turned slowly, like a man thinking about drawing on another.

"You angle-brained son of a sod-buster. I ought to give you a few air vents."

Not for the first time Delos was glad Price Ramsey was his friend. He'd seen Price move like a flash of light when angered. It never failed to amaze him that a man so big could be so quick with a weapon or a fist. Now though, the steady hand which had wielded the six-shooter held nothing more threatening than the battered coffeepot.

"You won't. We need each other to put Lord out of business."

"Lucky for you that's so." Price rested the pot on the flat surface of a rock while he gathered leaves and wood for a fire. Soon flames crackled around the tin container nestled into the coals, and the aroma of boiling coffee wafted up from the spout. When he had a steaming cup of the brew in his hands and few hearty swallows of it in his belly, he hunted for his shaving apparatus in another of the caravan's compartments. A small door flipped up to reveal a mirror—and beneath it—a shaving mug and brush, strop, and razor.

As he peered into the mirror and started to scrape a day's growth of bristles from his face, Price noticed Delos had seated himself on a stump and was passing the time reading a book. He couldn't make out the title in the tiny reflection, but he knew it anyway— _New World Geology_. He reckoned Delos already knew about as much on the subject as any man alive. That was why Delos was in no danger from his gun no matter how mad he made him. He needed Delos and Billy and the boys back at the ranch in Wallis to take on a man as ruthless and powerful as Thaddeus Lord.

Price's face contorted with anger. They had a history, he and Lord, none of it good. Price had underestimated his enemy twice and paid by seeing Lord drive a man into the ground, a man who had been a friend. Down in Brazil he'd wandered onto Ortez land while prospecting. Instead of shooting him for trespassing, Miguel Ortez had invited him into his home. After a few months, they had been like brothers. That was another in a trail of regrets he'd left behind him. He should have been there to help Miguel. Instead he'd been away, bedded down with a woman. Without a friend to temper him, Miguel had been goaded into a fight and framed for murder. Miguel had lost the land that had come to his family in the days of the conquistadors. Shamed, the proud Miguel Ortez had taken his own life.

Price's hand tensed on the handle of the razor in the midst of a stroke across his chin. He felt the blade nick his flesh and saw blood trickle onto his skin. A splash of water washed it away. He had known Lord was trouble back in those days in Brazil; he hadn't known just how vicious Lord could be. He knew now, though, and he aimed to stop Lord this time. He moved the razor more carefully over his cheek. By a stroke of luck, he had something Lord needed. The man just didn't know it yet. And when this was settled between them, he could give up traveling around and giving shooting exhibitions with a medicine show. He'd be rich, at least by the standards he'd gotten used to since the war.

As for Delos, he'd seen Lord's work too. Several years back, he'd been hired as a geologist for the Brazilian government. An idealist, he'd tried to convince Brazilian authorities they needed a plan for managing the rich country's natural assets. His plan would have thwarted spoilers like Thaddeus Lord who had no regard for the land or the Indians he enslaved to do his work. Delos, like Price, had underestimated the power of bribes and the lure of quick wealth. The government officials who had hired Delos became his foes. He'd been cast out of Brazil, his reputation tarnished and his spirit shaken.

His shave completed, Price changed into a clean shirt, doused the fire with what was left of the coffee, then carefully cleaned and reloaded his gun. Fate had a way of evening the score. Delos's medicine show was good cover for what they were about. With a new name and a full beard, Delos was unrecognizable as the geologist who had opposed Thaddeus Lord in Brazil. He smiled harshly. Both of them were going to feel better for dealing Thaddeus Lord a losing hand this time.

"You ready?" he called to Delos.

"Waiting for you." Delos marked his place in the book and closed it, then made his way to the caravan. "We won't have time for a show today," he remarked.

"That's fine with me." Price swung up to the wagon seat and waited for Delos to step up and join him. "We ought to have word from Billy waiting in Lincoln Flats. If he says what I think he will, I'll be paying a late-night visit to the local Lord Mining office."

"After they're closed," Delos surmised, stretching his shoulders back. All in all, he'd have to say Price's hunting him down and enlisting him in a fight with Thaddeus Lord was the best thing that had happened to him in years. That pocket-lining buffoon had taken away his love of geologizing. He had not anticipated ever restoring that love. But working on this project with Price had brought it back.

Delos smiled as Price gave the reins a hard snap and answered, "There's no better time."

## Chapter 2

On a San Francisco street, Sunny Harlowe pushed back her stained and battered hat and glanced at a clock in a shop window. She had plenty of time. And she reckoned she looked good enough. She'd bought new duds—new pants anyway, loose denim ones that she had tucked into the tops of her scuffed knee-high boots. Her shirt was clean, even if it did have a patch or two. But she didn't think the owner of Lord Mining Company would care about that. He'd be solely interested in the results she got. He'd hinted he was willing to pay a big fee for the job he wanted done. Which was why she was in the city. She didn't like San Francisco a lot—too much fuss and too many people on the street looking like they had just stepped out of a mail-order catalogue.

A lot of them looked at her as if she had popped out of the pages of a dime novel. She watched another pair of eyes range from the snakeskin band on her dusty, dun-colored hat, to the horn buttons on her shapeless plaid shirt, to the tooled-leather gun belt fitted snugly around her hips, then hastily jerk away. She responded with a one-sided smile, more indulgent than amused. People in Nickerson, the little town where she lived, didn't look at her like that.

Sunny suppressed a soft laugh as she passed a pair of stylishly dressed women who gave her contemptuous looks before raising their noses and hurrying by. She reckoned they didn't know she'd gotten dressed up for this occasion. The new pants were the first she'd bought in ages. So what was wrong with these city folk? Hadn't they ever seen a lady wearing a gun before? Well, maybe lady was a stretch of a term. Nobody had referred to Sunny Harlowe as a lady in years, not since she had taken up bounty hunting and detective work as a profession. That was just fine with her. The world had plenty of ladies, pampered and pink and needing a man for any demanding chore.

Sunny grinned as she saw a window-glass reflection of the two women nervously glancing back at her. For their benefit she paused and made a point of adjusting her gun belt. As she expected, they quickly skittered into an open shop door. Sunny walked on down the street. She'd warrant she had a better calling than those two. And she was good at what she did. The Pinkerton Agency had trained her well, and she liked detective work. Her record with the agency the three years she'd worked for them was perfect. Of twenty-two criminals she'd gone after, twenty-two had been delivered to the authorities, twenty of them alive.

Two years ago she'd left Pinkerton and started bounty hunting on her own. She didn't regret it; she preferred making her own rules for dealing with outlaws. She hadn't been without jobs, either. Her reputation brought in more offers for work than she could get to, which, she supposed, was why Thaddeus Lord had sent for her when he could have hired anybody.

Lord's offices were in the marble-fronted Peabody Building and took up most of the first floor. Sunny could tell she was expected. The clerk nearest the entrance, who undoubtedly served as receptionist, never flinched when she pushed the door open and walked in. Instead, he smiled warmly and rose from his paper-cluttered desk.

"Miss Harlowe, I presume." The man, in his striped suit and starched white collar, was younger than she was. He came around the desk in an eager rush and thrust out his hand, then clumsily drew it back and gave a courteous nod instead.

"It's Mrs. Harlowe," she said. She was accustomed to the mistake, both mistakes. People always assumed she was a _miss_. Nobody could imagine a female bounty hunter as a married woman, which was pardonable, she supposed, since she had been a widow for five years. Secondly, like the young clerk, most men got befuddled greeting her and stumbled all over themselves before deciding between a handshake and a tip of the hat. She didn't mind either blunder. Keeping men off-balance had always proven to be an asset in her work.

"Sorry, ma'am—Mrs. Harlowe." The clerk's face flushed red. "Come this way." He led her down a carpeted hallway with walls papered in bold blue-and-gold stripes. "Mr. Lord's expecting you," the clerk said as he knocked softly on the carved panel of an oak door. On receiving a summons to enter, he turned the brass knob and swung the door open. "Mrs. Harlowe, sir," he announced, pausing only long enough for Sunny to sweep inside before excusing himself and shutting the door behind him.

Two men awaited her, but there was no mistaking which was Thaddeus Lord. She could have picked him out if he hadn't been a decade older than his companion. He had the look of authority in every feature, from the wide stubborn jaw to the steely, deep-set eyes. He was not a man to stumble over himself. He quickly crossed the floor and offered Sunny his hand, making no apology for treating her like a man.

"I'm Thaddeus Lord." The authority was equally strong in the deep voice. He indicated the other man. "This is my assistant, Joshua Keegan."

Keegan approached her. Dark-haired, he had a curling mustache and a swarthy visage that passed for handsome in some eyes, but not hers. Keegan did as Lord had done and offered Sunny his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Harlowe."

By the sound of his voice, Sunny doubted it. Unlike Lord's confident handshake, his was too firm and too quick. "Mr. Keegan," she said, scrutinizing him.

She liked to read what she could about a man in his eyes. Keegan's hazel gaze was masked, but that in itself told her a lot about him. He was a man who liked to keep things hidden—probably from his boss, too, she decided, if that were possible from a man with as penetrating a stare as Thaddeus Lord's.

"Have a seat, Mrs. Harlowe." Lord gestured toward a chair.

Sunny pushed off her hat. She let the chin tie hold it as it rested over the long and untidy blonde braid trailing down her back. She chose the chair nearest the desk. Keegan sat off to the right and Lord settled himself into the leather-tufted chair behind the desk. Then, without pause, Thaddeus Lord leaned forward and folded his large hands on the leather-bound blotter.

Sunny took the opportunity to study Lord as closely as she had Keegan. He was forty, maybe forty-five, with graying blond hair. His nose was too large for his face, but she doubted he ever depended on his looks to get what he wanted. He was very sure of himself, a quality she could appreciate. His hands were still and as filled with power as the rest of him. He had good nerves. There was not a single quiver or a restless movement from the thick fingers. She noticed the gold ring he wore, an irregular lump of pure gold, like a nugget fused to a band.

Sunny waited for Lord to start the conversation. After all, he had sent for her.

"You're one of the best," he said.

"Or so we've been told," Keegan interrupted and got a warning glance from Lord, a look that said shut up and listen. Keegan reluctantly took his cue and folded his arms stiffly over his chest.

Lord turned back to Sunny and smiled, not warmly, but he probably wasn't capable of fervor. He'd have a stubborn streak deep as the mother lode, she judged. But at least he presented himself openly, which was more than she could say of Keegan.

"I've asked where it counts, and your reputation stands on its own. You distinguished yourself with the Pinkerton Agency and, from what I'm told, you're better now than you were then." He paused. When she made no comment, he went on. "I'm a man who wants results when I need a job done. That's why I've sent for you."

Sunny saw a smirk cross Keegan's face and disappear. She had felt an inkling of dislike for the man from the first. Now her hunch about him was confirmed. Lord had probably overruled him on the choice of a detective.

"I get results, Mr. Lord," she answered steadily, making it clear with a quick glance at Keegan that his opinion of her was returned. "But I don't take every job I'm offered. Why don't you tell me about this one and the man you want me to track down?"

"Not track down, Mrs. Harlowe. I know precisely where Price Ramsey is and every place he's been for the last month."

"Then why do you need me?"

"To get evidence." His thick brows lifted. "This Ramsey's no ordinary outlaw. He's a gunslinger with brains. He's smart. He's diabolical. I believe he's been leading raids on my company, destroying records, and sabotaging my equipment. He wants to ruin my business. I want him stopped, Mrs. Harlowe. I want irrefutable proof against the man. And then I want him here."

"Sounds simple enough," Sunny remarked.

Lord shook his head. "If it were simple, I would have done it before now. I told you Ramsey's smart. He's gearing up for resistance against Lord Mining in Wallis. That's a little town north of here and right at the head of Claret Valley, where we own mining rights and are getting ready to start operations. It's a big venture. Lots of money rides on the outcome. Trouble is, people up there are being told our venture will ruin the valley."

"And it won't?"

"Not in any way, Mrs. Harlowe. It's not our policy to ruin land. Our policy is progress and prosperity. We're a good company. We give people jobs. We look after our workers. But Ramsey's trying to convince people in Wallis that we'll run out farmers and shut down ranches. People up there are starting to listen to him. But believe me, Ramsey's no hero. Anything he does is strictly for his own good."

"And just what is it he's after?"

"The mine. Somehow he found out that the rights aren't absolute yet. I have to be in production sixty days from now or I lose the rights and somebody else can step in."

"And Ramsey's trying to ensure that you fail."

"Exactly. And then he'll try to take over after I've put thousands into getting the site ready. That's mountain country, Mrs. Harlowe. Getting a big mine running up there is expensive."

"But you don't have any proof he's working against you?"

Lord's voice boomed with quiet thunder. "No. My men have failed to catch him in the act of breaking into my offices. But I know he's responsible. It isn't coincidental he's been in every town where there's been a break-in. And he's not working alone. There are others with him. I want their names. I want you to get them for me. And I want you to get Price Ramsey."

Price Ramsey. She ran the name around in her mind. Sunny kept up on all the wanteds in California. She knew more about most of them than their mothers did. She'd give odds Price Ramsey wasn't one of them. She'd never even run across the name.

"If he's as bad as you say, why haven't I heard of him? There isn't a single bounty on the man." Sunny studied Lord's reaction. Once or twice before, she'd been asked to bring in a man because the person attempting to hire her had revenge on his mind. While she had no sympathy for outlaws, neither did she have any for people who sought to wrong an innocent man.

"He's a new breed of bandit, Mrs. Harlowe," Lord answered. "He's not some half-wit who hides out in the hills then holds up a stage or a bank when his pockets get empty. His hideout is a medicine show, and he's passing himself off as a shootist while he's setting up one of the biggest crimes this state has ever seen. He's after my company, Mrs. Harlowe. One big take is what he wants. If he can drive me out and take over what I've started, he'll be a rich man. He's managed to keep his name clean so I can't just have him arrested. But there's no denying he's behind all the trouble Lord Mining's had around Wallis."

"He's not wanted by the law?"

"No, Mrs. Harlowe. But law and justice aren't the same thing, if you can understand that."

"I understand it well enough. Just what is it you want me to do, Mr. Lord? I won't kill a man on your say-so alone, and I can't very well turn him over to the law if he hasn't been accused of a crime."

He gave her a look of indignation. "I do not condone murder, Mrs. Harlowe. I am seeking a civilized solution."

"My apologies." Sunny failed to see the smirk on Keegan's face. "Perhaps you will explain exactly what you do want."

Lord heaved a sigh. "I've had six mining offices ransacked and valuable equipment disabled. What I want, Mrs. Harlowe, is for you to watch Ramsey. I want proof he's doing it, and I want to know who's backing him. Then I want you to bring Ramsey to me. Here. Quietly." As he lifted his beefy head, his eyes strained the pockets of flesh that held them. "By quietly, I mean that his disappearance will not raise an alarm among his friends and associates. Once he's here, I'll confront him with your evidence and make him admit his guilt. I have ways. Do you object to that?"

"I don't object to any outlaw getting what he deserves. If he's guilty, I'll bring him to you. And I'll find a way that's in character for Mr. Ramsey. You can count on it."

"I am counting on it, Mrs. Harlowe. That's why I'm willing to pay ten thousand dollars when Price Ramsey is delivered to me."

_Ten thousand dollars._ Sunny sucked in her breath. "That's a lot for one man," she said. A lot, when half the amount would send out a slew of gun-happy bounty hunters who wouldn't care if Ramsey were guilty or innocent.

Lord gave the first indication that he wasn't made entirely of steel. He picked up a glass paperweight and turned it in his hands. "He's caused me a lot of trouble."

Sunny wasn't going to let Lord off that easily. There was more to this story and she wanted to hear it. She waited. She wanted to know why Price Ramsey was worth so much and why Lord wanted the man brought in quietly.

Lord returned the paperweight to his desk and relented. "All right, Mrs. Harlowe. When the spur line above Wallis went in, there was a section of track that proved unstable. The railroad took a lease on a tract of land and built around the bad railway. The line's been in disuse for years, and the lease on that tract lapsed."

Lord paused and Keegan took the opportunity to break in. "All she needs to know is what's expected of her," he snapped.

Lord cut him to the bone with a look. "She's entitled to have her questions answered." The sharp look in his eyes abated as he returned his gaze to Sunny. "I want everything on the table about this," he said, looking solidly at her. "I need full use of that spur line. Without it, getting ore off the mountain would be impossible. Ramsey has managed to gain ownership of the tract with the lapsed lease. He thinks I don't know about it yet. But I do, and I'm aware that's his ace in the hole if I get the mine running in spite of his interference. I don't like being tinkered with, Mrs. Harlowe. I want that lease. You bring me Ramsey and proof of his crimes, and I aim to trade with him—his land for freedom from prosecution."

"Hmmm," Sunny said, sitting with her hands laced in her lap and her thumbs drumming together until Thaddeus Lord saw that she wanted more.

He sighed. Even he hadn't expected her to be quite so dogged for information. But he figured he could tell her a little more without revealing how desperate he was for full use of the spur line. One end of Claret Valley wouldn't be worth much once the hydro operation started. But the other end was rich land. Most of the ranches and farms in that half bordered the rail. Most of the owners had forgotten a good portion of the land they used still belonged to the railroad. With the line operational, he had only to produce the forgotten grants to own a major section of the valley. That alone would make him wealthy. Ranchers would have to pay back-rents or buy back their land at his price. Most would be forced to forfeit their entire holdings to him.

He had to hold back an anticipatory smile as he saw that Sunny Harlowe was still waiting for further explanation. "There is another complication." He tapped the glass paperweight with his forefinger. "I am majority owner in this company, not sole owner." The admission was not easy for Lord. The Ortez land he'd taken in Brazil hadn't yielded the fortune he'd expected, mainly because of the trouble he'd encountered with the Indians who worked it. He credited Price Ramsey with setting them against him following Ortez's death. Within a year they had all run off and left him with no one to work the mines or the ranch. He'd had to sell out cheap. But he stood to make back his losses once the new mine was operational. If he could take down Price Ramsey in the process, that was simply a bonus.

"I see," Sunny said, hoping he wasn't about to tell her Keegan was the partner.

"My partners don't yet know about the trouble Ramsey's causing and I don't want them to," Lord continued. "They're Easterners. They don't understand the way things work out here. A hint there's trouble, and they'll pull their money out. I don't want them doing that. That's why I need to stop Ramsey without anyone knowing Thaddeus Lord is behind it." Or without their knowing how he planned to cheat them, he continued silently.

Satisfied, Sunny stood. "I'll need a contract, Mr. Lord. That's too much money to ride on a handshake. Have your clerk draw up one, and I'll be back in the morning to sign and collect a third of the fee."

Lord spread his hands wide. "Mrs. Harlowe, I've just explained the need for secrecy. A written contract would—"

"Mr. Lord," Sunny cut him off. "If you can trust me to bring the man in secretly, you can trust me to keep the contract secret afterwards." She rested her hands on her hips. "I won't do the job without it, unless you want to give me the entire ten thousand up front."

Keegan came halfway out of his chair, but Lord waved him back. "You work a tough bargain, Mrs. Harlowe." He stood and looped his thumbs in his vest pockets. "Come back tomorrow. Your contract will be ready."

"Good." She gave a nod toward Keegan. "While you're at it, you can have your hired man prepare a report on Ramsey. I'll want to know all you have on him to date."

"It'll be ready, Mrs. Harlowe." Seeing Keegan fume, Lord smiled.

Sunny pulled on her hat. "Now that we're doing business, call me Sunny," she said. "I prefer it."

"And I am Thaddeus," Lord returned, coming to the door to show her out since Keegan hadn't moved from his chair. He paused with his hand on the knob. "There is something you should know about Ramsey. I doubt Keegan would remember to put this in his report."

"Oh?" Sunny's brows lifted. Lord wasn't the kind to have afterthoughts about anything. This was something he had been saving.

"The man has a weakness for women, attractive women. It might save you a lot of time and trouble to use that weakness. If you could get him to b—"

Sunny stiffened and her face clouded over so quickly Lord stopped in mid-sentence. "I always get a job done, Thaddeus. My way." She glared at him and at Keegan, who was smiling for the first time. "And I never need to bed anybody to do it." Shoulders squared, she turned to leave rather than succumb to the urge to give Thaddeus Lord a farewell to remember.

"My apologies, Mrs. Harlowe—Sunny," Lord said, stopping her.

Only partially mollified, Sunny looked over her shoulder at him. "I'll see you in the morning," she said. That it sounded like a snarl didn't bother her a bit.

***

Thaddeus Lord closed the door behind the departing woman and turned to face his assistant who was helping himself to a cigar from the rosewood box on his boss's desk.

"Touchy piece, isn't she?" Keegan remarked.

"You seem to rub her the wrong way, too," Lord replied as he made his way back to his desk. "Do you have that effect on all women?"

Smiling crudely, Keegan lit the cigar. "Just on those who want to wear pants. I still think she's a bad choice."

At a table topped by a silver tray and matching decanters, Lord poured himself a whiskey. He didn't care that it was hours before noon. He had more riding on that operation above Wallis than he had revealed to Sunny Harlowe or Keegan. He'd risked all his money on this deal. If it failed, he'd be broke. He wasn't about to let that happen.

"She's my choice," he growled, returning to his desk. "And I meant to make her mad. She'll work harder to prove herself."

Keegan ran the cigar under his nose, thinking of the day he'd be able to afford such fine ones himself. "Spurling wouldn't have to prove himself. He's always done good work for us in the past."

Lord gulped down the whiskey. "Spurling's a killer," he said. "Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to have him gun down Ramsey. But I can't. Not until I have that tract of land and not until I know who he's working for and how much he's told them about me. Then I can undo whatever damage he's done. So, unfortunately, this is a job which requires more finesse than Spurling's capable of."

"Finesse?" Keegan paused with a lit match in his hand. "Is that what you call it? Sunny Harlowe won't bed Ramsey to coax those names out of him like you thought."

A challenging gleam in his eyes, Lord slammed the whiskey glass down. "Won't she? I've known Price Ramsey a long time. He's got one weakness-women. I know how to use that weakness against him. I've done it before, and it'll give me a great deal of pleasure to do it again."

Lord leaned back into the luxurious softness of his leather chair. In Brazil, Ramsey had stood in the way of his getting the Ortez land. He hadn't known how to remove such a difficult obstacle from his way—until he'd met a Brazilian woman called Julita. She had lured Ramsey away from the ranch of his hotheaded friend. A muffled laugh erupted from Lord's massive chest as he remembered what followed. Without Ramsey around, he'd needed only three days to finish Miguel Ortez.

"Something laughable about this?" Keegan asked, puzzled.

Lord smiled in a self-satisfied way as he offered a challenge to Keegan. "Would you like to place a wager on the outcome of this?"

Keegan rested both hands on the front of Lord's desk and leaned toward him, smiling. "You must want to give away money."

Lord guffawed. "You know better than that. I just happen to know I'm a shrewder judge of human nature than you are. That's why I wanted a woman for this job."

"Then why not get a real woman, one who knows how to sweet-talk a man?"

Lord shook his head. "It wouldn't work. He's not the sort to make the same mistake twice and, believe me, he's been knocked down by a conniving woman before. Ramsey would spot another woman like that a mile off, just as he would one of our men or an ordinary bounty hunter. He won't be prepared for Sunny Harlowe, a bounty hunter with a pretty face."

"I'd call Mrs. Harlowe's more sour than pretty."

"And that's why you work for me instead of the other way around, Keegan." Lord lolled back in his chair and propped his feet on the polished edge of his desk. "Put her in a fancy dress instead of those ridiculous trousers and frumpy shirt, and Sunny Harlowe is as fine-looking a woman as you'll ever see."

Keegan hadn't given much attention to her face or figure. He did remember the way her hair had looked flattened on her head when she had removed her hat. His teeth flashed in a disbelieving smile. "You're—" He stopped short of saying "you're crazy" to his boss. "What's the wager?" he asked instead.

"You know that buckskin horse of mine you like?"

Keegan nodded.

"If Mrs. Harlowe brings Ramsey here without having taken a tumble with him, the horse is yours."

"And if I lose?"

"If you lose, you lose a month's pay."

Keegan didn't have to think it over. "Those are good odds," he said.

Again Lord guffawed. "They're better than good; they're generous. That horse is worth what you make in a year."

Keegan couldn't dispute the truth with his boss. The offer was generous. The buckskin was worth every penny he made in a year. Thaddeus must be mighty sure of himself. He wondered why. "Is there something I don't know?" he ventured.

"People, Keegan. You don't know people. Send a man after Ramsey, and everybody in Wallis will rise up to help him. Who's going to notice if he goes off with a woman?"

"I still don't get it," Keegan said.

Lord shook his head slowly. "Sunny Harlowe's a bottle of vinegar just waiting to be sweetened. You've seen Ramsey and the way women flock to him like flies to honey. What's to make Mrs. Harlowe any different? She's a widow and, from what I learned of her, she's been a long time without a man."

"How's it going to help us if she gets sweet on Ramsey?"

"Trust me, Joshua. I know his kind. She won't stay sweet on him. She'll bring him in. Trust me."

He didn't bother to explain that if Keegan proved right, Sunny Harlowe would be just as valuable to him as leverage.

***

Sunny shoved open the doors of the Golden Ring Saloon, a place decent women didn't go, and gave a whoop when she spotted Blanche Elton standing by the high-backed piano. The two women met in the center of the mirror-lined room and quickly linked arms in a hug. Blanche pushed back after a moment and wiped a joyful tear from her powdered face.

"Well," she said, smoothing her pinned-up curls. "You're here, and that means you're taking on the case you wrote me about. Come on and sit down," she said, the swish of her red-satin dress joining the pleasant tingle of bells as she led Sunny to her private elevated table in an area of the saloon called the bird cage. "I wish I'd never introduced you to that Pinkerton man. If I'd known he was going to offer you a job..."

Sunny smiled. She'd pulled a gun on a drunk who was harassing Blanche and single-handedly booted him out of the Golden Ring. The Pinkerton man had been a customer in the Golden Ring that night. He'd seen a use for her talents. And she had taken the job he'd offered because it made her feel worthwhile for the first time since Paul's murder. Blanche had never understood, never approved of her work, and never stopped trying to talk her into giving it up. "I have to make a living, Blanche. I saved a little of what I brought from Eureka, but it's not enough to live on."

Blanche sat down and shouted to the bartender to bring a bottle of the best French wine. "You can't rid the whole world of outlaws, Sunny."

"I can try," Sunny returned. "Besides, what else could I do?"

"You could work for me. Heck, I'd make you a partner."

Sunny flipped off her hat and laughed. "What would I do in a saloon?"

"Look pretty." Blanche reached over and fluffed out the honey-colored curls crushed down by Sunny's hat. She remembered the refined young girl Paul Harlowe had brought to Colorado. She didn't like what had happened to her. "You're a beautiful woman, if you'd let it show."

Sunny shrugged. "I don't need looks for what I do. Besides who would I show them to?"

"Everybody. And you could start by wearing some of the dresses I send to you."

Sunny shuddered at the thought. She was glad to see the wine arrive at the table, a crystal decanter on a tray with two long-stemmed, ruby glass goblets. Blanche filled Sunny's glass.

"Enough," Sunny said. "I can't handle that much when I'm empty."

Blanche chuckled, recalling Sunny once getting tipsy in the Golden Ring and falling asleep at the table. She switched the glasses and poured another, only half-full, for Sunny. "I've got something special for you," she said. "From Paris."

"Another dress?" Sunny asked disparagingly. "Blanche, petticoats get in my way. And my gun belt won't fit around a bustle."

Blanche caught Sunny's callused hand and held it tenderly, like a mother holding a child's. "Paul wasn't the only man in the world, Sunny."

Sunny's hand stiffened in Blanche's grasp, but the older woman would not let go until she felt the tense muscles relax.

"He was for me," Sunny said, pulling both hands beneath the table and out of Blanche's reach. She did hate it when Blanche got maternal. The madam was only half-a-dozen years older than she was. Whenever she pointed that out, Blanche always said experience made her decades older.

"I knew him well enough to know he wouldn't like you wasting yourself on outlaws. He'd want you to find someone else and have what you had with him." Blanche's eyes took on a wistful look. "Don't shut yourself out of life, Sunny. Be a woman. Be happy. Paul would want you to be happy."

"I am happy." Sunny smiled ruefully. "And when I've done this job for Lord Mining, I'll be even happier because I'll be able to start that detective agency I've been writing you about."

"Oh, Sunny!" Blanche let out an exasperated sigh. "You need a man."

Sunny gave an equally exasperated sigh. "A man? I had dinner with Clayton Guthrie last Wednesday night."

Blanche's blue eyes flashed. "I said a man. I know he's got barrels of money, but Clayton Guthrie would jump at his own shadow. Why old Boots Guthrie used to sit in here and cry in his liquor over his son. 'The boy likes books better than cows, Blanche,' he'd say. A couple of times he brought Clayton in, hoping a night with one of my girls would make a man of him. But Clayton never even went up the stairs. I'll bet he's still a virgin."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Sunny remarked dryly. "Clayton is nice."

"Clayton is a milquetoast. I think he only takes you out because he likes having somebody along who can shoot a gun."

Sunny wouldn't be outdone, although she knew the only reason she went out with Clayton was to quiet Blanche's concern.

"I thought you said I was pretty," she returned, judiciously deciding against telling Blanche that Clayton had invited her to accompany him on a trip to St. Louis. Blanche would want to know why she didn't pack her fancy frocks and go. She was having a hard enough time fending off her friend as it was.

The older woman didn't let up. "I said you could be pretty," she retorted. "But you won't. Shall I tell you why?"

"No." Sunny didn't like the change of tone in Blanche's voice. She had gone from teasing to serious, and Sunny wasn't ready for another dose of Blanche's honesty.

"You're afraid of men."

At first Sunny was stunned by the absurdity of Blanche's accusation. After a moment she broke into laughter. "Afraid! I've killed a couple, winged a dozen, and drug in more mean, sorry, male carcasses than most marshals."

Blanche shrugged dismissively. "When was the last time you kissed a man, Sunny? And I don't mean one of those prissy kisses on the cheek like Clayton gives you. When was the last time a man made your blood sing and your heart flutter and your toes curl?"

A long time, Sunny answered to herself. Paul was the last man who had made her feel that way, the last man she had really kissed. She didn't count that bastard Ed Beckler's putrid invasion when he'd tried to rape her. To Blanche she said, "I don't need my toes curled and I don't need a man. I want a business and that's what I'm going to have when I bring in Price Ramsey."

"Sunny-"

Sunny leaned over and gave Blanche a hug, an affectionate warning the conversation was at an end. "But thanks for caring," she said.

## Chapter 3

After two weeks of following him, Sunny still looked at Price Ramsey with amazement. She could see him from the rooming house window where she stood tying the ribbons of a fashionable hat beneath her chin. He paced alongside the bright-colored caravan down the street waiting for his cue to climb onto the stage. He wore a white shirt with shiny silver spangles on the yoke and long, shimmering, silk-like fringe on the sleeves. His hat was white and wide brimmed. Not an outfit many men could wear and not be run out of town. Ramsey was in no danger of that. Garbed like a dandy, he looked as masculine and virile as a sweat-laden smith at a forge.

Sunny left the window and slipped cautiously into the hall, only to find she was in no danger of being discovered in her uncomfortable disguise. The proprietors and boarders had already left the house and joined the crowd awaiting the start of the medicine show. Nevertheless, she chose to exit by a side door, preferring that no one associate her with the rudely dressed woman who had taken the room.

She couldn't see Ramsey as she made her way down Main Street to the empty lot where the show had set up, but it didn't matter because she still had a clear image of him in her mind. She knew his walk well enough to envision the length of his stride. She knew the way he rolled his shoulders before he started a performance, the way he cocked his head to one side and grinned when the doctor introduced him. And his face, she knew every angle of its chiseled perfection, the way it was tempered with just enough ruggedness to balance the flawless features.

No danger of her getting him confused with anyone else. Ramsey was one of a kind, no doubt the secret of his success with the ladies. Any woman would have envied his hair. It was a glossy mane, ebony, wavy, and brushed his shoulders, longer than most men wore it. He was tall, a head over average height. And he was broad of shoulder; his muscles bunched like forged iron beneath his form-fitting shirt when he drew his gun. He smiled when he fired at a target and the smile brought a guileless, boyish look to his face.

He wasn't what she had pictured the day she'd left Thaddeus Lord's office. Someone rangy and furtive like Keegan better fit her idea of a cagey outlaw. Ramsey looked as if he belonged where he was today and as if he aspired to nothing more than performing for a crowd the rest of his days. And if he didn't, he sure looked contented drawing admiration and envy from those who watched.

Had she not been present to see the man's other side when he expertly broke into one of Lord's offices and even a couple of city records offices, she could have believed there was no more to him than he showed on stage. The womanizing—he was as genuinely talented at that as he was at shooting targets—fit the showman's character. It had taken her a while to realize it fit the dark side of him, too. There was a pattern to the choosing of his amorous companions. He picked women who could tell secrets about Lord Mining. In one town he had bedded the wife of Lord's branch agent, in another a records clerk. But when there was no woman who could supply information, he still didn't sleep alone.

She couldn't count the number of pink, lace-edged handkerchiefs she had seen lovingly tucked into bodices after Ramsey rode out of a town. Identical handkerchiefs. He must have a bushel basket of them.

Unaccustomed to long skirts, Sunny nearly stumbled when she reached a step-up on the plank sidewalk and forgot to hold her petticoats out of the way. An old gentleman obligingly caught her elbow and helped her regain her equilibrium. Flushed, Sunny thanked him and hurried on.

She wasn't sure when she had gotten the idea of using Ramsey's inclination for her purposes. Maybe it had been Blanche's goading. She didn't like to think Lord had given the suggestion, but maybe he had in a way. She wasn't especially sure her plan was a good one. In any event, she wasn't about to go to the lengths Lord had implied. But she had been carrying the new Paris dress that was a birthday gift from Blanche. One day while she was watching Ramsey shoot, it had occurred to her that no one would be surprised if he disappeared with a woman.

A couple of boys outside a dry goods store whistled as she walked past, but Sunny never guessed she had inspired them. Her mind was spinning out a plan and her eyes were straight ahead, lest she miss another step and get tangled in her skirts. Walking took a lot of concentration when she had to think about it and go slow and step small. It was a real nuisance when she needed to focus solely on Ramsey and what she hoped to accomplish today.

For some reason she had managed to catch his eye during a performance the first time she'd decked herself out in the red silk dress. She didn't know why. She hadn't expected to get him to notice her so easily. She wasn't his type, and she didn't count herself a beauty despite what Blanche said. She had grown accustomed to repelling men rather than attracting them; usually they steered wide of her. But Ramsey had noticed her right off. And, she recalled with a certain amount of uneasiness, she had been flattered by his attention, found herself reflexively returning a glance, a smile, as if she were another person—and not Sunny Harlowe, who was immune to such weaknesses.

The same thing had happened again the next time she'd shown up in the dress: A glance, a smile, and then the feeling someone had taken over her being—a woman who looked at Price Ramsey with an entirely different eye. Totally baffled by what had happened to her, she reasoned that she had gotten too strongly into the flirtatious role she had designed for herself. After all, she could hardly convince the man she wanted to seduce him if she acted like a dead fish.

Was it hotter than usual? She felt uncomfortably warm and, seeing a shady spot, made her way toward it.

"Pardon me," she said with feigned sweetness to a small cluster of people at the back of the growing throng gathering to watch Dr. Delos's four o'clock show. "I want to slip right over there," she added softly.

"Anywhere you want, miss," one of the men said as the group politely parted for the lady.

A dress did have its advantages, Sunny acknowledged. Ladies in dresses got privileges rambunctious females in trousers were denied. Or didn't want, she thought fervently as she misjudged the breadth of her skirt and had to ask another gentleman to allow her to pass. What a bother. She'd take freedom and trousers and living life her way any day. And, she determined, as a petticoat wrapped around her ankle, neither Blanche nor Thaddeus Lord would ever know she stooped to dressing female to catch Ramsey.

A resounding ring of a gong reduced the chatter of the crowd to a few excited whispers. As the doctor started his spiel, Sunny stepped hurriedly upon a mounting box beside the street so that she might have a better view of the proceedings. And so that Ramsey would be sure to spot her, because today was an important day. She had fortified herself for the silent encounter, or at least she thought she had, until she saw him swing upon the platform and step to the front when Dr. Delos introduced him. A strangeness, a small flutter of a forgotten emotion, tested wings within her.

His stance wide-legged, Price tucked his thumbs into his gun belt and grinned. His pewter-gray trousers were form-fitting and taught more than one female a lot more than she had ever known about a man's physique. The girlish giggles were reminiscent of the sounds made by a flock of excited geese. Sunny saw a young woman near her grasp a companion's arms and heard her hint that she needed a strong sniff of hartshorn.

She wouldn't have expressed her own needs in exactly those terms, but she did have cause to question again if she had made a wise choice of method for apprehending Ramsey. Her mouth went dry and she felt positively tepid. She should have felt cooler in the shade. Her scowl came quickly. She resolved not to be outdone. She had made a choice and she wasn't much for changing her mind once she had it made up. That the sight of Price Ramsey made her quibble even for an instant over the decision only strengthened her determination.

Next week she'd lead the philandering swindler out of Wallis like a bull with a ring in his nose. Tight-lipped, Sunny stubbornly tossed her head back and tried to look coquettish. For now she would do what was necessary to snare him, even if it meant tolerating the absurd feelings he aroused in her.

***

Price felt the radiating warmth of her eyes on him before he had a chance to look for her in the crowd. Somehow he had known she would be there, though never a word had been spoken between them. The lady in red. Green-eyed like a goddess in a Greek tale. How did he know that? he wondered. He'd never been close enough to see the color of her eyes. But green they would be. He knew it. Knew it, just as he knew she was out there somewhere. But where? He wanted to locate her before the show started.

He shrugged uncomfortably, his concentration flickering like the flame of a candle in the wind. His normally steady fingers twitched hesitantly above the handle of the Colt. Delos gave him a peculiar look when he uncustomarily frowned and wiped his palm on the seat of his trousers. Price didn't have to guess why Delos had already categorized the 'lady in red' as a flight of fancy. That was because Delos hadn't seen her. But Price had seen the lady and exchanged a look and a vaporous thought with her. Today he wanted to talk with her. Today he would.

"One, two." Delos mumbled a count and hurled an object into the air. Price only half-heard the signal as a sudden coolness replaced the warmth he'd felt. He hesitated, aware he was stretching the time he had to make his shot but unable to stop himself from averting his eyes from what he was about. When he saw her he was restored, his mind clear, his hand fast—but not quite fast enough.

The clay disc hovered high in the air for a second, a black round against a clear blue sky. The bullet winged past it, missing, bringing gasps of surprise from the crowd bunched around Dr. Delos's medicine caravan. A second shot caught the disc one foot down to gravity's pull, exploding it over the sea of upturned heads.

Most thought the miss by the sable-haired shootist deliberate, a ploy to lower expectations and then dazzle with an amazing return of skill. Delos Hixley, shielding his eyes from the sun as he followed the shootist's performance with as much interest as the other onlookers, knew better. Until today he'd never seen Price Ramsey miss.

Delos relayed none of his surprise to the crowd. The remainder of the performance went without a hitch. Price expertly hit each bottle mounted on a spinning disk. His execution of the mirror trick was smooth, knocking apples off a pedestal behind him while he faced straight ahead. He aimed back over his shoulder, guided by the reflection in a hand-held looking glass.

"There you have it, folks," Delos shouted in his best barker's voice when the last target was shattered. The gun twirled in a silver flash around Price's finger, then dropped soundlessly into the silver-studded leather holster at his side. "A genuine shooting star." Laughter bubbled up from within the thick crowd. "A hand for Mr. Ramsey, folks." Delos spread his arms and beckoned shamelessly for plaudits. "Remarkable shooting, isn't it?" The applause rose slowly, like building thunder on a distant prairie. Delos marked his moment then lifted his voice above it. "And let me assure you, good people, Mr. Ramsey could not hit a washtub before he became a regular consumer of my elixir."

Grinning behind his shielding whiskers, Delos patted Price on the back and, with a whisper, reminded his partner to take a bow. Price complied, nodding an agreement to Delos's claim even if it was a great contortion of fact. Bending slightly from the waist, Price swept his hat from his head and smiled. Delos had a hard time remembering the medicine show was only a cover now and not their primary interest. He was willing to wager they were actually making a profit with this business. The bearded scalawag had the persuasive power to sell sand in the desert.

And damned if Delos hadn't talked him into trying the elixir a night ago while practicing his hawking skills. But then he had little right to fault Delos for his enthusiasm. He did his part to perfect the scheme, convincing the men and boys of the elixir's worth with his expert shooting. As far as he knew the ploy had proved successful. No one had connected the medicine show with the actions against Lord Mining. And he couldn't believe Thaddeus Lord wouldn't have shown his hand if he suspected them.

Half-heartedly, Price took a second bow and waved his hat to the appreciative crowd. He had too much on his mind to consider that it was his beguiling smile which brought a throng of women pressing forward, anxious for a closer look, hoping for a word of acknowledgment, or a chance to touch the handsome shootist. His eyes were not on the many eager female faces before him, but rather on a single one. His smile was for the woman standing quietly on the edge of the crowd, the lady in red, the lady who had just made him forget about Lord Mining. The lady who had made him miss—the one and only missed shot of his performing career. When their eyes met, softly locked together for a moment, he swore he felt her warmth as if she were truly beside him.

_Wait_ _,_ his look pleaded. He hoped she understood.

"See you later," he mumbled aloud to Delos. In one swift motion he swung off the exhibition platform, his highly polished boots raising a cloud-like puff of dust from the ground as they thumped down.

Delos, caught by surprise, cursed savagely beneath his breath. Price didn't take this part of the operation seriously enough. They had to do a passable amount of business in each town to appear a legitimate medicine show, otherwise Lord might begin to question why the two of them showed up in every town his agents visited. Blast Price. He didn't like being left to handle the selling by himself. Besides, sales were always better if Price stayed around after an exhibition.

A downward twist of his lips signaled Delos's discontent; but, in the process of making change for a leather-faced old rancher, he could do nothing but grumble to himself. He hoped this was one of the times the boy was off after a good lead and not just another petticoat.

Price towered over most of those congregating in the empty lot. Looking over the mass of dusty hats and straw bonnets, his gaze honed in on a crescent of white lace peeping from beneath a red skirt as the wearer turned briskly toward the street. She was forced to pause a moment when the swaying plume of egret feathers mounted on her velvet hat caught in the low branches of a shade tree.

Price, marking his way to her, thanked fate for the opportunity to see her face more clearly as she anxiously removed the troublesome hat and sought to disengage it from the lattice of branches. She was as unpretentiously beautiful as he had imagined, and no more than fifty feet away, a minute in time. He pushed eagerly forward only to find himself held briefly by someone clutching his sleeve.

"Just wanted to show you my gun, mister." A gangly youngster attempted to twirl a rudely carved wooden pistol around his finger, imitating what he had seen Price do on stage. Price had either to step over the boy or stop and wait. When the spinning toy flew from the lad's hand, Price caught it.

"Keep practicing, son." He returned the boy's gun, then caught the youngster by the shoulders and moved him aside. His path open, he looked up hopefully to see if the woman still stood beneath the tree. She did. Her careful attempt to free her hat had not succeeded. But in another moment she tossed caution aside and snatched it from the branch.

Pursuing a woman was a new experience for Price Ramsey, and this one, it seemed, was not overly burdened with patience. Evidently she had waited as long as she would for him. Without a glance back, she hurried away. Nevertheless, he meant to catch her. What he lacked in practice and proficiency, he made up in zest. Excusing himself from a gentleman who stopped him, he folded himself into the crowd to shorten the distance between him and the retreating lady in red, not counting on the delays a few more polite remarks would cost.

His tolerance worn through by the fourth time he stopped to acknowledge a compliment on his shooting form, he brushed past the next talkative person with more rudeness than tact. Still he was too late. The lady in red had vanished just as she had in the town before and the town before that.

"Damn!" Price slapped his tall hat against his thigh. The street ahead was empty, as was the alley to his right. He cursed again, loudly enough to draw a stare or two. This was getting to be danged mysterious—a beautiful woman, the same woman, watching the show, wrecking his concentration, then disappearing when he tried to find her afterwards.

He spun about in the street, his fingers stroking the handle of the Colt. He was so upset over losing her he was tempted to draw and shoot out every windowpane in town.

Where was she? Who was she? He kicked vigorously at the dirt, smudging the smooth toe of his boot. That she had attended the last three shows defied the likelihood of simple coincidence. The towns he'd performed in were dozens of miles apart, and the last two weren't even on the rail line. She hadn't waited around to buy elixir or Rosepetal cream at any of the shows. That suggested she had been there to see him. At least, he believed that was the case.

Feeling like a lost calf, Price turned back to the caravan. Delos was swamped, which would make him happy. Too happy, Price suspected, as he retraced his steps. He hoped there was something tastier than elixir stashed in the caravan's stores. His mind needed a distraction. However, when several sweet-faced misses stopped him, circuitously hinting they were free for the evening, for once he wasn't interested and sidestepped the invitations. He wasn't in the mood for a woman tonight, not unless she was fair-skinned and fair-haired and wrapped in a gown of scarlet silk.

Thinking about that particular woman, he didn't notice that he was walking beneath the sweep of branches, the same branches that had caught the elusive lady's hat. The snaking limbs brushed his hat, too, knocking it askew on his head.

Impatiently he pushed the bough aside, bringing leaves and limbs below eye level and giving him a reason to thank lady luck. Laced in the outermost branches was a feather, long and curved, bright red against the limb that held it. Price plucked it out and, with no hesitation, wove it into the plaited leather band circling his hat. And he changed his mind. He wasn't going back to the caravan. He would keep looking. He had a little part of her now, not much, but one small thing that was hers. It made him more determined than ever to find the lady it belonged to.

***

The livery was dark, smelling of horseflesh and hay and worse. It was no place for a woman in a silk gown, but Sunny didn't care much for the dress anyway. In fact, she rued having put it on the first time. She had thought it would make her work easier. It hadn't. It had made it harder. Now she had these wayward feelings to contend with in addition to the job she had pledged to do.

Pressed against the wall, still and quiet, she felt like pacing but dared not when Ramsey might be only yards away. Nevertheless, her heart raced. He had been hell-bent to catch her, and she had barely slipped into the stable ahead of him. She held her breath at a noise near the doorway. Was it Ramsey? A shrill cry brought her gloved hand to her lips before she realized the sounds she heard were those of children running past.

Blast it! Why was there no crack in the boards that she could see out? Blast him! She nervously lowered her hand to her thumping heart. It had not slowed a whit, though there had been plenty of time to recover from running, which served to confirm her fear. Her heart raced for another reason—the way he had looked at her.

She breathed in deeply, then let the air out of her lungs in too fast a gush. Why had he looked at her in that tender, anxious way? Why had he not leered? He seemed the sort who would leer at a woman. But what was she thinking? Women adored him. He must surely be masterful at charming them with his eyes.

She gave a downward glance at herself, wondering just how she looked to a man like Ramsey. She'd never ventured close enough for him to get a clear look at her face, so evidently the dress had captured his interest. Even she could see how costly it appeared compared to what other women in the crowds had been wearing. Most likely she looked like a rich, man-hungry spinster. She nodded her head, confirming the worst. Of course it was the dress. He'd have looked the same way at a scarecrow wearing a Paris dress.

Why didn't she want to believe that? Sighing, Sunny crossed her hands over her chest then drew them slowly down over the smooth, cool red silk, not quite able to put out of her mind the way his gaze had sought her out. She had felt his eyes touching her as surely as she would have felt soft, warm strokes from his hands. He had been saying things to her, silently, but she had heard; she had understood the invitation.

And halfway liked it. Sweet Jesus! Sunny whistled softly in the darkness. She hadn't been repulsed by the way he had looked at her. Wasn't that what really bothered her? Her hands flew to her tightly coiled hair. She had dressed it a special way. How many years since she had done that?

A curse rolled softly off her lips. This was an unexpected fix to be in. She wasn't supposed to feel like a filly going into heat. And what was she going to do about it? Should she stop what she had begun and try a new approach? Deliberating, Sunny licked her lips. She thought a moment more, then concluded that changing horses in the middle of the stream seemed something of a shame when the one she had started out on was doing so well. Ramsey _had_ followed her, as she had wanted him to.

And he had missed the shot. She was sure she was to blame for that. He had been watching her instead of the target; their eyes had met. When he should have been taking aim, he had been pleading with her, in that silent way, to wait for him. She felt a capricious surge of pleasure knowing she had the power to distract him.

But then he had distracted her, too. Damn him! Anger swarmed through her, sweeping out the warm pleasurable feeling. Damn the man for affecting her this way. She didn't like it, and she wouldn't have it. It made her feel vulnerable and weak—womanly weak. She hadn't felt that way in a long, long time, not since the morning she had awakened in the Colorado cabin and realized Paul was not beside her. So long ago.

The memories flooded in and hurt as much as ever; but the images were not as clear, not as strong. A strange, warm shudder ran over Sunny, filling her with dregs of shame and guilt. She fought it by thrusting her chin high and pulling herself up straight. How could she forget even one small detail of that day? How? That bastard Ramsey. Damn him.

Her gleaming eyes narrowed. Angrily, she looked down at the dress, tucks and ruffles of silk and lace. Damn the dress too. She'd get rid of the dress soon enough. It sure as hell didn't suit her. It was too fussy, too feminine, too pretty. The hat too, the ridiculous hat with the ostentatious feathers. She did like the color. Red was her favorite, the color of roses, the color of life. Exhaling heavily, she reflected that she needed something to remind her of life. She supposed Blanche knew that. Dear sweet Blanche knew too much about her. Far too much.

A horse stomped and shifted just across the stable. She hadn't chosen the best of hiding places. The livery was hot, not a wisp of a breeze drifted inside, and she had no idea how long she would need to stay put. Already she had been here long enough for tiny crystals of perspiration to dampen her brow.

Annoyed, she fanned herself with the bonnet, but somehow the brisk stir of air did little to cool her down. She was about to risk a peep out the door, when outside she heard the uncertain footsteps of a man. _Him._ All her senses warned it was Ramsey. She stilled her breath, afraid her ragged breathing and thundering heartbeat echoed in the dark cave of the barn. He could not come in here. He could not find her now.

Teeth clamped tight on her lower lip, eyelids screwed down, she forcibly wished Price Ramsey away. When she heard the footsteps renewed, retreating, she managed a thin smile.

What would the all-knowing Blanche say now if she saw the indomitable Sunny Harlowe standing in the shadows shaking because of a man? She hardly needed to ask. Blanche would try to make something of it. She'd insist it was the golden eyes and the twenty-dollar smile that kept Sunny's heart beating too fast, that had her breathing too shallowly. It wasn't. Sunny swore to herself that it wasn't.

She fanned harder, then gave up, certain the effort only made her hotter. The man was phony as fool's gold. The package looked good, but what was underneath was just plain useless. Admittedly he had a natural magnetism. Hadn't she seen him use it on other women, many women? And hadn't every one of them seemed to believe the blazing smile and the occasional wink was just for her?

A feeling of distaste closed in, tightening her jaw. She had to watch Ramsey a while longer, like it or not. She didn't have all the evidence Lord wanted, but she had enough to know he was what Lord had said. And as for women—he wore them like boutonnieres—it was time he met one he couldn't bed at night and leave by morning's light.

Sunny took a deep, purging breath. It was just a game after all, hunter and prey. All the better if the prey didn't know the rules. He was a showman, a confidence man; he made his living fooling people. It was time he got his comeuppance. She took another, deeper breath and felt the confining laces of corset and gown. At that she smiled. Coming close to Price Ramsey had made her feel the same way—roped in and deprived of air. Her eyes widened and glowed dangerously like a cat's in the dark. He wouldn't get to her again.

For lack of a better place, Sunny plopped the ruined bonnet back on her head. Now that she had pulled the facts before her, it was plain enough she couldn't find a thing she liked about Price Ramsey. He had looks, but substance was what mattered. A man who couldn't make an honest living wasn't good for anything. She'd get Lord all his evidence; and, by golly, if only for the aggravation he'd caused her, she'd enjoy taking Price Ramsey in.

"You all right, miss?" The livery owner's helper, a teenaged boy who looked as if he were mostly arms and legs, approached from the rear of the barn.

Startled, Sunny moved out of the shadows walking purposely toward the fifth stall. "I'm perfectly fine," she snapped. "Just taking a moment to get my footing. It's dark in here," she added, feeling foolish. "I wanted to check on my horse. He's been favoring one leg."

"Ma'am?" The boy's eyes clouded. He had personally stabled all the saddle horses and didn't remember the woman in the beautiful dress.

Still bewildered, he stepped aside for her to open a stall door and ease inside the space shared by a pinto mare and a scruffy-looking mongrel dog the size of a pony. The animals had no trouble recognizing Sunny. The horse nickered and the dog gave an affectionate whine. The bemused lad hung over the stall gate watching, slowly putting together that the beautiful lady in the silk dress was the same plain Jane who had ridden in wearing denim and homespun.

"That's better, Nugget." Sunny gently lifted the mare's right forefoot and examined it. "You rubbed her down like I told you?" she asked the boy.

"Yes, ma'am."

The dog stretched and shook and insisted on having his head scratched. "You fed the dog too?"

"I got the meat scraps like you wanted. He ate aplenty."

Sunny nodded. "Feed them both good tonight. I'll be riding out early in the morning." She gave the boy a few coins for the meat scraps, more than was needed. "You keep what's left over. Just don't mention anything about me to anybody."

"Yes, ma'am. Whatever you say." The boy's face beamed with a smile. "Wish you'd stay longer."

"Not this time," she replied.

The medicine show was headed to Wallis, where Lord had the headquarters for his new operation. Thankfully, the shyster who sold elixir talked freely enough in the saloons to keep her informed of each destination. Traveling on horseback, she had been able to arrive before them. She wanted to get to Wallis ahead of them, too. It was there things would come to a head.

If Price Ramsey was going to make a major move against Lord Mining, it would happen in Wallis. And then she could take him into custody and collect the remainder of her ten thousand dollars, which, she reminded herself, as she guardedly made her way to the telegraph office, was all that mattered to her.

Sunny penned a message and slipped it to the operator. Now Lord knew all that she knew about Ramsey, including last night's clandestine visit to the local mining office. Sunny paid the operator and hurried off toward the boarding house, ignoring the admiring looks and tips of hats she encountered along the way. The silk dress suddenly felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. It was past time to get out of it and past time for the lady in red to disappear again.

***

"Not a sign of her. I've been by every dress and millinery shop in Kirbytown, every tearoom, every place a lady might have gone on a Saturday afternoon." Two hours after the shooting exhibition, Price reluctantly walked with Delos toward the swinging doors of the Wild Horse Saloon. "How can a woman like that vanish?"

Delos chuckled, finding it inordinately gratifying to see Price annoyed by a woman. "I've told you this lady you profess to have seen is no more than an enigma, the product of a psychic desire to meet a female who doesn't throw herself at your feet." He glanced offhandedly at Price's expensive boots then shook his head thoughtfully. "Or whatever it is about you they throw themselves at."

"The woman is real." Not up to Delos's jibes, Price whipped off his hat and showed his partner the feather woven into the hatband. "She lost this," he said.

Delos touched the feather, noting that it was far too expensive an adornment for the bonnet of local rancher's or shopkeeper's daughter. "Maybe she's an angel," he surmised. "Maybe she can fly."

Price hit the palm of one hand with the balled fist of the other. "Maybe you can if you don't quit making sport—"

Eyes narrowed and on Delos as they stepped onto the plank sidewalk, Price didn't notice that he was about to collide with someone coming from the opposite direction. He broke his stride and dodged, managing to avoid knocking down the smaller person but nevertheless giving him a sound jolt on the shoulder.

"Sorry, mister—," he started, then realized the slim figure nearly hidden in a loose shirt and baggy trousers was feminine. "Pardon me, miss." Price tipped his hat. The woman, face almost hidden beneath the frayed brim of a down-turned hat, rubbed her shoulder as if it smarted. "Hope I didn't hurt you."

"Clumsy, ain't you?" she mumbled, her gaze darting to his face, then his hat, but lowering too quickly for him to notice the quick loss of color in her cheeks or the tremor in her hands before she shoved them into her pant's pockets. "Just watch your step from now on."

"Yes, ma'am." The grin and the softening of the voice were automatic. Neither seemed to placate the young woman. She was young, he was certain. A glimpse had shown him that the backs of her sun-browned hands were smooth and the line of her chin—he could only see that much of her face—was firm.

He might have said more in way of apology, but from the corner of his eye he could see Delos smirking at him and knew he was in for more of his partner's slashing wit as soon as the lady moved on. He adjusted his opinion as he half-turned and watched her walk away. She wasn't a lady. No lady would appear in public with such disregard for her appearance. Still there was a certain grace to her walk which held his eye until Delos called to him.

"I suppose it happens to every man at some point in his life," Delos said with too much glee. "It's all a matter of science and mathematical probabilities."

"What?" Price responded irritably.

"A man eventually loses his appeal to the female of the species. I think perhaps it has to do with over-stimulation of the glands and overuse of certain personal abilities. A woman senses such a thing." Delos rolled his eyes skyward and chuckled. "A girl as homely as that one should have thanked her stars for a chance to bump into the illustrious Price Ramsey."

The jab missed the mark. "She was an odd one," Price said, thinking aloud. Something about the girl in the baggy clothes and battered hat hovered in his mind. He heard a dog bark as he glanced over his shoulder once more, in time to see the girl heading toward the livery. His gaze remained on her until there was nothing to see but the black gap of the doorway she had passed through. The walk didn't fit. It belonged to someone else, not some sodbuster's daughter who, by the looks of her, had never owned a dress. "An odd one," he repeated, drawing an astonished look from Delos.

"Come on, boy." Delos nudged him toward the Wild Horse. "I am anxious to put my new theory to the test."

The raw, tinny sound of an out-of-tune piano spilled onto the sidewalk. Delos pushed open the louvered doors of the saloon. No one took notice of his entry except the bartender, who kept a mental head count of customers.

"Talk sense, Delos," Price warned, following Delos into the orange spray of light inside the doors.

Three satin-clad saloon girls scattered from their spots at the bar before the slatted doors settled together behind Price. One yellow-haired miss, a bit quicker on her feet than the others, grabbed his arm first. The remaining pair, both dark-haired and buxom, refused to be outdone. Soon, despite his objections, Price was being fiercely pulled in three directions.

"Another theory spent," Delos grumbled as he seated himself at an empty table and waited for Price to extricate himself from the determined women. He welcomed a bottle of whiskey, then poured a drink and let the scouring heat of the liquid trickle down his throat. At length a woman named Daisy noticed him and the bottle and asked to join him. Ever the gentleman, Delos stood and helped Daisy be seated.

With a play at ceremony, Delos poured her a drink and another for himself, then raised his glass in what his companion thought was to be a salute to her charms until he wearily shook his head and said, "Science is exasperatingly inexact, my dear."

## Chapter 4

"He's not nearly as smart as Lord thinks he is, Ring." A lantern lit the dark interior of the stable as dusk fell. "Or he would have realized he had lost this." Sunny turned a pocket watch in her hand. "P-J-R." She read aloud the scrolled letters engraved in the gold casing.

Luckily the hook on the chain had been easy to open and she had encountered no difficulty removing it. Picking pockets was something she had learned from one of the first outlaws she had brought in, C.T. Barr. He'd been a friendly old cuss, harmless except for a bad habit of robbing banks. Picking pockets was a sideline for Barr, a pastime, like whittling was for some men his age. Teaching Sunny his tricks had been a kind of gift. He'd claimed it was something of an honor to have a woman sent after him.

The offer to teach her a couple of things came after she caught him lifting the key to the cuffs he was wearing from a ring on her belt. Thanks to Barr she could strip a pocket and ease off a watch without giving herself away. Not that she ordinarily did either, but she had wanted something from Ramsey that would be useful later, something she could use for an introduction. Now she had it.

The watch's smooth gold casing reflected the soft lantern light. It looked old, like it might be an heirloom piece that had been passed down from one generation to another. Ramsey was sure to miss it and sure to be curious when it turned up again.

The little escapade on the sidewalk had served another purpose too. It had given Sunny a chance to meet Price Ramsey and prove he was nothing special. She hadn't turned to butter and melted on the spot the way she had feared she would when she had been wearing the red dress. And neither had he. She'd been just a bumpkin who had gotten in his way. But it had been a different story when she had been all gussied up.

She clenched her teeth together and shook her head vigorously. That damned dress. She'd sworn she'd throw it out when she'd undressed, but hadn't. Right now it was neatly folded and packed in the large saddle pouch stored in her hotel room. Blanche's feelings would have been hurt if she'd thrown it away, she rationalized as her cheeks flamed.

Besides, Ramsey wouldn't see her in it again or get another chance to turn those golden eyes of his on her as if he meant to reel her into his heart. Not a chance of that. Swearing softly, she turned and kicked an empty feed sack out of her way. She doubted if the man had a heart.

If he had, he'd have known her no matter what she was wearing. He hadn't come close to recognizing her on the sidewalk, which proved he didn't look past stylish attire when he saw a woman. In the silk dress she had probably looked like the wealthiest female in the crowd and undoubtedly that was the kind he liked. Did he get women to give him money? She wouldn't put it past him. Ramsey was a ladies man, pure and simple. Nothing more. Unless being an opportunist counted.

Forcing an end to thoughts of Ramsey, Sunny hid the watch in her pants pocket and shoved open the door of Nugget's stall. Once inside, she offered a red apple to the horse, named for her worth as a mount and not for her color. Nugget's coat was pale as milk and heavily spotted with black patches. An irregular marking covered most of her well-shaped head. Her mane and tail were jet black as well. Sunny lifted a hand and stroked the horse between the ears. Nugget wrinkled her fuzzy muzzle and, with bared teeth, took the apple, crunching half of it away with a first bite.

When it was all gone, Sunny wiped the sticky drops of juice from her hand, using sacking which hung over the stall's dividers, then knelt and called to Ring. He wagged his tail in response. Sunny would not think of favoring one animal over the other. While Nugget took a drink, she withdrew a small parcel secreted in another pocket.

"Here, Ring." Sunny opened up the brown paper and removed a chunk of cornbread, which she crumbled for the dog. No one could doubt that Ring had been named for his appearance. He was the color of soot, his black coat short and mottled with white. The inspiration for his name was a band of white circling his back right leg just above the paw. When Sunny held out the cornbread he gave a whimper, his dark eyes shining with love for his mistress. Sunny scratched the top of his head with one hand as she allowed him to eat from the other. The dog, who had genteel manners for a mutt, ate the treat slowly.

When he was done and quietly curled in the straw in a corner of the stall, a cold emptiness washed over Sunny. Too often recently she felt a need for human company, and too often she found it difficult to come by. As Blanche had indelicately pointed out, most men stood in awe of her. Wives and mothers did not warmly welcome her into their circle. Blanche's girls were friendly enough, but she soon ran short of things in common with saloon girls. When she added up her true friends, there were only two, Blanche and Clayton Guthrie.

She didn't like to admit that, except for her work, her life was empty. But the emptiness stretched through her, even to her stomach, causing it to twist and churn. She tried to solace herself with the thought that perhaps it was only her stomach which needed filling and not her heart.

Absently, Sunny plucked a hay stem from the horse's trough and started chewing the sweetness from it as she nestled into the straw beside her dog, her knees pulled up in front of her and her arms looped tightly around them. Why now? she wondered. Why, when she was so close to having what she had worked for, did she fear it wouldn't be enough? She tried to concentrate on the money she would earn by taking in Ramsey, the money that would allow her to open her own agency and hire a staff of detectives to work for her. But the hollow feeling hung with her, growing until she felt as if her whole being were lost in the looming blackness of a bottomless pit.

Her head fell back against the rough boards of the stall. She needed something to hold on to, something alive and warm. That was what Blanche had tried to tell her and what she had refused to hear. Ring whimpered in concern as Sunny gave a weighty groan. She stretched out a hand and rested it on the dog's head. Touching him helped for a while, but eventually her restlessness returned and neither Ring's nor Nugget's presence could entirely relieve the cold, barren feeling that was becoming a part of her.

Sunny sighed deeply, desperately, and hugged her legs more tightly against her chest. Until lately, the satisfaction of tracking outlaws and bringing them to justice had sufficiently served all her needs.

And would again, she thought, filling with angry determination. Her slack jaw snapped tight and she thrust her legs out straight in front of her. The hay stem, bitten in two, fell from her lips and then, as if to defy her burst of determination, a naggingly clear image came to mind and like a wildfire rekindled the feeling of loneliness. She kept seeing Price Ramsey's face, remembering the way he'd looked at her that last moment as she had stood on the edge of the crowd. She acknowledged she had been disappointed when he hadn't recognized her outside the Wild Horse. It meant the real Sunny Harlowe wasn't worth a second glance. Ramsey, the first man in years to turn up a semblance of warm emotion in her, preferred a woman who was not real.

He had found her lost feather. She recalled the shock of seeing it in his hatband. And yet he hadn't recognized the woman who'd lost it. Why did that bother her so much? Her troubled expression darkened. Abruptly she got up from her place beside the dog, her sudden uneasiness startling Ring and bringing a surprised snort from Nugget.

"Sorry," she said, giving each a calming pat.

Damn Ramsey! The man was worse than a cactus spine beneath her skin. If she had to think about him, why did it have to be in the wrong ways? Why couldn't she concentrate on how she was going to get him to Lord? She had to figure out the details. He was never far away from that partner of his, and Lord wanted him brought in without arousing anyone's suspicion.

Sunny reached back and brushed vigorously at the seat of her pants, knocking away the clinging bits of straw. A deep frown curled down the corners of her full mouth. Why of all the men who had crossed her path did Price Ramsey have to be the one to put her in a quandary? Hadn't she seen enough to prove he was every bit as despicable as Lord had said? Why did she keep looking for some redeeming quality in the man? And why was she wasting time wondering about things that were foregone?

Mumbling irritably to herself, Sunny reached for the latch on the stall door. She had a job to do and a reputation to uphold. She also had a soft bed waiting at the hotel, a big, lonely, soft bed.

***

On the lumpy mattress of a cot in the bunkhouse of Billy Owens' Double O Ranch three miles outside of Wallis, California, Price Ramsey sat absently stroking the quill of a red egret feather set into the laces of his hatband. Delos, watching, deduced that Price wore the feather like a trophy.

If he didn't have too scientific a mind to believe in hocus-pocus, he could believe the keepsake had some sort of effect on the boy. Price had stopped his womanizing, at least for the four days since they had left Kirbytown. A short term, but one that had to be a record for Delos's philandering partner. Price's abstinence was not for lack of opportunity. He could have had a private orgy that last night at the Wild Horse, but he had not taken any one of the three saloon girls to bed.

Delos turned his eyes back to the book resting on the bare table beneath a lantern's pale light. Something was wrong with the boy. He hoped it wasn't that drink of the elixir he had persuaded Price to take about a week back. Anxiously, Delos stroked his chin whiskers, noting he needed a trim. The suggestion of a frown on his face deepened into full-blown worry. If it were the elixir which had stopped Price's interest in women, Delos Hixley would have half of California hunting for him and ready to string him up.

Price, dressed entirely in black from boots to bandanna, slid his hat on, then looked up and noticed Delos's furrowed brow. "What's wrong?" He left the bunk, spun around one of the bentwood chairs at the table, and straddled the round seat of it.

Delos closed his book, forgetting to mark his place. "Nothing," he said carelessly. "Just worrying about you going out alone tonight. I'd feel better if you took Billy or one of the boys with you."

Price's smile was one of indulgence. The raid on Lord Mining he had planned was the riskiest one to date. Lord had slipped two rail cars up the mountain and they were loaded with water-shooting, cannon-like machines called monitors. As soon as his crews got them put together, they could begin mining. The job was a big risk, and Price preferred to do it himself.

"I've got a better chance of not being seen if I go in alone," he told Delos.

"Maybe." Delos stopped short of agreeing though he knew Price was right. Anybody caught up there tonight stood a chance of being shot or jailed.

"Definitely," Price countered. "Those big monitors are still loaded on the rail cars. A loose brake and a shove will send both of them into the gully below. One man's got a chance of slipping past the sentries. Two or more up the risk of discovery."

"You're right." Delos stood and stretched, his body taut and unyielding as if he were the one riding out on a dangerous mission. "Lord's men will be weeks getting those heavy barrels out of the mire."

"If luck is with us, that will be time enough to throw him past his deadline," Price commented.

"No reason luck should fail us at this point," said a towheaded man who had slipped into the bunkhouse unnoticed.

Price turned. His smile was friendly but brief. "No reason except that I've lost my good-luck piece," he said dryly.

"Your grandfather's watch?" Billy Owens was a big man, but he crossed the floor with a silent stride learned from spending several years living among Indians. "How did that happen?"

"Beats me," Price answered. "Grandpa gave me his watch because I bore his name. I'd managed to hold on to it since I was twelve years old, and now it's gone and I don't have a clue where I lost it."

"Too bad." Billy's face was without expression, but Price knew he understood what it meant to lose something that mattered. All that his family had owned had been burned out in the war. One memento—the old family Bible, a tintype, anything from those days—would have been a treasure. "Take this," Billy said, quickly slipping a scabbard and a Bowie knife from his belt. "There's luck on it, and you might need it tonight."

"Thanks." Price quickly fastened the scabbard to his side, hoping Billy's lucky piece would serve him as well as his own had on many occasions. If it did, he wouldn't need the steel blade for anything more than cutting rope. He wouldn't count his mission successful unless no blood was shed.

Delos pulled his pocket watch from a shallow vest pocket. The gold chain swayed against his belly as he flipped open the case. "It's midnight," he said.

"No moon," Billy added, his tone as unrevealing as his face.

Price nodded, and the three of them left the bunkhouse together, walking quietly past a shed and a corncrib to the big barn on the south side of the ranch. Billy's horse, a coal-black stallion, was saddled and tied behind the barn near a grove of trees; Price would have cover as soon as he mounted. Billy untied the reins and Price swung into the saddle. He gave a farewell salute to Delos and Billy, then turned the horse about and rode off. But for the soft thump of hoofbeats, neither Billy nor Delos would have known a rider left the ranch. In his dark garb, both Price and the horse were little more than shadows in the darkness.

"Good luck," Billy said softly as the hoofbeats, too, became part of the night.

***

On a hillside above the ranch, Sunny Harlowe didn't need to see or hear a rider. She had Ring and he had senses not dependent on moonlight or hoofbeats. He whimpered and nudged Sunny's thigh with his nose. She acknowledged the alert with a soft stroke to the dog's head, then swiftly mounted Nugget.

"You lead, we'll follow," she whispered to the dog. In another moment they set off after the other rider, only the dog knowing the direction to take. But Ring was unerring, so Sunny held back never risking following close enough to be heard. The ride was long, an hour at the least, in a steady climb up the hills rimming the valley beyond Wallis. At times all she could see of Ring was the flash of the white band on his leg as he danced over the rocks ahead of her. When he halted and dropped to his haunches, she knew the rider she followed had also stopped.

"The mine," she said in the softest of whispers. She knew where the rider had led her, and she could guess why. The mining operation headquarters was high above the valley where the river cut deepest through the rocks. New mining equipment had arrived and been hauled up the mountain before she arrived in Wallis. Ramsey—her intuition told her he was the rider she'd trailed—if as bent on destroying Lord Mining as she had been told, would undoubtedly attempt to sabotage the equipment. She dismounted and tied her horse, thankful she had scouted up this way that first day in town. She knew the lay of the buildings and the location of the rail spur that served the mine. "Stay, Ring," she commanded the dog.

He obeyed but whimpered and scratched the ground with his front paw as if asking her to reconsider. Sunny did not relent. She knew the dog would be there in a flash if she cried out or if he sensed she needed him. She did not anticipate needing Ring. She was here to watch, not to stop what Ramsey was doing. Lord had been specific about that.

With utmost caution Sunny made her way down an old footpath which led to the rear of the mining office. She never reached the building. A massive boulder offered a good view of the side tracks where the rail cars sat. Sunny climbed atop it, flattening herself out so that if he were there as she believed and looked up, he would see only an indiscernible bulge on the rock's surface.

He was there. Her heart seemed to stop then start ticking like a clock. Ramsey. His size, his moves identified him. She had observed both closely enough at the shooting exhibitions. Now her heart pounded from side to side as if a pendulum swung wildly within her chest. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp. She was close, close enough to see in the threads of moonlight the distinctive profile she knew as well as her own, close enough to glimpse the golden eyes glowing in the darkness, close enough to feel the same tumbling excitement in the pit of her stomach that she had felt those times she had watched him and met his gaze.

***

His hand tightened on the brake lever. Releasing it would make a grating noise, but he was willing to chance that. The guards had cleaned out a bottle of red-eye and wouldn't wake for anything short of an earthquake. Clenching his jaw, he jerked the lever once. It was set tight. He positioned himself for another, stronger pull, then stopped and slid his hand to the knife Billy had loaned him. First he would cut the heavy ropes which held the tarps and equipment on the cars.

Abandoning the lever for the time being, he found the main ropes and sawed through them with his blade. When the final strands gave way, Price heard the big machines on the cars clank slightly then settle still again. He eased back to the second car and began to cut the ropes securing its load. And then he stopped.

The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. Someone was near. Not the guards. Someone he knew. The realization came reflexively, for he saw no one, heard no one. But an inherent sixth sense, buried deep within a person by years of civilization, came to the fore and, with it, acute alertness.

"Billy," he whispered. "You out there?" He wouldn't put it past Delos to have persuaded Billy to follow him to the mine.

He got no answer, but the silence did not convince him the feeling he had was wrong. His eyes went upward drawn by an invisible cord to the boulder beside the tracks. He thought he saw a movement, a shadow, a shadow woman outlined by the starlight. And then there was nothing but the bulking form of the rock.

Damn! Damn that woman! Why had she leaped into his thoughts now? This was not the time to think of her and what starlight was meant for. Not now. Later the time for that would come. When all this was done, he would look for her, look for his lady in red.

Relaxing, Price returned to his work on the ropes, hurriedly severing those which held the load on the second car. Then he moved like a stalking cat back to the first car to renew his efforts to force free the frozen brake lever. Whoever was up there meant him no ill. His sixth sense told him so and he trusted it. It had to be Billy or someone who sympathized with what he was about to do, someone who was there to make sure he didn't face any trouble alone. Anyone who wanted to could have put a bullet in him by now. He was trespassing and obviously doing harm to mine property.

With his full weight working against it, the level creaked, then broke free with a steely groan, sending the first of the flat cars inching down the side track. The second car was easier to set loose and by comparison leaped into motion. Price thought it might overtake the first. Both had picked up enough speed to jump the barriers at the end of the tracks, which was what he had counted on. Crouching beside the boulder, he watched a few seconds more, then set out in a run. Drunk or not, the guards were sure to think an earthquake had hit when those cars dropped off into the gully.

Seconds later he found his horse and leaped astride, riding hard, as if the sparse moonlight which had served him on the mountain hadn't disappeared, as if he could see.

***

The note arrived early at the ranch, before Price was awake.

Mr. Ramsey:

I have a personal item of yours I would like to return. Please meet me in the tearoom of the Louisa Hotel at four this afternoon.

"Who delivered it?" Delos asked.

"The errand boy from the Louisa," Billy answered, waving the blue sheet of scented paper beneath his nose. "He got it from the desk clerk so he didn't know who it was from. I asked." He smiled. "Smells sweet."

"Give it to me, Billy." Price, freshly shaved and enjoying a late breakfast prepared by Billy's housekeeper, snatched the note from his friend's hand. "You stay too much in my business."

Billy's smile got bigger. He probably did stay too much in Price's business. But then, what was life for if you couldn't annoy your friends? Besides he had a feeling Price still didn't believe him about not following him up the mountain the night before. "Stop sulking," he said once again. "I wasn't up there last night."

"Somebody was," Price returned.

"Forget that. It's done. If anybody was up there, they were of our persuasion." Delos, eyes lined from the sleepless hours and worry of the night before, thumped ashes from his cigar into the cold grate of the parlor fireplace. He was glad the job was finished and that they could occupy themselves with less stressful matters for a few days. He pointed his cigar at the note Price held. "I didn't know you had struck up a close alliance with a woman in Wallis," he said.

"I haven't." Price left the small table which had been prepared for him and moved to the window for a closer and more private look at the note. He still wasn't convinced Billy hadn't followed him to the mine but, as Delos had said, that was done. If anything, he should be grateful to know he could count on Billy if he ever needed him.

Price settled his large frame into a heavy stuffed chair covered with leather. Billy poured a round of drinks for a delayed, but no less celebratory, toast commemorating the success of Price's visit to the mine. If talk from town was half-true, the start of mining operations would be delayed until the equipment could be dug out and drawn from the mire. And that would be no easy job. Lord would have to get mules for the pulling, and the delay could give Price and his friends time to shake Lord loose from his mining rights.

And this, Price thumped the blue paper on the padded arm of the chair, couldn't possibly have anything to do with his work last night. Or could it? Maybe some grateful citizen had heard of the mine's misfortune and suspected how it had come about. No. He shook his head as he studied the note. That didn't add up. This was about returning something that belonged to him.

Brow furrowed, he reread what was written, learning no more than he already knew. It was unsigned and, for the life of him, he couldn't come up with the name of a female in Wallis who could have a personal item of his. He had purposely kept himself out of entanglements in Wallis.

Still puzzling over the author's identity, he touched the paper to his nose. The perfume was intriguing, the fragrance reminded him of the wildflowers that had bloomed in the spring in the low meadow at Oaknell.

He had a feeling he knew what kind of woman would wear a soft scent like that. He thought it would be worth finding out if he were right.

"You going into town?" Billy asked, handing Price a shot of whiskey.

Price nodded, touched his glass to Billy's and Delos's, then lifted it to his lips simultaneously with the pair. The moment ended quietly, with three empty glasses lined up on the windowsill and an understanding that nothing more would be said about the raid. Price rose, reached for his hat, and headed for the door. Billy smiled knowingly.

Delos started out of the room after him. "I'll ride along," he said, his eyes twinkling in the mischievous way they did when he was up to no good. "I don't think it's wise for you to ride off alone. Besides, I've got a feeling that Miss Peck from Missouri might have followed you out here. I understand you left quite a few personal items with her." He laughed. "Including a proposal."

"Damn it, Delos." Price stopped short, thrust the blue note paper into his shirt pocket and put on his hat. "Don't start with that again. I've told you she did the proposing."

"And the accepting, according to your brother."

Price gave Delos a low warning glance that said he wouldn't be welcome company on the ride to Wallis. He tapped his shirt pocket. "This is not Penelope's handwriting. I've never seen this hand before." He whirled and strode to the door, leaving Billy and Delos to grin at each other. "Besides, Delos," he added before giving the door a rough push, "anything is preferable to spending another afternoon with you."

## Chapter 5

The Louisa Hotel had been built to honor a woman. Made of clapboard painted a mellow red and fronted by a wide porch trimmed with white curlicues and spindles, it looked like a gingerbread house. Price tipped his hat to the several guests taking advantage of the wooden rockers on the sheltered porch, then passed through a pair of doors set with diamond-shaped panes of beveled glass.

The tearoom, a small ivy-draped enclave, opened off the lobby. Its dozen white-clothed tables were each adorned with a tiny, crystal bud vase containing a sprig of violets. The ladies of Wallis were the primary customers of the Louisa's tearoom, though today only a few had come in for afternoon refreshments. Price paused in the doorway, taking a moment to check the time, reaching out of habit for his watch before he remembered the pocket which usually held it was empty.

A glance back at the lobby desk assured him he had arrived a good half-hour early. He breathed a long sigh of relief. He preferred arriving first. The idea of walking into the tearoom and trying to determine who among the females there he had come to see did not appeal to him. The idea of seating him did appeal to Mrs. Betha Whaley, the silver-haired matron who was hostess. Gliding past the closely set tables and tea carts at the room's edge, she quickly maneuvered to his side.

"Mr. Ramsey, isn't it?" the woman asked, though she clearly had no doubt of Price's identity. "What a pleasure to have you at the Louisa."

"Why, thank you, ma'am." Smiling politely and with a minimum of effort winning another female admirer, Price requested a table with a view of the door. He chose a chair which put his back to the wall and ensured that no one could enter without his knowledge. Let the issuer of the invitation come to him.

"May I bring you something right away or do you prefer to wait for another party?" Mrs. Whaley asked hesitantly, sensing Price Ramsey had not come into a woman's domain to take tea alone.

He gave her a smile which brought a blush to her plump cheeks. "No, ma'am. I'm waiting for a—" He stopped abruptly. He'd been about to say "young lady," but that was an assumption based on nothing but an image the blue paper perfumed with wildflower scent had brought to mind. The image could be wrong. The woman who had sent the note might be as gray-haired and long in the tooth as Mrs. Whaley. "—a friend," he said instead.

Mrs. Whaley nodded knowingly and left him, her starched petticoats crinkling as she drifted away.

With his feet tucked beneath the floor-length damask tablecloth, Price settled back and attempted to get comfortable in a cherry-wood chair that was too low and dainty for his big frame. As out of place as a fox in a coop, he surveyed each new female that entered the room. Though several smiled and acknowledged him, disappointingly none approached his table.

The minutes ticked by; the ladies who had been in the tearoom when he arrived left, and still no one came to his table. Was he the victim of a prank? Or had the person who sent the note turned faint of heart? Price was at the point of giving up the wait, certain far more than half an hour had passed, when a voice soft as a breeze called his name.

"Mr. Ramsey. My apologies for being late."

Price whirled, almost upsetting his chair and almost too confounded to rise, but the gentlemanly habits were habitual. He was on his feet in a flash, nodding to the lady wearing a dress of scarlet satin trimmed with jet beads and black piping. Her head was covered by a ribbon-laden hat with a brim so wide he could not see beneath it as he towered over her.

"Why, ma'am, you took me by surprise," he said, his eyes briefly skimming the room. How had she come in? He couldn't keep the puzzlement out of his voice. "Surely you haven't been here all along."

"Forgive me." She lifted a downcast head so that the wide brim of her lacquered straw hat framed rather than hid her features. "Mrs. Whaley was kind enough to let me through the servant's door. I am terribly late, I'm afraid."

The explanation was mostly lost on him. One look at her face banished all interest in how she had come upon him undetected.

"It's you." He'd seen her face in his dreams, longed for her in his imagination; and here, without warning, she was standing before him. His voice was hoarse, strained, a rare occurrence for Price Ramsey. He was one of those people who seldom missed a cue, even an unexpected one, but there he was with as big a lump in his throat as a schoolboy doing his first sparking. He swallowed hard, felt cheeks which had never known a blush warming. He'd hoped but not believed it would be she. "It _is_ you," he repeated, almost in a whisper. "The lady in red."

"You remember me then." Soundlessly, she moved nearer the table.

"Remember you?" His eyes locked on hers. They were the deep, cool color of jade, and yet they brought a feel of heat to his body. He felt the need to shed his coat and loosen the string tie at his collar or be overcome by the sudden blaze flashing through him, his own heat. Instead, he stood still and silent, burning from within, as entranced with her as he'd been each time he'd seen her from afar. Not until a restless movement of her gloved hands broke the spell did he recall they stood conspicuously in the center of the room. Hurriedly, he motioned her toward a chair and helped her be seated. Activity restored his tongue. "I'd say you're the most unforgettable woman I've ever encountered."

"Truly?" Eyes steadfastly on his face, she folded her hands in her lap. She seemed amused or so he believed as he observed a brief smile lift her lips.

Price slid into his chair, still in awe that it was the elusive woman in red who shared a table with him. He hardly knew where to begin.

"Truly," he said, taking her smile as one of encouragement. It had the effect of restoring that portion of his confidence that had fled when he'd realized who she was. "Unforgettable. Bewildering," he said, his voice evening out.

"You flatter me, Mr. Ramsey."

"I speak an undeniable truth," he swore. He wasn't the sort to be stymied forever. Bewildering the lady was, but not for long. He knew women, and there wasn't one who didn't like talking about herself given a chance. He was about to give this one a chance. He had no obligations for the afternoon, or evening. He was hers and, if he had his way, she would be his. More than anything, he looked forward to having the mysteries solved, to knowing everything about her. That this particular woman might be an exception did not occur to him. He plunged on. "I have a good fifty questions for you, and that's just a beginning," he said softly, entreatingly. "First I'd like to know your name."

Sunny had expected that to be his initial question. She had played this meeting in her mind, practiced her responses to the mirror in her hotel room. She despised liars, so she was prepared to answer honestly but without revealing either her identity or why she had come to his attention.

"My name is Augusta," she answered, managing to sound suitably demure. "Augusta Harlowe. You may call me Gussie if you like."

"Gussie?" He gave her a confused look. "I do not like."

Sunny laughed softly. "Then you may call me Augusta."

"Augusta," Price hesitated, then rolled the name out slowly. Augusta? Gussie? What had her parents been thinking? She should have a name with more elegance, more sparkle at the least. But if Augusta it was, then he'd make the best of it. He was, after all, in his element now, leading a woman where he wanted her to go. His golden eyes glowed. "Never a pretty name until it was yours," he said.

Sunny's smile was contrived, but the spots of color which rose to her cheeks were genuine. He was as good at giving honesty a twist as was she. He did not like her name, but what he'd said was rather sweet. She'd never particularly cared for the name herself. She did not choose to relay her sentiments to Price, which was just as well since Mrs. Whaley interrupted at that moment to take their order. When the hostess was gone he was ready to move on to other matters.

"Why were you there?" he asked.

Sunny knew what he meant but had her own plans for how this meeting was to go. "Could we," she asked, laying a finger thoughtfully against her chin, "limit the questions to just one per day?"

Price' dark brows flicked up. He'd expected an outpouring from her, a torrent of information about who she was and why she'd followed him from town to town. Even a declaration of love would not have surprised him. What he'd gotten was the unexpected. He considered her request and found he liked it. He laughed heartily. "I believe that would require a very long acquaintanceship."

Sunny moistened her lips. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" He mulled over her response. He wasn't sure he understood. The undercurrents in their conversation misled him, although he couldn't decide whether it was an uncertainty within her or a lingering effect of his disbelief that she had come to him. Her eyes were sensuous and enticing, as if she were set to play him for all he was worth; but he heard a primness in her voice which made him question what he saw. He noticed, too, that she kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. "Does that mean you'll be staying in Wallis for a while?" he ventured.

Sunny gave him a bemused glance. Her uncertainty fled. She wanted to keep him off guard, and she was succeeding. She relaxed, unthinkingly unlinked her hands and laid one upon the table.

Price frowned at his slip, then laughed again as he considered that when Augusta Harlowe laid down rules she expected them to be followed. "All right, I'll rephrase," he said. "I'd like to see you again tomorrow."

"As it happens, Mr. Ramsey—"

"Price."

"Price." She whispered his name, breathless from a deep sigh of relief that he had agreed to go along with her. Price, however, did not react to her lowered voice as such. To him it meant they were one notch closer to having no barriers between them. He reached for the hand she had unintentionally laid atop the table. Sunny saw his move and hurriedly drew away. Too soon for that. She did not want to feel his touch, not even in the smallest way. Not yet. "As it happens, Price, I'd be delighted," she said, lacing her trembling fingers together so that she would not forget again. "We could have supper here at the Louisa tomorrow night—at eight."

"Eight o'clock is fine," he agreed, contemplating a long day, a long wait until his second question would be answered. But then, that wasn't so bad. Anticipation had a way of making the appetite keener, the meal more delectable.

And Augusta Harlowe was a delectable woman if ever there was one, a woman to be savored—enjoyed—slowly. Everything about her intrigued him—the quiet voice, the depthless green eyes, the way she could appear from nowhere and disappear. The way she seemed both wanton and proper. His smile broadened. She wouldn't disappear on him here, not in Wallis. He knew this town, and there wasn't a shadowy spot she could slip into that he wouldn't think of looking.

Mrs. Whaley brought the tea and cake they had ordered. Augusta poured for both of them. She was sure of herself, graceful as any miss out of an eastern finishing school; but just as he accepted that persona, another tempting flash of fire shot from the green eyes and made him question his judgment. Nothing matched. He couldn't look at her and easily figure her out. Damned if that didn't make him wonder about all kinds of things.

Longing, lust, curiosity—one or the other or a combination of all three—hit him hard. How could a woman look at him that way and then not want him to even brush his hand against hers? Price had to sit back and reconsider the whole situation. He wondered if he could stand the waiting or if he would explode with all the questions he wanted answered.

How had she found him? And why? Where had she come from? Why had she run from him the last time? What did she want from him? And there were questions that couldn't be answered with words, questions that needed a linking of bodies, a joining of wills.

Price shifted in his chair, his lower body having grown tight and tense. The scent of wildflowers was in the air. He wanted to know a lot about the lady, and he didn't want to do anything which would spoil his chance of getting satisfaction.

"I'm glad you came," she said when the teacups were empty. "I wasn't sure you would."

Price looked at her dubiously. She hadn't spoken for ten minutes or more, neither had he. The silence, as much as anything, had added to his interest in her. "An unsigned note from a lady, a mystery. I think you must have known I would be here."

"Not at all. I only hoped," Sunny said softly, her blood rushing fervidly through her veins as she also hoped she was not overplaying her hand. "I was, however, sure you must have missed this." Slowly she lifted her reticule to the tabletop, opened it, and withdrew an object wrapped in a scrap of white silk. While Price watched, mystified, she placed the small bundle on the table before him. "Open it," she said.

Price obliged, flipping back layers of silk until he uncovered a polished disc of gold. His expression changed immediately from simple amusement to abject confusion.

"My watch." He picked up the timepiece, turned it in his hand to confirm that the weight and feel of it was the same as before, flipped it open and saw that it was in perfect running order. "How—" He started and stopped, stared at her, then disregarded the understanding between them and lurched ahead. "How the devil did you get my watch?"

"Another day," Sunny said rising quietly and quickly from her seat, moving out of his reach before the big hand holding the watch could shoot out to grasp and hold her. "I'll tell you another day. I have to go now."

She seemed to float away while Price sat slack-jawed, holding his grandfather's watch. He knew little more about the lady in red than he had known an hour before, and he had added many more questions to his list.

Sunny was out of sight before he realized he could have stopped her; and by then, he realized, too, that he was willingly caught up in the strange game she was playing. He didn't want it spoiled or ended too soon. The rewards loomed too sweet and not even the heirloom watch in his hand, as important to him as it was, mattered more than playing the game through with Augusta Harlowe.

Instead of storming after her, he stowed the watch. Only once or twice, as he paid Mrs. Whaley, did he touch his pocket to confirm it was really there. She was damned interesting, his lady in red. Damned interesting in any color as long as the color of her eyes stayed the same and the mystery of her continued to fascinate him. He closed his lids briefly just for a look at the face stored so perfectly in his memory.

A short time later he left the Louisa smiling, not merrily but thoughtfully. He wondered what Delos would make of his curious encounter with Augusta Harlowe. For that matter, he wondered what to make of it himself.

***

Sunny sped through the lobby and up the stairs to her room, her face flushed, her heart racing. Simple excitement, she told herself. Simple excitement that everything had gone as she had planned. Being near enough to Price Ramsey to reach over and touch him had nothing to do with her racing pulse. She had been so afraid to give him the watch, so afraid he might by now have realized how he had lost it and that he might put two and two together and come up with Augusta Harlowe. But he hadn't.

He hadn't followed her either, another relief; but just to make certain, she turned the lock on the door to her room before she removed her hat and flung it to the bed. He was proving predictable, she thought as she slipped off her black kidskin gloves and carelessly tossed them in a drawer of the dressing table. Predictable...and irritating.

She remembered how he'd looked at her in the tearoom, how the knowing look in his eyes had changed when she had surprised him by refusing to answer his questions. He was accustomed to having his lady friends bend over backwards to please him. Sunny blushed in spite of herself. No doubt that was exactly what they did for him.

Frowning, she absently rubbed her palm over the back of the hand Ramsey had almost grasped. Thankfully she had evaded the contact. Getting any closer than they had today was something she hoped to avoid as long as possible. She needed to keep him playing the game as she had it laid out; and that meant letting him pursue her, unsuccessfully, until she had him trapped.

Trapped by an enticing spider luring prey into a web. The frown became a cool smile. Oh, she did plan to make contact with Ramsey. That would be necessary. She might even have to endure a kiss, as distasteful as it was, but the end would be worth the sacrifice.

An impatient sigh slipped out as Sunny dropped in unladylike fashion onto the dressing-table bench, where she stared disapprovingly at her reflection. Wouldn't Blanche like to see her this way, her hair combed and coiled in a fashionable style? Looking as sweet and pretty as a hopeful girl at a Saturday night dance.

She turned her head to the right, then the left. Pretty? Hopeful? Not at all like herself. Like someone fancied up for a man's approval. Which she didn't need or want. Hastily she began plucking pins from her trussed-up hair. When it was loose, she half-heartedly combed out the tangles with her fingers, then hurriedly worked the disheveled strands into a single braid which she secured with a bit of frayed string.

She felt more comfortable with herself afterwards, but for some reason kept thinking of how close Price Ramsey had come to taking her hand. She supposed he always started out with a gentle touch. She could just imagine his smoothness with a woman—with women—multiples applied where he was concerned. How would he do it? A handhold, those warm eyes roving over a woman's face. A kiss. An embrace and then...

Sunny shuddered, noted her ragged breathing and a strange tingle of excitement that curled and shook down her spine. Her brow was damp and her palms too. Irritated, she rubbed her errant hands dry on the red skirt, staining it with moisture.

"Damn him," she sputtered, turning her back on the mirror and the warm light she had seen reflected in her eyes.

And damned if she didn't believe she was doing the world a favor by putting an end to Price Ramsey's escapades—the female half of the world in any event. If he could make her feel like this when she didn't even like him, how dangerous he must be to women who were willing.

Smiling wickedly, Sunny stood and snapped open the constricting bodice of her gown. Her smile deepened as she stripped off the detestable dress she'd had to buy for the meeting with Ramsey. The ribbed corset underneath, even more detestable than the dress, she removed and used as a fan.

When her heated face was cooled, she tossed the corset aside and donned her comfortable denim pants and plaid shirt. The change helped. She felt confident, confident she could manage Ramsey without again feeling like—like a woman.

Her annoyance renewed, Sunny strapped on her gun belt. Damn it! She wasn't a woman. At least not first and foremost. She was a detective, and Price Ramsey was her quarry. She'd taken the job of gathering evidence against him and taking him in.

Half the job was done—easily—documented and recorded in the leather case beneath the mattress on her bed. She would post the documents to Lord soon. The second half of the job would be easy too. Price Ramsey thought himself irresistible to women. She knew that for fact after weeks of observation.

Watching him seduce at least one woman in every town the medicine show had visited had convinced her she'd chosen the best way to get him away from Wallis and his partners without arousing suspicion, his or theirs. Somehow it was fitting a woman should be his downfall. Maybe she would point that out to Lord when she turned him in.

What was it Lord had said about him? No ordinary outlaw. Brains instead of brawn. Maybe, but he was about to be outsmarted. She knew just the way to muddle his mind, and she'd take the second step toward doing so tomorrow at eight. She rang for the bellman, having decided on supper in her room. She'd already left instruction that her trays were to be left beside her door. She wasn't about to put on the danged dress again for anyone, and she didn't want to chance meeting Ramsey dressed as she was. This time she might not be as lucky as before.

So far things were going too well to spoil. Ramsey was bound to have headed straight out of the Louisa to tell his friends about the vapid woman who had summoned him. A man of his sort couldn't help bragging that a woman had nothing better to do than follow him across California and seek him out.

***

Price passed his watch into Delos's hand. "She had this? Your watch? This Augusta Harlowe? Your 'lady in red'?" Delos tugged at his beard, an act Price long ago had decided stimulated the thought processes in his partner's brain. "Doesn't seem too puzzling. She saw you drop it and picked it up or saw a pickpocket lift it and paid him for it. The only remarkable thing is that she would go to all this trouble to meet you when she could have accomplished the same thing with a plain hello. Not too smart, your 'lady in red'." Price grabbed the timepiece and tucked it snugly into the tiny watch pocket in his yellow satin vest.

"Hell, Delos. I expected better from you than that. You tout yourself as an expert on human nature. What's her game?"

"There's your clue, my friend." Delos smiled. "There's a game involved. A game must have a winner and a loser and usually a prize. Which will you be?"

Price ranged across the room, then whirled and strode back. "I'm not sure it matters as long as I get to play this one."

Delos's bushy brows lifted. He didn't like Price's preoccupation with the Harlowe woman, but at least he now knew it wasn't his elixir that was responsible for the boy's restlessness. "Take my advice," he said emphatically. "Don't play. Cancel the dinner engagement. Send regrets."

Price looked at Delos as if he could easily pound him into the floor. "I sure as hell won't."

"You didn't need to tell me that," Delos returned dryly. "Just remember you were forewarned. All the signs point to trouble. The woman wants something, and the logical conclusion is that something is you."

Billy laughed. "If that's the case she'll most likely get what she wants. Look at him, Delos. He's squirmin' like a worm in a fire."

Price stopped pacing and gave them a warning glare.

"So I see," replied Delos. "I anticipate being called on to get him out of the flames. I've got the feeling Augusta Harlowe has a whole box of matches she's dying to use."

"If she does, I'll put myself out and enjoy it," Price snapped.

"You make sure there's enough of you left to finish the job we're on. Don't get so carried away with this woman that you forget we aren't done with Lord yet. And don't forget he might be looking for you by now."

"I haven't forgotten Lord. And I'll finish the job, but there's time before we hear from Lord's backers. I intend to spend most of it with—"

"We know who and how," Billy cut in. "And it's just as well if we go on doing what we normally do. Delos reading and mixing his strange concoctions, me ranching and you—you squiring the ladies."

"A lady," Price corrected, heading for the door, having had about all of Billy and Delos he could take for the time being. "A special lady."

"Just one thing," Delos called after him.

Price paused. "What's that?"

"Keep a bucket of water handy."

## Chapter 6

The darkness hid Price's frown as he knelt beside the stream and splashed cool water on his face. He'd just remembered Delos's last taunt and conceded that it was close to correct. He needed cooling down. The woman raised his temperature just being near him, which was damned amazing considering he hadn't touched her other than briefly gripping her elbow to give her a boost into the buckboard. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't been with a woman in a week or more.

Hell! Ordinarily when he had known a woman as long as he'd known Augusta he'd have made love to her two times over. And here he was doubtful he should even put his arm around her lest he spoil what had begun between them.

He wiped his streaming brow, then cupped his hands and took another long drink from the spring. "It's good," he said. "I'll help you down if you'd like a sip."

"No." Sunny smiled down sweetly from her perch on the buckboard seat. "You drink your fill, and then we'd better be getting back to the hotel."

He'd been very gentlemanly on the ride out from town. She had to give him that. His manners were polished. Wherever he'd come from, he had once been more than a conman and shootist for a medicine show. Maybe he was the black sheep of some fine Southern family. He spoke as if he'd been spawned in the South. Maybe the war had turned him into something less than he had once been. That had happened to a lot of men.

Sighing softly, Sunny turned her eyes from Price's insistent gaze. The causes of his present circumstances weren't her concern. She didn't need to start feeling sorry for him or making excuses for him because he knew how to treat a woman like a lady. More than likely it was all an act and before they got back to town she'd have to slap his face or, worse, pull out the gun she had tucked in her garter.

Price leaned against the wheel of the buckboard he'd borrowed from Billy but didn't climb in right away. Overhead the stars hung like spinning silver disks in a blue-black sky. The moon was full, the air warm and Augusta Harlowe, in a cotton dress of crimson red, looked as if she belonged in his arms. She certainly looked worth another try. "I thought you might enjoy a moonlight walk."

The suggestion tempted Sunny. She liked the peacefulness of the night; mostly she enjoyed it alone. Night was a good time for contemplating and planning. Nothing ever seemed as complicated if she could get out under the stars and think about it.

As for Ramsey, she wasn't worried about his stirring any more of those wayward feelings in her. She hadn't felt anything alarming when he'd taken her arm to steady her as she climbed into the buckboard. She was convinced, in fact, that none of that had been more than nervousness over using a method that wasn't tried and true to apprehend Ramsey. She had simply mistaken one emotion for another. This playing at being a lady was nerve-racking.

She looked up at the sky, enjoying the velvet beauty, the quiet serenity of it. If she had believed a walk was all he had in mind, she would have hopped down at once. The moonlight dancing on the water's surface, the soft night sounds of animals and insects hiding in the darkness seemed to quietly echo his veiled invitation.

Beneath her sleeve Sunny pinched herself to get rid of the foolish notion. She might have gotten over being susceptible to Ramsey, but the dresses _did_ change the way she looked at things, she decided. The simple one she had on with its high neck and white-eyelet cuffs and collar was as bad as the fancy silk one Blanche had given her. Wearing dresses fouled up her sense of purpose. What's more, dresses were danged expensive. If she had to buy many more before she had Ramsey in custody, there wouldn't be much left of the ten-thousand-dollar fee.

And she was sure he had more than a walk in mind. So she blinked her eyes slowly the way she had seen Blanche's girls do when they wanted to entice a customer upstairs. And then, as soon as she raised his hopes, she turned him down.

"I wish I could," she said softly. "But it's so awfully late," she went on. "And, well, I just can't. There's something I have to take care of at the hotel. I really do have to get back, Price."

"Whatever the lady wants," Price said.

Disappointed, but not willing to push, he swung into the buckboard, took the reins in hand, and snapped a signal for the team to get moving.

What in blazes did she have to take care of at the hotel at this hour? She couldn't be meeting someone else. Could she? He turned to her, his mouth ready to ask, then remembered he couldn't. His quota was one question a day, and the one he had in mind—the one he had harbored all through the supper hour and the short ride to Mirror Springs—was more significant to him.

He supposed he should be satisfied he had gotten her to take a drive with him. She had been quiet during dinner and had hardly eaten a bite. When he'd suggested the outing, she had been reluctant. Persuading her had taken all his skills, exhausted them apparently, since she had declined to join him in a walk when he had stopped at the springs.

He still didn't know what to make of her or exactly how to treat her. She might be a saloon girl playing the lady or a school marm playing bold. She might simply want to get her hooks in him or, as Delos had suggested, be up to more than that. You didn't learn a lot about another person without asking questions. Maybe, he thought, he had become accustomed to a certain kind of loose woman and no longer knew how to react to another kind. He didn't seem to know how to read his instincts about her. Maybe his instincts regarding a lady were dulled beyond use—or dead.

And she was a lady, wasn't she? He was sure the seductive way she batted her eyes at him was alien to her. She did it badly. He was sure his instincts, however dull, were trying to tell him Augusta Harlowe was no loose woman. And damned if he knew which he preferred. His body cried out for fulfillment, wanted her badly enough to ache. But the heart and soul of him wanted a woman he could share his thoughts with, a woman who could satisfy more than physical desire.

And he was a fool. He had no indication Augusta would do either. He knew nothing about her except her name and that she was beautiful and that somehow she had come into possession of his watch. She didn't fall over him like so many women did. A pity, that. He would have welcomed her attentions. He smiled at her warmly, warmly enough to turn his eyes molten gold under the lamplight spraying from the hotel's lanterns.

Sunny prided herself on being immune to the look. She smiled back purposely as he stopped the buckboard at the hitching rail beside the hotel.

"You have displayed surprising patience, Price." She meant it. He had not made one forward move and he had not asked one question. He was in fact proving to be much more docile than she had believed.

He laughed. "I was afraid you might disappear again as soon as I asked a question. I wanted to prevent that no matter what. That's why I've saved my question until now."

He jumped down and hurried to her side, easily bearing her weight as she stepped out of the buckboard. And when her feet were on the ground, he continued to hold her arm. His fingers gently caressed her flesh, and his gaze was tender and wondering. It touched her in spite of her resolve not to believe its promise.

Sunny trembled and cast her eyes down. His fingers were warm, and his heat radiated through her. Like a fire, his touch seared her flesh, blazing all the stronger because it was unexpected. And she liked the sensation, liked it so much she savored the slow sweep of it through her. But before the power of his touch swept her away, before she was lost in the swift power of it, a panic seized her and she knew she needed to get away from him. She needed to snatch her arm from his grasp—but didn't dare. She was too close to being done with this to let a mere touch ruin things.

Instead she struggled within herself for control and won. Her head went up, her eyes meeting his and resisting. "I hope your question is one that requires a short answer," she said briskly. "As I explained, I—"

"Have something to take care of. I remember." He had felt her tremble, and it was good to know his touch could do that to her. He had feared she was made of iron, but she was not. She was a woman after all—starched, but starch melted with enough heat.

"Yes," she answered, a trace of anxiety tinting her voice again.

He had not loosened his hold on her arm. Now his other hand lifted and touched her face, his fingers lightly brushing along the curve of her cheek. Her knees shook, and a breathless excitement overtook her like a quick wind. Something inside her—long, tight, and unyielding—uncoiled, slowly filling her with a warmth so intense she thought the glow must show through every pore.

She thought he was about to kiss her. Her lips tingled with anticipation even as her mind rebelled at the thought of such intimacy, such danger. But only the whisper of his breath touched her lips.

The assault came at a less vulnerable point. The hand that had stroked her face moved to her shoulder, and she found herself held in two powerful hands. His long fingers lay like brands upon her, searing their imprint on the skin beneath her sleeves, starting the heat unwinding within her anew.

"This should take only a minute," he said, his face dangerously close, his warm breath again caressing her lips. "Two, if I'm fortunate."

He knew. He knew what he was doing to her. Sunny, shaken, angry at him and at herself, took an unsteady step back. His hands fell away. She smiled faintly, heartened that the fire inside her sizzled out as quickly as it had started. Still she despised him for it. He would find the cost of treating her so familiarly high indeed. And he wouldn't consider himself fortunate this time tomorrow.

"Your question, Price," she said evenly.

Price was puzzled. She seemed anxious to leave him; and yet he was certain if he had persisted, she would have allowed a kiss. He regretted not having pressed his advantage. He had no way of knowing when—or if—he would get another chance.

The little tremor he'd felt a moment ago was the first dent he'd found in her armor, but he still didn't know how to behave toward her. He was afraid he would offend her and then she would disappear forever. He couldn't have that. There was too much to learn about her yet.

He sighed, lifted his hat and smoothed his hair, then repositioned the hat on his head. Maybe he shouldn't have held her. He was having a hard time remembering how to be gentlemanly. And she seemed to have noticed. Her eyes were on him, her gaze cool and laced with impatience.

He wasted no more time trying to figure her out. He had his question to ask, his daily allotment of insight into this bewildering woman. He'd given the choice lengthy thought. He believed he had come up with one which would cut to the heart of what was going on between him and Augusta Harlowe. He spoke softly, slowly, trying to prolong this last moment with her. And then, too, the answer she gave mattered a lot.

"What is it you want from me, Augusta?"

Her response came so quickly he could only surmise she had read his mind.

"I want nothing from you," she whispered. "I want you as you are, complete. You. All of you." Her eyes glowed with a feeling so intense he could only guess, hope, at its meaning. Her whisper became softer, yet her voice held him like a dark spell. "I want you in ways you could never imagine," she said.

Desire for her, powerful and sharp as a red-hot blade, cut into him. And all he had come to believe about her bled away. She was not prim and innocent; she was a fire-and-blood woman who knew what she wanted and would go to inordinate lengths to have it on her terms.

Later, when he recalled the moment, he could find no excuse for the lapse of seconds before he responded to her. Maybe there had been a shred of disappointment that she was, after all, only another female who wanted the Price Ramsey who dressed in fancy clothes and thrilled audiences with a useless display of shooting.

He had let his fantasies about the 'lady in red' convince him that she was deeper, that she had the power to release him from his past, and make him reach again for the dreams of his youth. Now he saw that she might be made of no more than any one of the women he had bedded and forgotten in a week's time.

Once again, hesitation proved his enemy. When he should have taken her in his arms and told her with a fervent kiss that he was willing to deliver exactly what she wanted, he held back, too stunned to react. In the moment it took for him to regain control and reach for her, she left his side and made her way to the Louisa's front doors. An apparition in the distance, she was deliciously lovely, enticing, and every bit as beguiling as the first time he'd seen her.

He started toward her. If some part of him knew disappointment, it was not his body. His hunger for her grew so rapidly that in the space of a step nothing but possessing her mattered. Let her be what she was but allow him the chance to know her completely, intimately. The coyness she had displayed, holding him at bay all evening, only heightened his appetite.

He smiled like a man who had just yielded to a bluff in a poker game. He'd been taken for a merry ride. All along she had planned to invite him to her room. But he didn't believe he minded at that. The taste of her would be all the sweeter for it. He was taken aback once more when, at his measured approach, she shook her head softly and laughed.

"Not now," she said, holding a hand up to stop him. "Tomorrow. Out by the springs. It's truly lovely out there, and I do prefer the out-of-doors. We'll take a picnic and spend the afternoon." She paused and touched a finger to her chin, then shook her head as if she'd thought better of the invitation. "No," she said. "No. That won't do."

"No?" Price's expectation had climbed so high he felt as if the word had knocked the legs out from under him. "A picnic, an afternoon at Mirror Springs, sounds as if it couldn't be beat."

"No," she repeated. "It isn't enough. We'll need the evening, too. We have to stay for the stars, don't we?"

"Yes," Price returned, sidling up closer. He'd decided he liked her game very much. He was beginning to understand the rules and they were damned hard on a man. This whole thing had been about building excitement, sexual excitement. And it had worked. He had half a mind to stop at Lucy Spain's bordello on the way back to the ranch. But he wouldn't, he realized quickly. That would spoil things for both of them. He winked at her and nodded slowly, accepting the postponement. "I want very much to stay for the stars."

"Then you'll be here at noon, I trust." She opened the door a crack so that she could slip inside before he came any closer. He was dangerous when he was close. She didn't want to have to shoot him, but she swore she would if he ever again ignited that flame that blazed inside her. She hated him, she believed, for making her feel that fire. It was a feeling—a sweet, sacred feeling that belonged to her and Paul—and Price Ramsey had no right awakening those same sensations in her. She hated him so much that when she spoke again she had to keep the rage out of her voice with force of will. "We'll ride," she said. "I'll get a horse from the livery. And I'll tell them... I'll tell them I won't return it until morning."

"I'll be here," he said, set to sweep her into his arms. This time there was no hesitation. But she was as elusive as ever and though he moved swiftly, his arms came up empty. "Augusta, wait!" Price shouted when he saw her shutting the door between them.

"Good night," she answered and, like the soft sound of her voice, was gone.

"Damn!" Price swore as he strode toward the buckboard. She made him crazy. He climbed into the seat thinking he had only one thing to be thankful for—that Delos hadn't been around to see him acting the fool.

The ride to the ranch was long, but at least the light shower of rain that hit him a mile off from the Double O cooled him down again. However, it did nothing to ease the ache in his loins. He was going to suffer with that nearly another day, he figured. The line of his thoughts helped soften the deep frown on his face as he imagined taking his ease with Augusta on a blanket by the springs, or in the glade. How would she look with the cool, green grass beneath her?

Maybe they would go for a swim. Making love in the water had a special feel to it. Her body slick and wet against his. He'd seen so little of her. The dresses she wore were high-necked, long-sleeved, but the contours of her body had been impossible to hide. He longed to see those luscious curves uncovered and explore their secrets openly. Damn the tight pants he had on. They were cutting him in two.

"You look mighty randy for a man who spent a long evening with a woman."

"Do I?" Price pushed past Billy and into the study where the promise of liquor offered a little relief.

Billy followed him, grinning. "You do, and you sound like a man who came up short. Having trouble with the lady?"

"It's none of your business, Billy." Price threw his hat toward a rack, never bothering to notice if his aim were true. Instead, he strode to the cabinet where Billy kept his whiskey and poured himself a shot. He gulped it down, then turned to face Billy.

"None of my business? Never known you to say so before," Billy taunted, his arms crossed stubbornly over his chest.

"All right," Price said grudgingly and poured himself another drink. He picked up his glass and twirled the liquid in it, deliberating. He chose not to reveal his frustration, and edged past Billy. He set the whiskey glass on the hand-hewn wooden shelf above the fireplace. "I'm not having trouble with the lady," he said evenly. "Fact is I'm seeing her again tomorrow. I'll be spending the afternoon with her—taking her on a picnic."

Billy nodded, but the comment on Price's plans came from another corner of the room. "Do you think Billy and I could intrude on your time with Miss Harlowe long enough to discuss our business? We cannot afford to entirely abandon what we've been about while we wait for word from the men in Boston."

Price frowned. He hadn't noticed that Delos already occupied a chair in the room. Damn! It wasn't like him to be unobservant enough to walk into a place without noticing everything and everyone in it. And he had to admit that his partner was right. He picked up his glass and drank from it slowly. He'd been so intent on Augusta he'd neglected business the past two days. Billy and Delos deserved better from him.

"You're right," he admitted. "I should have been here doing my part."

"You've done your part," Delos returned, placated. "Neither of us thinks otherwise. But there are a few details that have to be organized, and we ought to get to it. It's a few hours work; but, since it's late and you're obviously preoccupied, it'll keep until morning."

"Good," Price replied. The whiskey was working on him, calming him, making him feel the need of a night's sleep. "Let's start early. I want to be finished by noon. I've got—"

"We know what you've got." Billy leaned against the mantel and rolled tobacco in a square of paper. "Plans with the 'lady in red'." He struck a match on the brick hearth and lit the cigarette he held in his mouth. "Ever find out how she got your watch?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet? Wouldn't it be logical to have found that out?" Delos asked.

"Yes. And no," Price retorted irritably. "Augusta is a beautiful and fascinating woman. We've found other things to talk about." He had no intention of opening himself up to more ridicule from the two of them by admitting she was doling out information about herself drop by drop. "I'll tell you all about it one day."

"I hope so." Billy laughed at Price's poor humor. "And I hope you come home tomorrow night a sight more satisfied."

Price picked up his glass and finished off the remaining whiskey in a single swallow. "About tomorrow night, Billy," he said, smiling for the first time since he'd arrived. "Don't expect me back."

***

Sunny struggled into her scarred boots, threw on her hat, and hurriedly left the hotel by the back stairs. She wanted to get Ring out of the stable and take him out to Mirror Springs. The job couldn't wait until morning. Ramsey might come into town early. She couldn't chance having him see her riding out on Nugget before he called for her. The pinto was too recognizable and even if, as was likely, he didn't know her dressed in pants and shirt, he was sure to know Nugget if he'd spotted the mare before.

Ring would wait where she left him, patiently, faithfully. She would leave him food, and he would have plenty of water. He'd be a help taking Ramsey to San Francisco. He was a better partner than any man. And he would die protecting her, which was something she could never fully count on from a human partner.

She had to circle out on the back streets, then double back to avoid being noticed by the ranch hands and drifters still moving from saloon to saloon. But that didn't matter. The night air restored her sanity, at least the portion of it Ramsey had toyed with. So the longer the ride, the better. She wasn't counting on sleeping. She'd be too keyed up with refining her plan.

There were the telegrams to get off, one to Blanche telling her the time of Sunny's arrival in San Francisco, one to Thaddeus Lord telling him that she had Ramsey and was bringing him in.

Was she presumptuous to send the telegram to Lord before she actually had the man in custody? No. She would do it. It would be an incentive not to fail. Besides they would have two nights and a day on the trail before reaching the first town along the route she had mapped out. And Lord wanted to know within the day when she had Ramsey in custody.

And there was the message to leave with the desk clerk. The all important message. The message that would buy her time.

***

"Are you checking out, Miss Harlowe?"

Abner Thomas enjoyed his job as desk clerk at the Louisa. He liked knowing other people's business, reveled in the details of their lives. In fact, he drew gossip like honey drew flies—and originated it as well. Sunny had observed him in action her first day in the hotel and knew she could make good use of his wagging tongue.

"Not checking out, Mr. Thomas." She wore a red riding skirt and jacket of heavy silk taffeta and beneath it a blouse of the same shade which fit as smoothly and closely as the leather gloves on her hands. "I would like you to reserve my room for another week. I'll be leaving some of my things here while I...ah...while I accompany Mr. Ramsey on a trip." She managed to blush. "A business matter, of course."

"Of course." A grin blossomed and spread over Thomas's face. He knew Price Ramsey's reputation and delighted in being the first to know he was about to live up to it in Wallis. "I wish you and Mr. Ramsey an enjoyable journey, Miss Harlowe."

Sunny pursed her lips and wrung her hands. "I wonder if I could ask a favor of you, Mr. Thomas."

"I would be honored." Thomas slipped the pencil he'd been holding behind his ear and leaned out obligingly over the desk. "You need only tell me what it is."

She glanced about the lobby, then bent slightly toward him, whispering, "Could you tell me of a shop in town where I might purchase a veil?"

"A veil?" Thomas whispered, his eyes lighting up with interest. Women generally wore veils for weddings and funerals. He did not recall that anyone in Wallis had died recently.

"Yes, a veil," she repeated, keeping her voice low. "A white one. I'd like to take one with me, and I won't have time to make a special order. If you know of a shop that might have one on hand, I would be extremely grateful for the information."

"Try Dunn's Dress Shop. If any shop in Wallis has a veil in stock, it will be Dunn's."

Sunny stood up straight and spoke in a normal tone. "Thank you, Mr. Thomas. You have no idea how helpful you've been." She hurried out. She knew the location of the dress shop. Two of the dresses in her room had been purchased there and the veil she wanted, would purchase minutes from now, was displayed with a bridal gown in the shop window.

She returned to the hotel half an hour later, the parcel from Dunn's prominently in her hand. When she passed the desk, she smiled sweetly at Thomas, a smile which said they shared a secret.

In an hour more, she came down the stairs carrying a fat carpet bag and a wicker basket containing the lunch she had ordered from the hotel kitchen. Price, dressed in his Indian-style, fringed buckskin jacket and snug tan pants, waited in the lobby.

"Hello," she said, handing him the basket, glad she had something to keep his hands busy. "I hope you're hungry."

"I'm hungry," he assured her, pushing the doors open with his shoulder, holding them ajar until she passed through. "Give me a minute and I'll get your horse from the livery," he said, anxious to get going even though her manner today was officious compared to her sensuous, suggestive behavior the night before.

"That's it, that mare." She indicated Nugget. "I had her sent over."

Price looked at the pinto and saw that she was a fine mount, better than Ben Parson's livery usually offered. "Ben must have gotten some new stock," he said. "I don't believe I've seen that mare before."

"He didn't say," Sunny responded, hurriedly tying on the bag and mounting Nugget while Price secured the more cumbersome basket behind his saddle.

He whirled around when he heard her swing up, then gave her a look of consternation at seeing her astride the pinto. "I would have given you a hand," he said.

Sunny bit her tongue rather than say what was on her mind—that she had never needed help mounting a horse and certainly did not need his. Nor did she want him putting his hands on her again. Instead, she smiled softly, apologetically. "You can help me dismount," she purred.

He was tempted to ask her what was wrong. He got the feeling she had doubts about wanting to be with him. But he decided against using up his question right away. She was the one who had issued the invitation, and damned if he was going to do anything to give her an easy out on it. He had waited too long for this day, too long to strip away the mystery of this woman.

She rode as if she were born to the saddle, she and the pinto moving as one. Either she had a way with animals or the pinto was an exceptional steed to have adjusted to a new rider's signals and commands so quickly.

They started off together, the horses matching strides. He enjoyed simply watching her at first, noting the provocative way she stretched and lifted her head to the sun, the lithesome smile as she commented on what a fine day they had chosen for a picnic. She had a feline look about her, the keen-eyed look of a cat just awakened from a nap, a cat full of mischief.

She was beautiful, but not in the contrived and artful way of other women he had admired. Hers was in the wholesomeness of a scrubbed face, the proud straight set of her shoulders, and the curves which needed no help from cotton or whalebone. She wore her hair sleeked back and bound in a netted bun on her nape. He couldn't recall ever seeing it screwed into curls around her face or forced into waves by the heat of a crimping iron. Her profile was exquisite; her lips full, made for kissing. Somehow his focus always came back to her eyes—wide, green, black-lashed eyes full of secrets. Green, like spring leaves, enhanced by the rich, deep carmine of the split riding skirt she wore.

"Do you always wear red?" he asked, then winced as soon as the words left his mouth.

Sunny snapped her head around, looked at him, and laughed. "No. Not always."

"That was a slip," he hurried to say. "It's not what I wanted to ask you today."

She shot him another quick look. "Too bad," she said and clicked to the pinto, urging the horse into a brisk pace, one he couldn't possibly keep without allowing the picnic basket he carried to slap uncomfortably on the stallion's rump.

"Hold up!" he called out, but she only glanced back and smiled, then put her heels to the pinto and loped on.

Price thought she would eventually stop and wait but soon saw that she meant to stay a length ahead of him all the way to Mirror Springs. Annoyed, he pulled his hat down low on his brow and slowed the stallion to a walk. Was this the last round in the game, this antagonizing of him? He couldn't even carry on a conversation with her from this distance. Damned if he liked it. And damned if he hadn't tolerated all of the silly rules he intended to.

As the minutes stretched on and Sunny galloped out of sight, Price squared his shoulders, breathed in deeply, and exhaled rapidly as if his breath had turned to scalding steam. She had left him behind as if he were part of a pack horse's load to be attended to later. And a man would only take so much. He was past his limit in this game. His temper soared and soared yet higher because he knew he was doing precisely what she wanted. She wanted him stoked, angry, his tongue hanging out for her. She was playing him like a fiddle.

His eyes narrowed; the muscles in his back bunched up tightly. She didn't know he was the one who would choose the tune from now on.

She had not waited for his help in dismounting. The pinto was tethered in the shade of a sapling. Augusta was a yard away, standing like a woodland goddess on the low stump of a downed tree. She had uncoiled her hair, and it rippled around her shoulders like a silk banner.

The silver brooch which had held her blouse chastely tight around her throat had been removed. The neck of the fitted garment lay open. From above her, he could see the shadowed hollow of the deep valley between her breasts. The sight gave him pause, made him reconsider. The hot anger in him spiraled down, channeled into desire.

He dismounted, thinking perhaps he would play her way a little longer.

"I shouldn't have left you," she said, as if she knew what he'd been thinking. Then as if she were a goddess reaching out to her universe, she stretched her arms skyward; her cheeks were bright, her eyes shining. "I couldn't help it. I wanted to feel the horse running beneath me, feel the wind on my face." Her smile melted away the last of his anger. "It was rude of me."

"It's all right," he assured her as he unstrapped the picnic basket and placed it on the ground. He glanced at the pinto and saw that the carpetbag was still tied behind the saddle. "I'll get that one, too," he said starting toward it.

The cat-like look came back to her face, her eyes closed slightly, and her lips parted a fraction. He'd last seen that look on a feline toying with a mouse.

"Don't bother," she said, quickly leading him toward a flat, grassy spot. "We won't need those things now. I'll get them later."

Price's look of curiosity must have touched a softer chord in her. She took mercy on him. "I think you'll find the contents of that bag a huge surprise."

"A pleasant one, I'm sure."

"I know it will be for me," she returned. "Shall we eat? I'm starved."

Price helped her spread a cloth from the basket, then sat back as she unpacked the food. It was simple fare—fried chicken legs, cheese, pickled eggs, and big slices of apple pie. The buttered biscuits, covered with a stack of napkins, were still warm. She produced a jar of honey and another of lemonade, a couple of china plates, forks, and two glasses. He was most pleased to see a bottle of wine, which she handed to him.

"An hour in the springs ought to chill it nicely," she said.

She had remembered to include a length of cord for securing the bottle. Price removed his buckskin jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. Wine bottle in hand, he knotted one end of the cord and looped it around the long glass neck, the other he secured to a bush on the bank.

Sitting with her legs folded to one side as she portioned out the food onto the plates, Sunny watched Price kneel beside the springs and lower the wine bottle into the water. This was too easy. A whack on the head and it would be over. She had meant to wait until after they ate, not out of kindness but because the food she had packed wouldn't keep long in the warm weather. And both of them needed a good meal to travel on. Once on their way, she didn't plan more than a short rest stop for the horses until they were miles from Wallis. But the food could be repacked.

She rose softly. The ground was strewn with rocks. A blow from any one of them would be sufficient to render a man unconscious if applied with enough force. Admittedly, it was a cowardly way to take an unsuspecting man into custody. Nevertheless, she tiptoed closer. He remained beside the spring, making certain the brisk current of the water would not sweep both bottle and twine away. A few feet from him, she knelt and scooped up a rock which felt heavy as a hunk of lead. She wasn't going to like herself much for doing this.

The alternative was sharing lunch with him, sitting close beside him on the ground, feeling the warmth of golden eyes and the invasive excitement he had started inside her. Her choice was made. She moved quietly, remembering how she had taunted him and led him to expect more than an appetizing meal.

A shiver ran fully through her, though the sun shone down hotly on her back. He was reaching into the water, attempting to anchor the bottle between two small stones. For an instant she paused, mesmerized by the play of muscles in his back, moving bands of steel that frolicked beneath his shirt with the slightest gesture. What must he look like shirtless? She wondered, then bit down on her lower lip until the pain drove the question out of her mind.

He was bareheaded, his hair glinting blue-black in the light. A fine target. She was a step away, so close she could breathe in the scent of him—leather, a trace of tobacco—maleness, clean, strong, potent maleness. Another shiver threaded through her. She gripped the rock. This might be the best chance she would have to take him by surprise—and the only one that would spare her falling victim to the magnetism of Price Ramsey. Better they both go hungry a day than that she allow that to happen. She held her breath and slowly raised the rock to strike.

Price sensed her behind him and spun around, smiling. "Augusta—"

## Chapter 7

"Thanks." His smile still blazing, Price took the rock from her hand. "This is exactly the right size to hold the bottle in place."

She mumbled a reply. She had no idea what or if the words made sense. Her bones felt like water, and her heart slid somewhere near her knees. Hot color filled her face. She had let her chance pass, that one fraction of a second when she could have taken him had flown by faster than a frightened bird.

What now? Price wondered. For once the self-assured look was gone. A girlish flush tinted her cheeks, and he was seeing her still another way. Which was the true Augusta Harlowe? The aloof, mysterious woman who had followed him from town to town, the cool seductress of last night, or the uncertain girl he saw at the moment? One and the same? Reconciling all three into one woman was difficult.

"I'm ready." He rose swiftly, half-expecting her to be a yard away when he was upright, but she hadn't moved. Nor did she dodge his touch as his fingers grazed her back, gently guiding her toward the cloth they had laid out.

"Ready? For what?" she asked dubiously as points of fire flared from beneath his hand, consuming her flesh and giving rise to guilt that such a man should warm her. Her gasp was a soft desperate sound that came without warning as his fingers slid to her side and curled around her waist.

Filled with a confusing mixture of pleasure and panic, she reached out to thrust his hand away. But then she realized she could not forcefully do so without making him wonder why. He must have felt her uncertain quiver of response. His long fingers caressed her side; but instead of soothing her, the gesture added to her distress and made it impossible for her to think clearly.

"For lunch," he answered. "You said the food was ready. Or did I misunderstand?"

Price was completely baffled by her question and the way her body had responded to his touch. Did she welcome his attention or not? That her mind seemed to be miles away was unflattering to say the least. He'd never had trouble keeping a woman's interest; he had a talent for stimulating the desired response. He gave his head a determined shake. Augusta was different, more complex than the women he was used to. But he did enjoy a challenge.

Time to eat. That was what she had told him when he had caught her about to bash his head in. She was glad to know she had said something sensible. She forced a smile although it felt as if it would crack her face. "No. It's ready," she said sweetly. "Sit here, please."

She indicated a grassy spot and pushed away from him. Anxious to escape his touch, she hurried to the far side of the cloth, the array of dishes laid out like a low wall between them. Despising him for treading uninvited on her emotions was much easier from a distance. Well, perhaps she had invited him, but the invitation had been a sham. She had never intended to feel anything but cold determination to take him to Thaddeus Lord. To be certain that was all she felt, she recounted the charges Lord had levied as well as her own observations.

The task took a while, most of the mealtime; but when her list was finished, she felt in control again. The way Price looked at her, however, didn't help the process along. Several times, when she glanced up and experienced the full intensity of those golden eyes, she caught herself trembling deep inside. The result was that her hunger dissipated whereas his increased. Knowing she would surely regret it later, she only managed to nibble at her food.

The conversation was as spare as her appetite. Price did most of the talking. He praised the quality of the meal, the mildness of the day, and the decision to hold a picnic at Mirror Springs. She thanked him, agreed with him, and felt certain she must have proved such an uninteresting dining companion that he would be anxious to pack up and leave as soon as he had eaten his fill.

She was mistaken. She had misjudged him again. The expression on his face when she glanced openly at him told her so. He had finished eating but he looked unmistakably as if he would like to devour her for the next course. She shivered. His eyes made a slow, sensuous sweep of her, his gaze so provocative, so powerful, she dared not meet it. Yet she could not look away. Naked and vulnerable under his scrutiny, she felt unbound regret that she had chosen this way of taking him into custody.

She jerked her eyes from his face and studied the slow-moving waters of Mirror Springs. His charm was strong, his spell a continuous source of surprise. Involuntarily drawn to him, she was as helpless as a moth drawn to a candle's deadly flame. To feel as she did was preposterous. On an intellectual plane, she could harshly denounce him as an insincere pursuer of women, a relentless criminal. On an emotional plane, she could not stop wondering what it would be like...

Startled, she jumped when he unexpectedly maneuvered his body into another position. But he had only wanted to reach into his pocket, and the pants he wore were too tight to do so without an adjustment of his weight. Full of guilty thoughts, she nevertheless eyed him with suspicion as he pulled out a couple of coins. Grinning, he moved them through his fingers with a sleight-of-hand quickness a magician would have envied. The copper coins disappeared right before her eyes. She was still looking for them, amused by his antics in spite of herself, when he abruptly opened his hands and revealed that both were empty.

"Don't worry," he said, noting her look of surprise. "Nothing is lost forever."

That was a point she could debate with him. Her experience was that some things, many things were lost forever. But she was not interested in a lengthy philosophical discussion with Price Ramsey.

"Nothing?" she asked. And just what was he up to? Could he have figured out how she had gotten his watch with a similar move? Was that what the display of trickery was about?

"Everything eventually comes back." He smiled mischievously, further arousing Sunny's suspicion. "And usually where you least expect it. It's the magic of life."

She moved her hands dismissively. "I don't believe in magic."

"My dear, Augusta," he reproached her, teasing. Although he had hoped to lighten her mood, he could see he had not chosen the best method. But he wasn't ready to give up. The day was young, and he still had grandiose plans. "You must," he continued, shifting back into the cross-legged position he had been in before. "What else has brought us here, together, if not the magic of life?"

She gave her head a shake. "Something far more practical," she offered, her voice soft, her tone suggestive. "A need we both have."

His brows arched sharply. "You don't strike me as a practical woman."

She laughed. "Then I have misled you. I assure you I am quite businesslike and sensible."

Disagreeing, he shook his head. "I believe I would be disappointed if that were true. I prefer to think of you as part mystery and part magic." His voice dropped low and took on a husky tone. "A woman with special powers."

"Special powers," she repeated, liking the term. She would need all her skills in the days to come.

"Yes," he responded, exhilarated that he had finally said something that pleased her. "Like the springs. There are those who believe the springs have special powers."

"Oh?" She thought he must be joking at her expense or leading up to something she wasn't going to like. "And are these strengths released by drinking the water or by bathing in it?"

"Neither." He leaned across the cloth and caught her by the hand. "By wishes," he whispered.

Sunny knew a moment of panic. She hadn't imagined his reach so great. She had felt at a safe distance from him, from his touch. He held her by the wrist only briefly as he unfolded a tight fist, revealing one of the missing coins in her palm.

She looked at the penny in disbelief, unable to think clearly when she still felt the imprint of his hand on her skin. "Wishes?" she asked haltingly as she rubbed where he had touched, trying to wipe away the sensation.

"A wish on a penny," he replied, nodding, puzzled. If he didn't know it was impossible, he could think each of his three meetings with Augusta Harlowe had in fact been with a different woman. This one acted as if she'd never been with a man, as if she had a bee sting each time he touched her. Yet she had invited him here.

Last night she had made it utterly clear what was in store for him. But she sure wasn't giving him the same cues now. She was distant, and he sensed she was frightened of him. He leaned back, running his fingers through his thick, wavy hair. Just part of the game, he guessed. Part of the crazy game that was going to end shortly.

Smiling, he raised the coin he had kept to eye level so that it shone in the sunlight. "Watch," he said and wove the coin in and out of his fingers with a hypnotic rhythm. "A wish on a penny is said to come true if you toss it in the springs where the water bubbles through."

Her eyes followed the twists and turns of the coin he manipulated. The soft lull of his voice soothed her. But she wasn't so entranced that she couldn't question what he was saying. "You believe that?" she queried, squeezing the penny that had grown hot in her palm.

"Maybe, maybe not," he said. The coin in his hand disappeared as it had before.

Sunny tossed back her head, sending her unbound hair shimmering down her back. What silliness. She supposed he believed all women subscribed to romantic fantasies. All women didn't. She didn't. She put her faith in ingenuity and planning; and when that didn't work, a Colt was always handy. But for some unexplainable reason, a wish had begun to form in her mind. And she wasn't above attempting something new.

"I wonder," she started.

"Don't. Let's give it a try."

He sprung agilely to his feet and offered a hand to pull her up. She took it and was lifted to her feet with startling ease. But there was nothing easy about the look in his eyes. They were filled with passion—and as he held her, his fingers tightly laced within her own—it was catching. For one breathless petrifying moment, she thought he would drag her into his arms.

"Oh! What a mess," she moaned. Pretending to be aghast over the condition of her skirt, she wrenched her fingers free of his. "I must look frightful," she said with head bent down as she shook bits of leaves and grass from the wrinkled garment.

"Anything but." He plucked a leaf from the silky hair which cascaded over her shoulders. "I doubt it's possible."

She hadn't been listening, so she caught only the last words of what he'd been saying. Straightening up, she flung her head back to get the tumbling hair out of her eyes. "You doubt what's possible?"

He was sure she knew how irresistibly beautiful she looked. He did not question that the episode which had just ended had been designed to make sure he knew it too. Hands on his hips, legs spread wide, he laughed and shook his head. "I said I doubt it's possible for you to look frightful. But that's the way women are, always worrying about how they look before anything else."

He couldn't have said anything which could have annoyed her more. Categorizing "women" with a single set of traits for the entire gender infuriated her. She had fought that battle many times while establishing herself as a reliable detective. To be shoved back into the uncomfortable niche without the opportunity to prove how wrong Price was added to her fury.

But for the time being she bit her tongue and kept quiet about it. He'd have cause to choke on those words later. Right now the best thing to do was to meekly follow him as he led her over the lichen-covered ground and up the steep bank to a rocky grotto where the springs burst out of the earth.

She refused his offers of assistance, vowing she would not let him touch her again. She was mad enough to break his neck with her bare hands—if she could have reached it. But he was incredibly tall and big. Dear God, he was big. All muscle and sinew. Like two ordinary men put together to form one extraordinary specimen. He was a mountain, a big beautiful mountain. Damn! Why had she forgotten his size. She would need a long limb to whack that high head.

Berating herself again for letting the best of chances pass unused, she scrambled up the last low ledge to reach the abutment where Price stood waiting. She was immediately conscious of the coolness of the spot, a big hollow in a massive rock. The smell was lush and primitive and came from the thick covering of moss on the slab of stone that made an excellent observation point over the springs.

Crushed beneath her feet, the moss released more of the enticingly potent perfume. She glanced around, finding green everywhere from the moss-covered ledge to the abundance of ferns in crevices of rock to the long curling vines hanging like living curtains from the highest point.

She breathed in deeply, finding the air richer and fresher than it had been below. Invigorated, she could not help but smile in appreciation of the beauty of the spot. Only then did she notice that Price had been quietly watching her all along.

"I thought you would like it here," he said. "The place suits you as if it were made for you."

"It's lovely," she replied quickly, her smile fading. She hadn't forgotten she was angry with him. She wanted to hold on to the anger. He was easier to deal with that way, easier to keep at bay.

A second glance around the grotto was not to take in the beauty but to look for an appropriate weapon for rendering the tall, egotistical man unconscious. She saw nothing, not a loose rock anywhere. So it would be the hard handle of the gun strapped to her thigh and she would simply have to find a way to reach for it without his noticing.

"We should have brought the wine up," he said, grimacing at his lack of foresight. Common sense failed him around this woman. He'd been waiting all afternoon to find a way to get her to this cool, secluded lair. The small, natural paradise was the perfect setting for making love to his "lady in red". Since she still seemed hesitant to get started, a few glasses of wine would have helped her relax right into his arms.

"We could get it later," she said, uncaring. The wine bottle would soon find its way into her saddle pack unopened if she could just get him to turn his back—and kneel. She sighed quietly at the unlikely prospect. How was she going to do that?

"Now is best," he decided, catching her unexpectedly by the shoulders as he eased back to the path. "It should be completely chilled. I'll get the glasses, too," he added.

"You'll find them in the basket," she called after him.

As soon as he was out of sight, she reached up and massaged her shoulders. They felt as if they had been shot full of sparks. Damn him for that! Maybe she would hit him extra hard so he would stay out a long, long time. The arrogance of him. Did he think she didn't know what he wanted to do up here? The prospect made her quiver but—distressingly—with curiosity rather than with revulsion. She did wonder how the man would look undressed. Could all those muscles be real?

Exasperated at herself again, she deliberately made another survey of the place. It wasn't the ideal spot. Getting him down was going to be a chore, she lamented. He must weigh half a ton. Well, not as much as that, but he would be a load. She would have to drag him. The thought brought a wicked smile to her face. He'd wind up full of bumps and bruises.

She stiffened when she heard him starting up the path. With his long legs he would cover it in a minute or less. Hurriedly she scooped up her skirt and removed the gun from the strap on her right thigh. Peeling back a section of moss where the shelf met the rock wall of the grotto, she hid the gun underneath. The gun made a lump but blended into the rock's bumpy surface.

_Pop!_ She heard the snap of the cork as he forced it out of the wine bottle, heard the clink of the glasses as he filled them, heard the thump of the bottle as he set it down on the rock. The wicked twist of a smile came back to her lips. If by any chance she couldn't reach for the gun, she had another weapon, the bottle. Either way she would have to be careful not to knock him into the springs. Drowning him would be a shame.

She leaned out over the ledge, turning away from him to hide the iniquitous look on her face. What she saw below held her attention. The spring looked bottomless and, unlike a mirror, its surface was never still. The force of the underground current sent constant bands of ripples to the surface. Hence the reflections the deep blue waters cast back were never true, certainly not this spellbinding image of a side-by-side twosome. In the distortion of the springs, they looked like a pair of lovers undulating happily towards each other.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sunny said faintly as she continued to stare into the spring, entranced by the watery aberration of her standing contentedly close to Price. How deceiving. She had never felt that sort of closeness with anyone but Paul. And yet, as she peered into the waters, a feeling swept over her like a soft mist, filling her with a strange warmth and an almost-familiar yearning. A growing thirst burned through her. Was it because the faces were unclear on those two in the water? Because her mind was telling her the shimmering reflection could be Paul's? Or because her body was telling her she could long for someone else, even a man she despised?

"No!" She whirled about, shocked at her thoughts. The move brought her up hard against Price's chest, but only for a moment. Hands at her temples, she backed away.

"No," he repeated. He'd been about to hand her a glass of wine. Only by a careful maneuver had he managed to avoid sloshing it all over her. He drew it back. "Sorry. I thought you wanted this."

"Yes," she said without hesitation and reached for the stemmed glass. "Yes, I do." She snatched the goblet from him, spilling the wine in her haste. She drank it down with unladylike quickness. It was delicious, icy cold, and helped relieve the fiery thirst that threatened to consume her.

Price watched, astonished. He started to tell her to take it slowly but stopped himself and instead graciously took the empty glass from her and promptly refilled it.

Sunny sipped from the second glassful then breathed out a deep, shuddering sigh. "I was terribly thirsty," she explained. And astonishingly, she found the man himself much easier to face than the eerie and deceptive reflection of him in the springs.

"There's plenty more." Price happily indicated the nearly full bottle, then lifted his glass to her. "I'd like to make a toast."

Forgetting herself for a moment, she made a disagreeable reply. "I thought we came up here to make wishes."

Price grinned, too delighted at finding he had been right about the wine to care about another change of her unpredictable moods. "This one does double duty," he replied, swirling the wine beneath his nose as he appraised it. "My toast is also my wish."

Ignoring his uplifted glass, Sunny took another sip of her wine. "I've never believed in either," she insisted, although she did have a wish in mind, one she wasn't about to reveal.

"My dearest Augusta, we are about to change that." In no hurry, he lowered his glass, not about to discourage her from imbibing all she wanted.

"How?" she returned.

He grinned and refilled the glass she had half-emptied, his fingers briefly brushing over hers. "You ask a lot of questions for a lady who doesn't allow any."

She looked at him in astonishment. He had touched her, and she had felt nothing. Good! She was over that foolishness. She had known all along it was a temporary obstacle stemming from her ineptness at being a lady. A lady. Oh yes. That was why she was here dressed in these hot and uncomfortable clothes. That was why she ought to be pleasant even if she didn't feel like it.

She smiled coyly. The wine had helped—quickly. She felt calmer, more collected, but still unbearably warm though the grotto was especially cool. She did not worry that she was drinking quite a lot quite fast. She knew her quota, and it was far beyond this.

She had, however, forgotten that she had neglected to eat lunch, so she did not take into account that the potent power of the wine would speed into her veins much faster than expected. It brought a quick flush of warmth to her skin. Seeking to chase away the heat, she sipped and—when that did not help enough—loosened another button on her blouse, pushed the lapels open, and breathed deeply. "I suppose I do ask a lot of questions," she agreed, her voice winding out the words enticingly. "Do they annoy you when I do not allow the same privilege?"

Price, too, felt heat. She had uncovered the luscious swells of her breasts, and the way she was arching back as if offering herself to him sent a white hot bolt of fire right to his loins. Keeping his voice even took all his concentration. "Not at all," he said. "They offer me the only insight into an enigmatic lady. Ask me all the questions you like, any way you like."

A series of questions ran silently through her mind as she pronounced him a sanctimonious fraud. _Why are you a crook?_ Let him answer that if he would. _Why are you trying to ruin Lord Mining?_ Let him give her a logical excuse for his sabotage. _Why do you think I care if you're a handsome, charming, desirable man?_ Good God! How could she be thinking along those lines? It was the heat, the sudden heat. She took another quick sip of wine and pressed the cool glass to her brow. "Make your toast and your wish," she urged. "It's hot up here."

She had said she didn't believe in wishes. He never had either, for all his sweet talk about them. He believed the way you got what you wanted was by going after it with all you had. For the rest of this day and night, all he wanted was Augusta Harlowe, and he wasn't leaving the grotto until he had made love to her. He lifted his glass, clinked it against the one she held. "To the 'lady in red'," he said huskily. "May all her secrets be mine."

The coin suddenly appeared in his empty hand—weaving, turning, spinning, captivating her like a tiny beam of light in the distance of a black, black night. Her eyes followed the arch of the coin as he tossed it into the air and it looped and fell into the depths of the spring.

She shouldn't have looked into the water, not as light-headed as she was. The loving pair waited in the waters, the loving pair in her body and Price's, looking all the world like living beings who wanted to be together. They made her feel that she wanted the same as they. How odd that those two stood so close, that he had his arm around her, that he was leaning toward her as if to whisper in her ear. How odd that she felt the need to be held and that she felt a strange, hot yearning in her body. A desire she could never feel for Price Ramsey.

"Drink," he said.

"Yes," she responded and drank deeply. It was better than looking at the blurred faces, the phantom reflections, better than thinking how good it would be if the man were Paul and he were with her and she felt as she did. But he was not, could not be. And still she felt the need of arms around her, a strong hard body against her.

She had a peculiar look on her face, a wistful faraway look that could not possibly include him. He felt an edge of jealousy, an emotion he had rarely known. He didn't want her thinking of someone from her past, someone who must have meant something to her before she knew him, someone she must have known intimately. He wanted her here with him, all her senses tuned to him. He had his arm around her. She didn't seem to have noticed. He pulled her against his side. "You ought to make your wish," he prompted.

"My wish." She felt a weight against her and turned unsteadily to find herself nestled against Price. The wine. She _had_ taken too much and too fast, and now she felt dizzy. But she shrugged off her worry. The dizziness would pass. She would make her wish as he had suggested. That would give her time to recover her equilibrium.

That she stood within the wrap of his arm did not bother her. She no longer felt the fire, and she was too giddy to realize that the lack of it was far more dangerous. Had it been there, she would have fought it. Instead, she accepted his closeness, leaned on him, and allowed him to pull her even tighter against him. Sighing with the effort, she opened her left palm. The coin was there, damp but bright, ready to carry her wish into the springs. She held it up and smiled in a silly fashion as she gave it a toss.

"There," she said. She was not so deep in her cups that she had entirely forgotten her wish. _To give Price Ramsey what he deserved._ In two weeks' time, she would deliver him to Thaddeus Lord.

The coin splashed into the spring. She would not have looked down to see it cut through the dark water, but Price took a step forward and took her with him. And then there was no escape. Like a golden thread, the coin seemed to draw the pair in the water together until, arms linked, the two dissolved into one.

The sad, strange yearning the sight evoked overpowered her with the force of a spring bursting out of the ground, filling her like floodwaters filled a dry canyon.

She cried out. The goblet fell from her hand and shattered.

"Augusta." Price felt her buckling in his arms. He was certain if he hadn't been holding her, she would have slipped off the ledge. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," she whispered, not to Price Ramsey but to a memory. But it was not a memory which felt gloriously warm against her and as solid as the ground her feet stood upon. She slipped her arms around Price's waist, laid her cheek upon his broad chest, and heaved out a sigh as strong as the heavy thud of his heartbeat. She thought she would stay where she was for a while, a little while, until her head cleared and she could remember what it was she meant to do next.

His arms enveloped her. He had waited for this moment, and the wait was nearly worth the agony even if he got nothing more than this. She felt divine, her curves full, her flesh soft, her limbs supple. He had dreamed she would feel this good in his arms, and it was gratifying to know he'd been right. He'd come closer to being a fool over this woman than over any other, except Rosanne.

Since he was older and wiser now, perhaps he had even been a bigger fool over Augusta. He still knew precious little about her. There had been times when he was convinced she didn't know herself. She could not have reached the age she was without calculating her tolerance for wine. He couldn't believe drinking recklessly was usual for her. If it were, she certainly could have held more than the three glasses he'd given her.

He experienced a stab of conscience at the limpness of her body in his arms. She had eaten so little of her lunch. He should have stopped her instead of encouraging her to drink more. She was a bit too drunk to fully know what she was doing. And he still had enough gentlemanly consideration left in him to rue taking a woman unaware.

At least he thought he did, until he felt her arms slide across his back and felt her breasts heave against his belly. His body reacted without a trace of gentlemanly consideration. His loins tightened, and his desire erupted in a painful groan.

He knew so little about her. Was it possible she wasn't drunk at all? That she knew exactly what she was doing? Maybe she could hold a bottle or two of wine and be as sober as he was. Maybe she was playing with him again. Maybe he wouldn't let her get away with it this time.

He was still holding a wine glass. He threw it over the ledge and brought his hand down to her hair. The sensuous tangle of her mane fired his blood even hotter. His fingers slid through the soft, blonde tresses and down her back. He followed the gentle curve as it deepened into a narrow waist, then swelled again into shapely buttocks. He cupped his hand around her and gently lifted her against his loins. She responded with a contented shudder.

His hunger soared. He tilted her head back and brushed the hair out of her face. Her eyes were almost closed, but her lips parted in a soft smile. Gently, he touched his mouth to hers, tasting the wine on her lips. As she opened to him, he plunged his tongue into her mouth. She was sweet, welcoming, like honey and fire. He found the depths of her mouth and touched them, filled them.

It was almost enough; the kiss was almost enough. She moved softly beside him, her hips swaying against his loins. The instrument of his desire tightened to steely hardness, pulsed and strained at the tight seams of his trousers.

She was drunk. She knew it. Drunk and dreaming. No. Caught in a dream. A dream of passion that was so real she could feel the hunger in her breaking away the emptiness of all the years. She was so terribly empty. So terribly desperate to be filled. She wouldn't let herself think of who he was, what he was. He was filling her. Filling her mouth with kisses that ignited more hunger. Delicious hunger.

She drank him in, wrapped her arms around his neck and drank him in. But she gave back twofold what she took from him, sliding her tongue into his mouth, delving deep, touching the satiny hollows. It was not enough. She whispered to him that it was not enough.

He lowered her to the ground, to the soft bed of moss that covered the rocky floor of the grotto like a luxuriant velvet blanket. He was beside her in an instant, beside her, over her, all around her like a cloud. She felt his hands on her shoulders soft as the wind, their quick warm sweep as they pushed the silk shirt down her arms.

She felt the cool air on her bared breasts, felt her nipples swell and then tighten into sensuous knots at the hot touch of his lips. She burned; she ached. His mouth and his tongue were there to soothe the pain, to cool the fire. She cried out her pleasure in sweet, soft sounds that floated around them like a song. And yet it was not enough.

Desperately, she fought with the buttons on his shirt, moaning in frustration when she could not unfasten them. He divested himself of the garment and she was satisfied briefly to stroke his steely chest, to feel the soft coils of coal-black hair that covered it. She kissed him on his lips, his chin, his throat; and then her mouth found the nubs that were his nipples and moved over them. She felt them harden, felt his belly go taut beneath her hand. And still she wanted more. She wanted enough to fill all the years, all the emptiness.

And she was to have it. He whispered her name as he raked a hand from her throat to her waist, a soft feather stroke that ran mysteriously beneath her skin. She lifted to it but it was gone, his hand at the silver-buckled belt cinched around her waist.

That barrier held him but a moment. He removed it, laid it aside, and as she writhed beneath him loosened the hooks that fastened the skirt tightly around her hips. His insistent hands pushed the garment loose and slid inside, palms resting on her hipbones, fingers splayed over the flat quivering plane of her stomach.

The core of her desire grew warm, liquid warm. Her need spiraled ever upward, as high as the sparkling water of a geyser seeking the clouds. One purposeful hand traced through the honey-colored curls at the apex of her thighs, slid lower, sinking into her with a touch so intimate, so sizzling she gasped for breath.

She closed her eyes and, for one fleeting moment, deep in the wine-wrapped shadows of her mind, knew she had passed through a gate which had been closed and barred for a long, long time. _"Come back,"_ her mind whispered. But she shut her ears to the inner voice. This waking dream she had lost herself in was too alluring; it quenched the burning thirst the wine had only made greater. And she wanted it all. All. It had been so terribly long.

He smiled at her, watching as he rocked her with a slow, steady motion until her hips caught the rhythm and moved to meet him. She was made to love him; she was tall, long-limbed, full-breasted, and eager. So very eager.

He could feel her heat, her wetness. He smelled the heady, sweet scent of her arousal and his. She was close. He felt a quickening in the thrust of her hips, felt her nails cut into his back, heard the swift change in her breathing, the incoherent cry from her lips. He took her cry inside him, covering her trembling lips, filling her mouth with the thrust of his tongue as he felt a quiver, tiny at first, where his finger primed within her.

Her release came in a burst, wave upon wave of ecstasy. Ecstasy she had forgotten in the barren years. She was vaguely conscious that it was not entirely complete; but it was enough to sate her, to pierce the emptiness.

Price pulled away from her, aware she had found satisfaction. Pleased, he was anxious to take her even higher. Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged. His own need set upon him like a deepening tide. There was more, so much more to share with her. He wanted to feel her long legs wrapped around him, his manhood thrust deeply within her, the shuddering joy of her climax as it brought about his own.

The boots were in the way. Hers. His. He slipped his off and kicked them aside. Hurriedly, he pulled off the knee-high riding boots she wore and, with a gentleness that obscured his passion, tugged off the riding skirt and undergarments she wore.

Sunny's eyes opened a slit. Passion had burned away some of the wine inside her. Not enough that she didn't watch in fascination as he removed his boots and hers and as he unfastened his trousers and stretched out beside her again. With the sun on his back he looked as if he'd been wrought of copper. His skin shone; his jet hair gleamed; his eyes poured out passion and his hands brought it alive in her, again.

She gazed up into the blue sky the way she had gazed down into the water. The view was the same, the man shimmering in a sweep of clouds. Not real, not anyone she knew. But the feel of his knuckles grazing her nipples was real. Her breasts peaked into hard knots. Beneath her, the earth shook as he took her hand and brought it to him, forcing her to feel his heat, his hardness.

She cried out. She wanted him, needed him. The quaking she felt came from within. Her body was a desert—burning, changing, ready to spring forth into long-denied life.

"Please," she whispered.

Price lifted himself above her and indulged himself in a long glimpse of his fantasy come true: His lady on a cushion of green moss. Her blonde hair spilled out over the greenness; her eyes matched it, and the light in them built his passion to a level he feared would surely erupt before he could claim her.

A breeze stirred. A wash of cooling air swept over Sunny's face. Her head felt thick, her mind sluggish, her body as if it were on fire. And a god knelt above her, parted her legs with a push of his knee. A golden god so perfectly made he could not possibly be mortal. She smiled at him.

"You're beautiful, Augusta," he whispered, his breath a soft caress on her cheek. "Exquisitely beautiful."

## Chapter 8

"Perfect. Perfectly done." Thaddeus Lord lolled back in the big leather chair behind his massive desk. He was elegantly dressed in a gray suit of light worsted wool that his tailor had delivered just that morning. His cheeks and chin still tingled pleasantly from the steaming and shave his valet had given him half an hour before.

On the bulge of his ample belly, expertly camouflaged by a new maroon silk vest, a heavy gold watch chain momentarily swayed to and fro as he laughed aloud. He was elated over news he'd received. And when he had comfortably positioned himself, he motioned his assistant Joshua Keegan to the chair facing him.

A small table laden with bottles stood in a corner of the room. Keegan, looking nearly as dapper as his employer in a suit of charcoal gray with a nearly indiscernible pattern of checks, was about to pour himself a drink when his boss summoned him. The boisterous sound of Lord's laughter and the wide smile on the man's face piqued his curiosity. The still-empty glass in his hand thumped back on the tray as he promptly responded to his employer's directive.

"You look pleased with yourself." Soundlessly, the lean Keegan crossed the floor and slithered into the chair.

He had the moves and temperament of a snake. Lord had often thought it, occasionally remarked on it when Keegan wasn't present. But since the reptilian attributes often proved of value to him he didn't mind tolerating them.

"Not so much with myself as with Sunny Harlowe." He shoved a telegram across his desk. "Read this."

Keegan picked up the paper, noted who had sent it, then read it silently.

T. Lord

PR. in custody. Arrival 10 days.

7 Bos. Mass.

S. Harlowe

"Just as I told you." Lord gloated at the disappointment in Keegan's face. He suspected his assistant was beginning to discount his chance of winning the buckskin saddle horse.

"Well, it took her long enough," Keegan remarked dryly as he stroked his sleek mustache. "By the way, what's that last part about."

"That, my man, is a most important detail Mrs. Harlowe managed to pick up along with Ramsey. It's the number of telegrams sent from Wallis to Boston, Massachusetts, in recent days."

"Boston," Keegan said thoughtfully. "That's where your financial partners are."

"Exactly." Lord pulled out a cigar, tossed it to Keegan, then got another for himself. He purposely kept Keegan waiting for an explanation until he had fired up his cigar and enjoyed several puffs from it. "And I'll bust my buttons if those telegrams didn't go to them from Ramsey."

"That's not good." Keegan's face clouded. His fortune hung with Lord's. If Ramsey were working for the men in Boston or were even in touch with them, chances were both he and his boss would lose. He forgot that he held a lighted match until it burned down low enough to singe his fingers. "Damn!" he said, tossing the flaming splinter to the floor and crushing it out on the carpet with his boot heel.

"Not on the floor, Keegan. This isn't a saloon," Lord admonished. He gave his assistant so base a look that, as he dived for the crushed match, he dropped the long cigar he was about to light.

"Sorry," the lean man said, gritting his teeth. Lord had a way of reminding him he was what that Harlowe woman had called him, a "hired man." Reluctantly he picked up the match and chased down the cigar which had rolled under Lord's desk.

Seeing that Lord was still scowling as he started to rise, he immediately pulled from his pocket a fine linen handkerchief and used it to wipe away the smudge of soot the match had left. Fortunately, he'd put the flame out before it scorched the carpet. The soiled handkerchief he stuffed in his pocket; the remains of the match he tossed into the open grate. Then, with exceeding care, he tried the endeavor again and successfully lit his cigar.

"No, it's not good, but it's good to know." Lord went on as if the interruption had not occurred. "At least we have a clearer picture of what Ramsey's getting at. And when we know that, we know how to stop him."

"Excuse me," Keegan said indulgently. "But haven't we already stopped him? That is provided Mrs. Harlowe really can deliver him to us."

Lord puffed long and hard on his cigar. "You never see anything but the obvious, Keegan."

Keegan laid his cigar in the large, glass ash container strategically placed on Lord's desk. "The obvious is that Ramsey wants to shut down the mine and so far he's done a good job of it. If he's working for your partners, if they're using him to cut us out, I don't see that there's any way clear of the trouble he's caused us."

Lord puffed. He was enjoying his cigar and using Keegan as a sounding board. "There's always a way."

"Sure," Keegan returned. "Putting Ramsey six feet under."

"I remind you that's the last thing we want to do," said Lord without removing the cigar from his mouth. Down to half the original length, it bounced in his lips with each word.

"I don't catch your reasoning," Keegan responded. His eyes shadowed a look that questioned his boss's capacity to analyze a situation. "If Ramsey's working for your partners, we don't have time to—"

Lord cut him off. "The way I see it, Ramsey isn't working for my partners, he working on them."

"Huh?"

"Think about it, Keegan. If he were working for them, they would have pulled their backing by now. What we've been doing is a violation of our contract. He may have sent information that raised doubts, but they've obviously demanded more proof. So far, he hasn't delivered it; and so far, he hasn't convinced them we're doing anything wrong. What Ramsey is doing is stalling. He knows about the time factor in the agreement. He knows we need clear title to the spur line. He figured he'd get us one way or the other, but thanks to Sunny Harlowe we've put a crimp in his plans."

"So what's the harm in killing him now?" Keegan asked coldly. He'd never actually met Price Ramsey, but the man was a constant source of irritation. Furthermore, Ramsey was responsible for making him look incompetent. His guards, his security plans—all had proved ineffective against Ramsey. He wasn't sure how much longer Lord would tolerate the failures—and him.

"He's not a fool," Lord shot back. "He will have taken precautions, suggested to my partners that his life is in danger. And if he has already gathered evidence to use against us, he will have left it with someone who can use it. The second thing is that he is the owner of that sector of track we need."

"He can't own it if he's dead."

"No. But his friends can. Think about it, Keegan. If Mr. Ramsey were to meet with a fatal accident, we would find ourselves in far more trouble than we're now in. Title to that sector could be tied up in the courts for years."

"Then what's to stop him from holding out even when you get him? As soon as he figures out you're not going to kill him—and he will—he's won," Keegan pointed out, giving a disgusted shake of his head. He'd forgotten his cigar. A silver ash burned around the end of it as it sat impotently in the ashtray. "With our equipment in a bog, we'll never make our deadline; and without that sector of rail, it wouldn't matter anyway."

Lord's eyes smoldered like Keegan's cigar. "We won't have to. Sunny Harlowe's bought us all the time and all the protection we need."

Keegan couldn't think of a response that adequately expressed his consternation, and he couldn't believe that under the circumstances Thaddeus Lord broke out into laughter. "I don't get it," he said at last. "Our contract states...why the time factor alone..."

"I know what the contract states. I know what the time factor is. But what would a group of honorable men do if they believed we had proceeded in good faith and they knew they were in part responsible for the failure to get the mine in operation?"

"Honorable men?" Keegan had to step outside his own experience to find an answer. "They would give you an extension, I reckon. Maybe even come up with more money."

"You're damn right," Lord said. "Especially after I tell them what I know about Price Ramsey. I can do that now since I've confirmed he's been in communication with them. He was a Confederate and he's been a drifter since. I met him years ago down in Brazil. He caused a lot of trouble in the mining industry and had to leave the country or be arrested." That he had reversed the facts bothered him not a whit. "I can paint him a liar and troublemaker and get witnesses to back it up."

Keegan was beginning to see what his boss had in mind, but he couldn't quite comprehend it all. "I don't know," he said. "People don't care much about the war anymore. Or what happened in a country they never heard of. So how's telling them about Ramsey's past going to help us?"

Lord snorted. "I'm not going to tell them," he said confidently. "Ramsey is. In a sworn statement, he's going to tell our Boston partners that he had an old score to settle with me and that he fabricated the evidence he sent and that he sabotaged our equipment to prevent our getting in production."

It sounded far-fetched to Keegan. What he knew of Ramsey didn't indicate the man would cooperate under any circumstances. "What makes you think he'll do it?" he asked, beginning to perspire.

He reached for his handkerchief but quickly remembered it was unfit for wiping his face. The unchecked moisture beaded and streamed down his brow and neck.

Lord strode around his desk to the liquor table. He was a heavy man, and his footsteps were like thunder even on the plush carpet. "He'll do it because in the final assessment he's an honorable man, too. And Keegan," Lord affirmed as he picked up the brandy bottle and poured himself a generous portion. "An honorable man will do anything to protect someone he cares about."

"Do we know who he cares about?" Keegan asked dubiously.

To Joshua Keegan, giving up a fight to protect someone not involved was just short of insane. He was suspicious of the plan even before he heard it. Lord was a gambler, and his enjoyment of toying with an enemy worried him. It was an unnecessary risk, but he did not recount his reservations to Lord.

Lord rumbled with laughter. He saw the narrowing of Keegan's eyes, the quick flickering of the tongue on his lips. He knew the line of his assistant's thoughts. "I know what I'm doing," he said. "I have provided him someone to care about," he continued, purposefully speaking slowly. "Sunny Harlowe."

"Shit!" Keegan sputtered. "He'd be more likely to pay to get away from her."

Lord laughed even louder. Keegan's violent dislike of Mrs. Harlowe amused him. But he was too shrewd a man not to think of everything himself. There was a remote chance that Keegan's assessment of the woman might prove correct.

"In the event you are right, Keegan, I have taken the precaution of doubly insuring this risk. From associates in St. Louis, I learned that Ramsey got himself entangled with a society girl up there last year. A debutante, a virginal type—or at least she was reputed to be untouched before she met Ramsey—who is yet waiting for him to return for the wedding."

Keegan shrugged his narrow shoulders, reminding himself there had been only a few failures in Thaddeus Lord's ventures. "How does that help us?" he hurried to ask.

"Ahh, Keegan." Lord paused for a drink of the brandy. He liked good brandy, good cigars, and tailored suits which made even a man of his size look dashing. He liked having hired help like Keegan to do his bidding. He wasn't about to let Price Ramsey bring it to an end. Ramsey had a vulnerability. He had pointed it out to Keegan before. "Use your imagination," he said to the man. "I sent the girl a telegram and tickets to San Francisco. She's arriving in two weeks for her wedding."

Awestruck by his boss's audacity, Keegan pushed back so hard in his chair that the legs scrubbed marks in the thick carpet. Again he got a scowl from Lord, but this time he didn't care.

"Wait a minute," he said, his mind automatically looking for the catch. "If Ramsey ran out on her before, he can't care anything about her."

"He may not," Lord agreed. "But he is a man who will feel responsible for a woman he has deflowered. Trust me."

"I can't see that I have any choice."

"You don't," Lord said matter-of-factly.

"Just one other thing," Keegan demanded as he slowly uncoiled himself from the chair and made for the drink table. "What do we do if the women tear each other to pieces over Ramsey?"

Lord smiled a sinister smile. "Celebrate," he said.

***

Two thousand miles away, the same word was spoken by a wispy blonde girl whose willowy beauty hid a will as strong as whipcord. She was wealthy, indulged, and hardly the sweet, innocent girl Thaddeus Lord believed her to be.

Her morals were the whispered talk of many a St. Louis drawing room. But that did not bother her. Life had too many exciting challenges for a woman to worry about anything as insignificant as gossip. She did precisely what she wanted. And only once in her life had she failed to get something she wanted. Now it looked as if that, too, were to be hers.

"Celebrate," she said to her French maid as she clutched a recently delivered telegram to her full, silk-clad bosom. "Celebrate, Emilie. Price has sent for me, and I'm going to him."

Emilie buzzed around the blue-walled bedroom, putting back in drawers and cupboards the garments and toiletries her mistress had pulled out and tossed into a traveling trunk. "In California, miss?" she cried. "To the Price Ramsey who jilted you? No, miss."

The blonde girl gave an exasperated sigh as she laid the telegram on her dressing table. "Oh, he didn't really jilt me, Emilie. There was no proposal of marriage. I made that up to pacify my father the night he caught me slipping in the library window after I had been with Price. The truth is Price never really promised me anything." Her blue eyes flashed naughtily as she shook her golden head and laughed.

"No." Emilie's wide eyes showed her alarm. "Still you cannot go. Think of your poor father. The disgrace of an elopement."

"My father," Penelope Peck said spitefully, "will keep me locked up in this house until he can find some rich, simpering old fool to marry me. One who doesn't care if I am no longer a virgin."

"Oh!" Emilie gasped and clasped both hands over her mouth. "You cannot mean...It cannot be true!" Her face turned scarlet.

"Well, it is," Penelope said, delighted to have shocked her maid. Shocking people was the greatest fun she had. She didn't care a fig that she had behaved scandalously the year of her coming out. Nor did she mean what she had said about her father marrying her off to an old fool. She was her father's only child, and someday she would inherit his vast wealth. A girl of her means did not need a cloud-white reputation. She wiggled a finger at the horrified maid, calling Emilie to her side. "And let me tell you, Emilie," she added in a whisper, "it was wonderful."

"Ooh!" Emilie wailed and ran out of the room.

"Come back here, Emilie," Penelope shrieked after her. "This minute! I want you to send a telegram for me. Emilie!"

Halfway down the servant's stairs, Emilie stopped. She knew her place and the consequences of not obeying her spoiled mistress. Resigned to endure more of Penelope's antics, she returned.

"Yes, miss," she said, standing stiffly, her plump hands folded nervously in front of her.

"You are such a prude, Emilie," Penelope complained. "Price was not even my first." She laughed caustically at the maid's new look of astonishment. "And to think I believed you French were the worldliest of people."

"No, miss."

Penelope, having briefly lost interest in traumatizing Emilie, flopped down in the gilt chair at her desk and carefully wrote out a reply to the telegram she had received.

Darling.

Tickets received. Shopping for trousseau.

Arriving as instructed.

Your Penelope.

"Oh dear," she mumbled to herself as she read the brief message. "How will I ever complete my shopping in so short a time?" And then she gave a labored sigh. "Oh, well, if I must, I must." She looked up at Emilie, who stood dutifully at her side. "Order my carriage and take this right down to the telegraph office. And don't tell a soul what you're doing."

Emilie wrung her hands with painful force. She did not like being deceitful, and she was thinking how great the wrath of Miss Peck's father would be should he find out her part in this escapade. "What should I say if someone asks where I'm going?" she made herself inquire. "Marvin is sure to ask."

"I hadn't thought of that." Penelope frowned and drummed a manicured nail on the crystal ink bottle atop her desk. Marvin, the butler, had been a part of the household since before she was born. He was devoted to the family, loyal, and he was her father's spy. She could not make a move without the hawk-eyed old man reporting it to Osborn Peck. She was certain Marvin was the one who had spotted her returning from the neighboring estate the night she had gone to Price. "Let me think," she said, and then her blue eyes lit up like lamp wicks. "I've got it. Tell him you're going to pick up a hat I ordered from the milliner."

"But—" Emilie protested.

"Hush and listen to me, Emilie," Penelope ordered, her quick temper flaring. She could not abide being questioned, especially by a servant. "Send the telegram as I told you, then stop by Ludene's and pick out a hat. Any hat. Tell them to put it on my account."

"But what about the driver? If Marvin asks him where he went—"

"Edmond?" Penelope interrupted, looking judgmentally at her maid. She had never before done so in quite the same way. The girl's figure lacked even the slightest curve, but she did have a pleasant face. And she recalled seeing Edmond sneaking glances at Emilie the few times she had allowed the maid to accompany her in the carriage. "He's sweet on you, isn't he?" Emilie blushed, which was all the answer Penelope needed. Uncaring of the shy maid's feelings, she suggested a way to take care of the problem. "Edmond won't say a thing if you ask him—nicely."

Emilie's mouth fell open. She was fond of Edmond, and she knew he had looked at her with interest; but she had never talked to him except as duty required. "Oh, I couldn't," she said. "I really couldn't."

"Yes, you can!" Penelope snapped. "I'm going to San Francisco to marry Price Ramsey, and nothing will stop me. Now, go! Do as I say or I'll see you're dismissed before sundown."

"Yes, miss." Emilie tucked the message into her pocket and hurried down the stairs to summon the carriage. Few things she could think of were worse than losing her job. She supposed she would have to accompany Miss Peck to San Francisco. The demanding young woman was completely incapable of managing by herself.

Forcing herself to be bold, Emilie called for the carriage. She would send the telegram as ordered. And while she was out, she would decide if going to San Francisco with her mistress were one of the few things worse than being dismissed.

After Emilie had left on her errand, Penelope sat looking in her mirror, admiring her pretty heart-shaped face. She touched a spot of lip-rouge to her full, pouty lips and turned her head from side to side, noting that the natural blush of her cheeks was as true as ever.

Her hair was the envy of her friends—thick, wavy, and the golden color of the gilt furnishings in her room. Big blue eyes shone from beneath a full sweep of blonde lashes. All her beaus had compared them to sapphires. But Price had said they reminded him of the turquoise stones Indians fashioned into jewelry. "Desert jewels," he had called them.

"I knew he couldn't forget me," Penelope Peck said triumphantly to her lovely reflection.

***

"Where is he? Damn it! Where is Price?" Late in the afternoon, Delos, waving a sealed envelope, burst in the door of Billy's study and found the blond man pouring over an untidy stack of papers on his desk. "Where did he go, anyway?"

"Picnicking," Billy said, grinning. "With his 'lady in red'. Remember?"

"Yes. I remember that. But where did they go? Damn it! The boy never tells anybody where he's going," Delos said, irritated, remembering all the times he'd waited for Price to end a dalliance with a woman. "This telegram just arrived, relayed here from San Francisco. It must be important."

"Give it to me," Billy said. He was tired of transcribing the papers they had worked on earlier, but he had to make copies before he could forward the information to the men in Boston who had unwittingly invested money in Lord's mining company.

Billy was as certain as Price and Delos that the evidence they had accumulated would be incentive enough to end the arrangement. The documents outlined Thaddeus Lord's duplicity and presented the geological survey Delos had carefully prepared while traveling through Claret Valley under cover of the medicine show. Additionally, Delos's plan showed he knew a safer and surer way to mine the hills above Wallis.

"Take it," said Delos. "Give it to him as soon as he gets in."

Billy held the envelope in one hand and slapped it against the open palm of the other several times. "Price won't be back before morning. He made that clear. If this is important, he'd want us to find him."

"Where's the biggest bed in Wallis?" Delos asked, pacing the study floor.

"He wouldn't be in it today." Billy laughed. "He's on a blanket under a shade tree somewhere."

For all his mirth, he was as concerned as Delos. Ruining Lord was crucial to Price; saving the valley was crucial to him. Delos was the link that made it all work. They needed one another for success. Until they achieved it, the three of them had no secrets from one another.

So while Billy didn't usually pry into his friend's private business, these days telegrams might need an instant reply. He figured Price would be a lot madder about getting a message late than about having a telegram addressed to him opened by a friend.

He tore open the envelope and read the contents hastily. "Well, well," Billy said, relaxing, his grin as wide as a barn door. "Things are gonna get mighty interesting around here."

"What is it?" Delos inquired, stroking his beard as he always did when he was worried. "Trouble?"

"The worst kind." Billy handed the telegram to Delos and watched his scholarly face with interest as he read it. Billy saw an unbidden smile break out in the midst of the beard.

"Woman trouble," Delos said. His smile was short lived. "The worst kind and at the worst time." His sigh had a note of sympathy for his absent friend. "Think we ought to find him?"

"Naw," Billy said. He had hours of writing to do even with Delos's help. And there really was nothing else to be done until the copies were made and posted and the originals secured in a safe place. "Let him have his fun." He took the telegram, refolded it, slipped it back in the envelope, and placed it in a drawer of his desk. "This will keep until morning."

Delos continued his slow pacing of the room. On the fifth round, he stopped and looked over at Billy. "What do you think she means about him wiring tickets for her? Did he say anything to you about sending for Miss Peck?"

Billy scratched his head. Price sending for Miss Peck seemed about as unlikely as anything he could imagine. "I thought he was going to shoot me once for mentioning her name. I can't figure it."

"Me, either," Delos agreed. "He threatened to part my hair with a bullet for teasing him about her. I can't believe he's been secretly carrying a torch for Miss Peck all this time. I got the feeling he wanted to keep as many miles between them as was possible."

"Same here," Billy agreed. "And he seems more than mildly interested in this Harlowe woman."

"Hmmm," Delos mused, still at last. His hands rested on the front of Billy's desk as he leaned his weight on it. "Under the circumstances, I can't wait to hear his explanation in the morning."

Billy nodded agreement. "Guess we'll have to, though. We don't know where the picnic is being held—or maybe I ought to say performed."

"Price ought to have told us where he was going," Delos complained. "This is no time for us to be out of touch."

"He probably would have let us know his plans if we hadn't given him such a hard time about being smitten by Augusta Harlowe."

"You're probably right," Delos conceded. "He's been different about the Harlowe woman."

"Have you ever seen her?" Billy asked.

"Not that I recall," Delos replied. "I confess that when he first started talking about a 'lady in red' I thought he was making up the tale for my benefit. He had his pick of women in every town. I could not believe there was a single one he couldn't summon with a nod. As for seeing her, working those crowds wasn't easy. I generally didn't look at people unless they came forward to make a purchase. She never did. So if I saw her at one of the medicine shows, I didn't notice her, didn't hear the siren's song that Price heard."

"Come again?" Billy questioned.

"A siren," Delos replied, "is a beautiful temptress who calls a man to his doom. The way he talks about her, the way he acts, I've always thought of the 'lady in red' as a siren."

Billy shoved the disarray of papers on his desk into the largest drawer and locked it. The key deposited in his pocket, he looked up at Delos. "You sure you're not talking about Penelope Peck?"

The frown Delos had been wearing for the last few minutes darkened. "Maybe I am at that."

Supper time was nearing. Billy was hungry and chafing a bit with the guilt of having given Price a hard time about his rendezvous with Augusta Harlowe. "Why would a man who is getting married in two weeks be courting another woman?" he asked Delos.

"You've known him longer than I have," Delos replied. "Hasn't he always made you wonder if the world would give out of sheets?"

Billy chuckled as he got up and came around his desk. "Now that you mention it, yes. Anyhow, it's going to be one hell of a show."

"Ever seen women duel?"

Billy's chuckle deepened as he left the study for the kitchen. "No," he responded. "I wonder what the choice of weapons would be."

## Chapter 9

The gun. Where had she put the gun? Dear God, her brain wasn't working right. The wine. The wine bottle. She needed the wine bottle. Sunny struggled to get up, which was impossible with his weight on her. He held her wrists; his mouth was at her throat. She could move nothing but her legs, and they thrashed wildly.

One of the desperate kicks brought her foot against cold, wet glass. The wine bottle. She moaned in frustration as she heard a clink as it toppled and rolled across the rocks. Seconds later, she heard a splash.

Another moan seeped from her lips. She had done herself no good thrashing about. If anything—blazes! What was that? The question was moot. She knew. Against her, a hard male shaft pulsed, pushing for entry. Fire raced through her, passion, anger. She wanted to kill him, would have if she'd had the means. And yet—she couldn't suppress the desire—she wanted to take him inside her and give in to dark sensations that would take her over the barrier.

She gasped. His mouth was at her breast, searing her like a flame; his hand probed the gateway of her body, taunting her, separating, feeling the liquid stream that mocked her will to resist him. She squeezed her thighs together. She could not, would not give in to this madness. She had gone too far already. How had she ever gone as far as this? And though it would have made her feel better, she could not altogether blame the wine. She had never completely lost her reason to wine before.

Price whispered her name. She was hot and wet and hungry for him. And he for her. He could not remember a time when he had wanted a woman beneath him more or a time when he had known it could be only this woman, no other. He could love her, he thought, if only for the beguiling mystery of her. He could love her because she made him so mad he could chew nails and then made him want her before he could spew them out.

No. No. More than that called out to him. He sensed something in the secrets, hidden needs as locked away from the life she led as were his own. He would know her. He swore it. He would know her. But later. Later. Now this part of her was what he needed most.

He kissed her throat, pressed his throbbing manhood against her, felt her heat, felt her yield beneath him.

"Wait!" she cried.

Wait? Price groaned and shook himself out of the din of his passion. Wait with her writhing beneath him as if she would impale herself on him? Wait when he had already waited weeks for this moment? With supreme effort, he lifted his weight off her, mistaking her admonishment as a request for more of that which had come before.

When he freed her hands she scooted from beneath him, wildly flung her hands across her breasts as if to cover them, and drew her knees up tightly in front of her. Price sat back on his heels, his teeth clamped down on his lower lip so tightly it was made bloodless. His erection sprang out before him, his desire so evident she gasped at the sight of him.

Sunny's eyes locked on the hard male flesh. For what seemed an age, she lacked the power to break her gaze away. When at last she found the fortitude to do so, her pupils were enlarged and her eyes darted about the grotto in a frantic search. The gun. She had hidden it beneath the moss. But where? There! She saw the rent in the moss, the telltale bulge of the Colt beneath it.

Without a thought of how she presented her backside to him, she spun around on hands and knees and reached for the gun.

What she got was a piece of gravel and a handful of moss. There was no gun beneath the velvet green. But just when her heart nearly ceased its beating, she saw a gleam of metal no more than a foot away.

What Price got was a tempting view of a shapely bottom and an idea that his 'lady in red' did not go about anything in the usual way. It was not his favorite position, but he was willing to stand on one leg and make a try at it, so painful was his need.

"You are one surprise after another, Augusta," he said as he moved over her and made ready to mount her.

The last thing he remembered was a flash of light.

The string of oaths Sunny Harlowe spit out over his unconscious form were wasted except inasmuch as they helped her vent the rage which filled her like hot lava.

She castigated herself with equal vehemence, but neither diatribe sufficiently relieved the remorse for her actions or erased the grievance she had against him.

She didn't even like him, she reminded herself over and over as she pulled on her clothes. Despised him in fact. And she had let him...let him...She couldn't think about it. She had to get him out of here. She was an hour past her schedule. She wished she could forget how that hour had been spent.

An even more bitter thought sprang to mind. She had a good ten days ahead with him. And he was not likely to let her forget this had happened. Ten days to look at him and remember, to feel the shame. But it was not shame that turned like a hot poker in her belly.

Hesitantly, she bent over him, examining his head. He had a lump the size of a horse's hoof. Sunny gasped at the damage she'd done and hoped she hadn't actually cracked his skull. If she had, he would need a doctor; and that was a complication she could live without.

Damn him! He was a complication she could live without. Were it possible, she would leave him where he lay, contact Lord, and tell him she had changed her mind. He could keep the ten thousand. But a detective was only as good as the work done. If she failed to follow through on a job, she could not expect many contracts in the future.

To alleviate her fears about Price's injury, she forced open his eyelids. His eyeballs had not rolled back in his head and the pupils looked no different from those of a man asleep. Relieved, she let go of him. She only hoped she wouldn't live to regret not having killed him when she had the chance.

At the head of the path, Sunny put two fingers between her lips and issued a long, sharp whistle. Minutes later, Ring came bounding up, wagging, whimpering, forgiving her for leaving him alone so many hours. Nose to the ground, he sniffed his way over to Price, stopped, sniffed the downed man's foot, his buttocks, and his arm, before making his way to Price's head. To Sunny's dismay, Ring licked the injured man's wound.

"Ring!" she chided. The dog backed off and sat on his haunches facing Price. "Don't go feeling sorry for him," she said to the animal. "He just looks nice."

Ring barked and pushed his head beneath Sunny's hand.

"Watch him," Sunny ordered, her mood too dark to respond to the dog's affection. "If he tries to get up, chew his leg off."

With that, she rushed down the path to get the rope and blanket she would need to get him down to the horses. Fifteen minutes later, the picnic lunch was repacked in the saddlebag she had left with Ring. The wicker basket, too bulky to carry when they had to move fast, was hidden beneath a pile of brush and leaves. She had bathed quickly in the spring and washed as much of Price Ramsey away as she could.

And she wore _her_ clothes—the comfortable denim pants, a worn-soft plaid shirt, and her old hat, a bit worse for wear after being crushed in the bag. She'd had to keep on the new riding boots. Her old ones had proved too big to fit into the traveling bag. Later she would have the hotel send them to her. As for the other clothes left in her room, the ones she had worn as Augusta Harlowe, she'd tell the hotel to give them to charity.

And, as she gathered up the rope and blanket and started up to the grotto, she swore she would never wear a dress again. Ever.

The dog heard her footsteps and whimpered. Price, his head aching as if it had taken a dynamite blast, responded to the animal's sound, rolled over on his side, and laboriously forced his eyelids up. He saw a furry snout, felt a cold nose on his cheek. " 'Gusta..." he mumbled before the painful throbbing in his head carried him back to unconsciousness.

"Still out is he, Ring? Good."

None too gently, Sunny rolled Price into the blanket and quickly tied the rope to two corners, making a harness to facilitate dragging him down the path. When she had him in place, he was sprawled on his back with his arms thrown out to each side. She still had to get his clothes on him, and it was not a job she went at with relish. She viewed him dispassionately—until she had to touch him.

"I wish you could do this for me," she said to the dog as she forced Price's trousers up over legs that were heavy and limp. Dressing him, she discovered, meant having to look at every part of him again. She tried to find fault, but there was not a flaw to him, except for a few scars. She noted a large wound, long healed, that might have been made by a bullet. By the time she was finished, she was flushed and panting for breath. The worst she could say about the man was that he did not wear underclothes and that he was minus one of his socks. He'd manage without it.

As she tied the rope harness around her waist, she couldn't help noticing that the ugly purple and red knot on his head had continued to swell. In spite of herself she felt contrite at having struck him so hard. Once she got him down, she'd soak one of the damask napkins in spring water and bind it around his head. Not for his sake, she told herself, for hers, so that the swelling would go down quickly and he would be conscious sooner. She could not travel as fast as she liked with him draped over a saddle.

***

Once in his life he'd been tied up by his heels. Long ago, long years ago, when the war had seemed to matter. Little more than a kid, he'd joined a band of scouts and volunteered to slip behind enemy lines. He was good at getting close to Union camps. He could talk without sounding as if he belonged in the South when he set his mind to it. Out of uniform, his youthful look let him masquerade as a camp follower. He managed to pass on information that was invaluable to the Confederacy. Until he was betrayed by a Union contact who outed him to cover his own double-dealing. A man named Lord. Thaddeus Lord. The pain made him think of Lord.

The pain was the same as it had been that day, from his feet to his head, getting worse as it went up the length of him. He moaned and opened his eyes a crack. The agony of just that small peep prevented him from doing more. And he was unprepared for the sight of the ground rushing by beneath him. Confused, he saw that his hands hung over his head and were bound with shackles. His feet felt free; that is, they did not feel as if they were strung up to a beam as he first feared.

He groaned. So where was he? His head ached as if a mule had kicked him. What had happened? He had to remember. But his mind rebelled, and he was overcome by a wave of nausea. Jostled and aching, he could not make out his situation. The best he could figure was that he had been thrown into some conveyance which was giving him a rough ride. That plainly accounted for the motion. But what accounted for the husky beast whose snout kept pace mere inches from his nose? Wolf! his plagued senses supplied. Reacting instinctively, he tried to throw himself back into the bed of the wagon he supposed carried him. He succeeded in upsetting the precarious balance which kept him slung across his saddle. A flip, a spin, and he collided with the hard, dusty ground.

" _Umphhh_ ," he moaned, lamely throwing up his arms to fend off the speckle-coated beast who was upon him as soon as he impacted with the ground. Expecting to have his throat ripped out he was stunned to be assailed by a series of friendly licks.

"Damn," Sunny mumbled, looking back to see Price in a heap beneath the legs of his mount. She turned her horse and started back toward him "Traitorous cur," she said of the dog as she saw him giving aid to the enemy. "Ring!"

The angry yell helped clear most of the webs from Price's dazed brain. He looked toward it, his vision less restored to normalcy than his mind. What he saw where the voice had come from was a smallish fellow on a pinto horse. The man drew a Colt and aimed it at him. Weak and dizzy, Price tried to scramble to his feet, only at that instant learning that they were shackled like his hands. The best he could do was prop up on one elbow.

Squinting, he saw the early rays of sunset flash off the barrel of the gun. He remembered that gun. He had last seen it flying out of nowhere at his head when he and Augusta—Christ! What had the man done with Augusta?

"Get up!" the fellow rasped. His voice was no bigger than he was, but Price considered that his pint size was sufficient when he had the hammer of the Colt back.

"Can't," he croaked, finding his throat constricted and dry. Maybe he could; maybe he couldn't. He wasn't sure, but he was saving his strength for a more advantageous moment. Off to the side, the big dog sat on his haunches, a harmless, friendly mutt. He did not think he needed to worry on that account.

"Oh, hell," Sunny muttered, realizing she was going to be forced to dismount and help him get astride the horse. She swung down and strode toward him. Her hair hung in a lone braid down her back and from the front looked as if it were clipped short. Her battered hat sat low on her brow. Just out of reach of his swing, she stopped, wanting to make sure he didn't have more strength than he was letting on.

"Where's Augusta?" he demanded as he lay sprawled in the dust.

Sunny thrust the gun out and scowled. That he didn't get an answer should have been a clue, but Price was still trying to function through the pain.

"You'd better go ahead and shoot me," he threatened after a full minute passed. "Because if you've harmed Augusta, I'll kill you eventually."

"Damned cretin," Sunny said caustically.

The voice shook him, but the familiarity of it got through only enough to make him realize something was wrong besides his being hurt and shackled. He rubbed his arm hard across his eyes, hoping the pressure would help restore his vision. The first thing that came in clear were the boots the man was wearing. _Augusta's boots._ He had pulled those boots off her. He knew they were hers. Tormented that what he was seeing made no sense, his eyes ran up the length of the boots to the baggy denim pants. There wasn't much of a man in those pants. The plaid shirt came into view, the plaid shirt with definite feminine swells at the chest.

Price jerked his head up just as Sunny pushed her hat back. She smiled. She was herself again, and she wasn't having any trouble loathing Price Ramsey.

"Augusta?" he asked in disbelief. Was this vision _bona fide_ or was his mind completely rattled? She didn't answer, but a sweep of certainty sped through his head. She was Augusta. In those awful clothes. Dumbstruck, he searched for an explanation. If they had been attacked, her clothes might have been lost and she wouldn't have the key to unlock his shackles. But none of that explained why any of it had happened, how they escaped, or where she got those clothes. None of that explained why she was pointing a gun at him. "Augusta," he said hesitantly, afraid this was one question he didn't want to know the answer to. "What is all this?"

Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. She answered him freely, but he didn't find any joy in the change of attitude.

"You can forget Augusta," she said, a chill in her voice. "The name is Sunny. Sunny Harlowe. And this—" she emphasized as she adjusted her aim, "—is a Colt leveled at your head."

"Augusta, if this is a game—" He broke off, a nasty suspicion taking hold of his quickly recuperating senses. "Did you hit me?"

She smiled and tipped her hat to him.

"I don't think you have any idea how hard—" He stopped short again when he saw her smile widen. Anger reared and ran rampant within him. He'd heard of women who liked to chain men up...What the hell was it they did to them? "Listen, Augusta," he said carefully, trying to sound cheerful. "Let's just call this off. You unlock these irons, and we'll finish this another day."

"You'll be wearing those irons a long time, chump," Sunny told him. "About as long as it takes us to get from here to San Francisco."

San Francisco? Price was liking the sound of this less and less. He tried another tactic. "Augusta, sweetheart—"

" _Don't. Call. Me. Sweetheart._ " She spoke each word as if it were a bullet fired from her mouth. "Now, get up!" she snapped. "We've wasted enough time here."

"I told you I can't. My head hurts. I'm too dizzy to stand," he said, giving up his efforts to be pleasant or even to understand. His primary ambition of the moment was getting free of the chains. Having concluded he wasn't going to talk her into unlocking them, he was searching for an alternative for getting loose. He groaned, rolled down flat on his back, and squeezed his eyes shut as if the effort spent talking had cost him. "If you want me up, you'll have to help me."

"I want you up and on that horse, you mangy bastard." She could talk rough when the circumstances demanded it.

Price stiffened. Mangy? He had been called bastard more than once. The term scarcely annoyed him. But mangy? Considering how she had responded to him a few hours earlier, he found the insult monumentally offensive. One lid lifted slightly to confirm that who had appeared to be there before he had shut his eyes was still there.

Augusta, yes. And if anyone were to be called mangy, the description more aptly fit her. That hat must have been used to mop floors. The woman was off her head and had nearly split his. But he'd even the score with her. He opened the other eye a fraction and, while he was cautiously glancing about, cast his narrowed gaze at the dog. Still there, but the dog liked him.

He heard her scuffling footsteps as she walked around him but did not chance looking at her again. Better she thought him weak and disoriented and let her guard down. If he could lure her close enough, he could kick her legs out from under her. Once she was downed, he could easily overpower her.

"Sit up," she demanded.

"Can't," Price moaned. She wasn't close enough. He stayed flattened on the ground, eyes shut, until without warning a blast of cold water hit him in the face.

"Damn you!" Sputtering and coughing, Price jerked into a sitting position.

Sunny stood six feet away, an open-mouthed canteen in her left hand, the deadly Colt in her right.

"We're going to get along a whole lot better as soon as you learn to do exactly what I say."

"It won't happen!" he swore, shifting so that his legs were beneath him and he could more easily launch himself at her when the right moment came.

"We'll see."

Price hadn't until then noticed the rope coiled over her shoulder. But he watched with avid interest as she capped the canteen, dropped it, and then expertly cast the noosed end of the rope over a stout tree limb above his head. The noose dangled threateningly.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Showing you that it'll be a lot simpler to do as I say."

Price looked at the rope, looked at her, and made a quick decision. "All right. All right. I'm getting up," he said grudgingly.

Taking it slow, making it look as if he barely had the stamina to move, Price got his feet positioned for a diving tackle. With powerfully muscular legs, hurling himself six feet would be easy. Biding his time, he gathered strength into his poised limbs. He wanted to make sure he hit her with enough force to wind her and knock the gun out of her hand.

The first time she turned her head, he sprang; but before he covered half the distance separating them, a force with the power of a locomotive hit him. Knocked breathless, he rolled to the side, landed in a tangle, and immediately had a hundred pounds of snarling dog in his face. A growl nearly deafened him as the long fangs flashed then sank into the flesh of his upraised forearm. He knew better than to struggle. Aching for breath, he lay as still as a dead man, conscious that he might be one soon enough.

The boots appeared in his line of vision. "Guess you're feeling more cooperative now?"

He managed to answer without moving his jaw. He didn't want to do anything to antagonize the dog.

"Call him, Augusta."

"Sunny," she corrected, walking up close enough to step on him.

"Just call him."

"Let go, Ring," she commanded. "And you." The hammer on the gun clicked back. "Get up."

"Yes, ma'am," he said as he rose carefully and moved obediently in the direction in which she pointed with the gun. But already he was thinking of another try for freedom and looking for a way to stave off the dog. A big limb, a stone, a kick in the right place, anything. "Damned mutt," he mumbled under his breath as the animal followed right on his heels. "I thought you liked me."

"Stop!"

He didn't have to be told twice, but he did stumble when he realized she had brought him back beneath the noose. His handsome face twisted with disbelief and cold fury as the rope swung against his chin, but he spoke with amazing calm. "Now hold it, Augusta," he said, meeting her eyes. "Let's talk about this. Whatever you think I've done to you, we can work it out."

"Shut up and put your arms over your head."

He was willing to comply with anything that would delay that noose around his neck. Price lifted his arms and immediately felt the rope fall and tighten around his wrists. A couple of seconds later, in spite of his protests, he was drawn up so that only his toes touched the ground. Before he could ask what she was doing, she whistled and the pinto trotted over. Like a cowpuncher, she tied the other end of the rope to her saddle horn and led the horse off a couple of steps.

She was loco. No doubt about it. But what the hell had he done to turn her craziness on him? Damn! Wasn't this the same woman who had let him make love to her—almost. He wasn't relieved when she holstered the gun and reached into her pocket. Worse things could be done to a man than putting a bullet in him.

"What are you doing, Augusta?" he asked cautiously.

She pulled a key out of her pocket. "I am unchaining your feet, the hard way since that's the way you want it."

Relief swept through him, and muscles which had been as tight as wire relaxed a fraction. "Sorry," he said bitterly. "But when a man wakes up in chains, you can't expect him to be too agreeable."

"That's when I expect him to be especially agreeable."

Price caught her meaning all too quickly. "I see," he said.

She took one step closer, and he shrewdly noticed she hadn't drawn the gun. Unfortunately, while he could see that a well placed kick might stun her momentarily, it would leave him vulnerable to the dog again. He cursed silently, drawing on words he hadn't used in years.

She made another step. "If you see, then you'll understand that it's wise if you remain very still while I unlock the shackles. Don't think about kicking me. You might succeed."

He gave an acid smile. "I might."

She let him savor the thought a moment, then gave him another to replace it. "Just keep in mind that what Ring goes after if you're hanging up there won't be your legs."

Christ! And only today he had thought he could love this woman. "I'm ready to do anything you say, Augusta," he replied agreeably. Until I can get my hands around your neck, he added silently.

"Good." She knelt at his feet and unfastened the shackles, then rose and stepped back, purposely staying close enough that he could kick her if he dared. He did not. He was still as a mouse. "Start by calling me Sunny."

"What?"

"Sunny," she repeated. "My name is Sunny."

"Sunny?" He didn't know what seized him, but some dark devil took command for a minute. "Hell, I can't call you Sunny," he said. She looked at him suspiciously, her malicious smile long gone. "Sunny sounds too nice and too friendly." His voice was a growl. "Suppose I make it Miss Harlowe—or would Mister suit you better?"

"It's Mrs. Harlowe." She responded to the jibe with feigned politeness. She was enjoying seeing the arrogant bastard hanging from the tree too much to be bothered by what he said.

"You're married?" Hellfire! What kind of crazy woman was she?

"I'm a widow," she returned.

"A widow?" The same dark devil got hold of him again. He laughed bitterly. "I can understand that. What did you do to _him_?"

Sunny spun around and stomped off. Price felt triumph for only a brief moment. It ended when she slapped the pinto on the rump and the startled animal pitched forward. Price's arms snapped up, and he felt as if they would be torn from the shoulder sockets. If that weren't painful enough, the suddenness of the move left him four feet off the ground, swaying to and fro like a pendulum.

She left him dangling but a few minutes though, considering the forms of torture he managed to think of in those few minutes, it was an eternity. He was prepared for far worse than being roughly lowered—with no regard for male anatomy—into the saddle on his mount. And he was ready to admit she had succeeded in gaining his cooperation. At least temporarily he would do exactly as she said; he would refer to her as "your highness" if she asked it.

His arms were still suspended, though the pull on them had been relieved, when he felt a shackle snap around one of his ankles. Astounded, he followed her with his eyes as she walked around the horse, reached beneath its belly, and shortly clamped a ring on his other ankle.

By then he was recovered enough to be testy. "What's that for?" he demanded.

"That is to make sure you have a damnable time getting off that horse unless I want you off." She pocketed the key. "In case you get a notion to go galloping away, keep in mind that Ring can keep pace with a horse and he can make a leap that will clear that stallion's back."

Nodding that he understood, Price committed to memory the location of the key. "You seem to be very good at chaining up men. Is it something you do a lot?"

"Quite a lot," she replied. "I make my living at it. I'm a detective."

"Like hell you are! You're a woman!"

Color blazed in her face. She knew full well the use he had for women. The insinuation that a woman could do no more than that tempted her to grab the stallion's reins and lead the animal out from under him. He was, after all, still as much stretched from the limb as mounted on the horse.

But she made her point another way. Green eyes heated like a boiling sea, she glared up at him. "I'm a woman and a detective," she said. "And I've got you."

Not until she had whistled for the pinto and released him from the rope did what she had said sink in. This wasn't a malevolent intrigue between him and her. And she wasn't crazy, at least not in the sense he'd assigned. She was as sly and as cunning as a cougar. She _was_ a detective. Somebody had hired her to get him. And she did have him.

The realization silenced him. He had a lot to think over, one hell of a lot. And though he had started out the day with the intention of having this woman answer a thousand questions for him, suddenly he didn't want to talk to her at all.

Which was just as well. Sunny had a craw full of him. She was mulling over the stupidity of taking this job. Short and sweet was better. Grabbing a man she could turn in to the nearest lawman. Or tracking down a criminal and summoning the authorities to make the arrest. Those were jobs she could nigh well do in her sleep. This one had proved excessively complex with all the restrictions Lord had put on her.

But she had agreed to them. And she couldn't take Price Ramsey to the nearest lawman or summon one to take charge of him. She had him, as she had said. And, in a sense, he had her, too. She was stuck with him until she turned him over to Thaddeus Lord. Damn him! She gave Price a look that would have scalded the hide off a rabbit. These next few days were bound to be the most miserable of her life.

Grumbling beneath her breath, she coiled the rope that had held him and tied it to her saddle. She had a long tether on the stallion's bridle. The other end she fastened to her saddle horn. Ignoring the hard looks he gave her, she made a final inspection of her prisoner, offered him a drink which he refused, gave the dog a command to watch him, and mounted the pinto.

The brisk pace she set didn't do Price's head any good, but he didn't complain. He was too busy running back over the last few weeks, beginning the first time he'd seen Augusta Harlowe. Sunny. Unquestionably she had been trailing him days before he saw her. Watching every move he made. In the clothes she was wearing she could have easily lost herself among the townspeople at any of his stops. He wouldn't have noticed her.

But he had seen her. It came to him with the suddenness of a thunderbolt. That ugly hat of hers. The girl he'd run into outside the Wild Horse Saloon had been wearing that hat...and those clothes. Damn it! It had been Sunny, and she had done it on purpose. And—Damn! She had picked his pocket. That was when he'd lost his watch. And he'd never known it. She was smooth...one smooth, lying bitch.

But come to think of it, she hadn't lied to him. She had twisted a line or two and led his mind where she wanted it. At that realization, he swallowed harshly. She must have enjoyed making a fool of him. She had done it gloriously well. He wasn't above admitting that to himself. He didn't like it, but he wasn't above it.

She knew a lot about him, not just what he'd been doing while he was traveling with the medicine show. She knew how he thought, how he would react in given circumstances.

She hadn't learned all that from watching him. She'd had help, information from someone who knew his past, or part of it. He didn't have to ask who that was. Thaddeus. Thaddeus Lord. This was his style. Sending a woman. Damn the bastard! Damn him to bloody hell! Thaddeus had nailed him where he was weakest...again.

Price straightened up painfully in the saddle. He'd done battle with Thaddeus before. And he hadn't fared well. But this wasn't over yet. San Francisco was a long way.

And after all, she was a woman.

## Chapter 10

Night came all too slowly for Price. He felt as if he'd been dragged behind the horse all the miles they'd traveled but was damned if he would open his mouth to complain. And when she did lead off the main road and into the cover of a thicket, he didn't know if he could swing out of the saddle or if he'd have to settle for falling off again.

The moon was rising, silver and full. The young trees did not keep much of its glow from spilling down on them. He could see her clearly as she dismounted. She sprang from the saddle as if the long ride had invigorated rather than exhausted her as it had him. But then he hadn't hampered her with a concussion and pounds of heavy chain. While he ached, she scampered around as if she'd just awakened from a restful sleep. Leaving the pinto loose, she tied the stallion's long tether to a tree before she spoke or even looked up at him.

"Ring." She called the dog to her side. The animal settled down on his haunches beside her, the same friendly, misleading look on his black face that had led Price into the folly of attacking her. "Watch him," she commanded as she unlocked the shackle on Price's right ankle. "Get down," she said, speaking to him in the same tone she had used with the dog.

For a minute he hesitated, thinking she would remove the other shackle as well. And then he knew she had no intention of doing so. Shakily he swung his leg over the saddle, keeping a hold on the pommel as he slid off.

"Now what?" he asked, supporting his weight against the stallion's sturdy shoulder.

"You can do whatever personal you need to do over there." She indicated a growth of brush to his left. "Ring will go with you."

He nodded and hobbled off, the dog tagging behind him. If she were worried about his making a break for it, she was wasting her worry. He couldn't have made a quarter-mile without collapsing. He needed food and rest to restore his strength—and a way to incapacitate the dog.

"Here, boy here, Ring," he whispered, patting his knee.

The dog whimpered and shook, starting with his head and ending in a long wag of his tail. He was too wary, though, to come close enough to Price to risk getting the hand chains wrapped around his neck. Someone must have tried that trick on him in the past, Price surmised.

"What's keeping you?" came an impatient shout. "Ring! Bring him back."

The dog snarled, showing the largest set of canine teeth Price had ever had the misfortune to measure. "Blasted cur," he mumbled, as he shuffled back toward the horses. "Just wait. I'll figure you out yet."

The horses were unsaddled and grazing on the edge of the thicket. A small campfire crackled in a ring of rock, the warmth of it the only welcome in the small clearing. He started toward it.

"Not over there," she said. "Sit by this tree." Motioning for him to follow, she walked over to the largest pine in the thicket. The ground beneath it was padded with dried straw.

Stretching his limbs had raised the hackles fatigue had smoothed down. Price stayed put. "You mind if I stand for a while?" he ventured.

She shook her head, and he thought briefly that she had at least part of a heart. He soon reconsidered.

"Stand as long as you like," she said flatly. "Just do it by this tree."

That she planned to chain his arms around the pine dawned on him like a too-early sunrise. "Hell, Augus—Sunny," he said, angrily shuffling over to the tree. "You can't leave me wrapped around that pine all night. "Hell! You've damn near cracked my skull. If I don't lie down and rest, nothing-including that damned mongrel—is going to get me on a horse tomorrow."

"Step up close," she said, ignoring his complaint. "Put your hands against the tree." While he stood braced against the pine she reached in her pocket for the key. "And I guess I don't have to remind you about Ring."

Ring lay on the ground a few feet away, his front paws stretched out and his nose resting on them. His black eyes reflected the firelight, and his liquid gaze was lifted to Price.

"No. Hell. You don't have to remind me about Ring." He watched the dog's long pink tongue shoot out and lick across black lips. "I can see that offspring of a coyote thinking about tasting my blood."

Watching the dog, he didn't notice her squat down beside him until he felt the clamp of the shackle on his right ankle. While the arrangement was better than having his arms around the trunk he could see that he wasn't going to have a comfortable night. He could lie down if he wanted to straddle the tree, he could stand if he wanted to kiss it.

"There. All tucked in," she said smugly, stepping back a couple of paces, her hands resting on her hips.

Price stared at her in disbelief. That she could stand there smiling like a well-fed crocodile did not surprise him. That she could look so different from the woman he started out the day with amazed him. Her figure was lost in the colorless, shapeless clothes. The long hair which had felt like silk in his hands was now a tangled mess. The harshness of her expression changed even the look of her face. Only the green eyes assured him she was the same person. Deep in them, held back, forced back, he saw part of the woman he knew.

But not for long. She quickly spun on her heels and left him. Having sampled her kindness, he wasn't sure she didn't intend to leave him unfed until morning. "Do I starve all the way to San Francisco or do I get to eat?" he shouted after her.

"You get to eat." She bent down and scooped up a canteen and with an underhanded toss sent it flying his way. "And drink."

Making a half-turn, he caught the canteen before it hit him in the chest but, hampered by the chains, fumbled his hold on it. The tin container slid from his fingertips and dropped to the ground. Glancing over at Sunny, he saw she had turned her back and was busy unpacking food from a saddle pack. He had the choice of calling her to get the canteen, which she probably wouldn't do, or skimming down the tree and getting it himself.

Swearing, he eased down the scaly trunk of the pine, finding the going difficult when he was forced to keep his feet snugly close. Sitting wasn't as awkward as he'd expected. With his legs spread, he wasn't jammed too tightly against the flaring trunk. And, as if the place had been made for holding prisoners, another tree grew conveniently close. Using that one as a backrest he could maneuver into a far more comfortable position than he'd expected.

The canteen recovered, he drank his fill, then used part of the water that remained to wet the napkin tied around his head. Restoring the cool compress helped relieve the ache and, if he could trust judging by feel alone, the lump was smaller.

With his head feeling better, he rolled back his torn sleeve to attend to the damage the dog had done. An earlier look had shown no serious break in the skin; but in the hours since, the bruised flesh had turned dark and grown even sorer to the touch. A dousing of water helped give temporary relief. A bandage would have been better; but since he had nothing he could use for that purpose, he upended the canteen and soaked his sleeve from the elbow down.

"Tie this around it." Having come up silently, she handed him a clean bandanna.

Price took it from her grudgingly. She was responsible for both his injuries, and he'd have preferred to refuse. But he wanted the arm sound again as soon as possible. Aware she still stood near, he wet the bandanna and made a clumsy attempt to tie it around his wrist. Surprising him, she quickly caught the ends of cloth and tied them into a knot.

"That should help," she said.

Price glared at her. If she were trying to make amends for her callous treatment of him, she wasn't getting any thanks. "I'd be less surprised if you'd pounded it with a stick," he said.

For about thirty seconds she had felt bad about Ring biting him when he was already hurt. The sentiment evaporated. Damn him! It didn't pay to be nice.

"I'd probably feel better about it if I had," she snapped and promptly tromped back to the fire where two tin plates sat warming on the rocks. Still seething, she took Price one of them, set it at his feet without speaking, then returned to the fireside to consume her portion.

She was ravenous and ate in a way that would have been frowned on in polite company. After a few minutes, Price called that to her attention.

"I can see why you didn't eat at the picnic," he remarked contemptuously. "You've got the manners of brood sow."

Food had activated the devil in him. Shackled, bruised, chewed up by a dog, he couldn't see how his lot could get much worse. And he felt a desperate need to make her feel at least partly as bad.

But she refused to be provoked again. Scraping the last forkful of beans from her plate, she shoved them in her mouth. "I get by," she said, still chewing.

"You must be Lord's woman," he continued, pushing her, testing her. "You seem like the sort he'd like, the sort who comes out from under a rock now and then."

Stiffening, she stopped chewing. When she answered, it was with the mouthful of beans unswallowed. "I'm not Lord's woman. I'm not anybody's woman."

"No. I reckon not," he conceded. Even Lord could not stomach this side of the woman. "But he sent you, didn't he?"

She didn't answer until she filled the plate with another, larger serving of beans and added a few chunks of pork. With a short whistle, she called the dog to her side, and Price saw that it was Ring's meal she had prepared last—in her plate. Wondering about the last cleaning of his own, he had almost lost his train of thought when she replied.

"He did," she said, not even trying to make a secret of it.

Price quickly got back to his purpose. "Why?"

She rolled her shoulders. "I'm sure you know the answer to that much better than I do."

Price sat his plate aside. He was not as hungry as he'd thought. "I know _why_ he sent someone," he said. "I don't know why he chose the method he did. Why the drama, Sunny? Why the sexual enticement?"

He'd caught her taking a drink from her canteen, and his words were like a hard slap on the back. Water streamed from her mouth, over her chin, and down the front of her shirt. She coughed and wiped her face, vowing that she could take his needling. Nothing he said would upset her.

"It worked," she retorted mockingly.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It worked. Tell me. Do you screw all the men you catch before you take them in?"

"You bastard!"

Throwing the canteen aside, she sprang to her feet. Her eyes were as wild and filled with fury as an enraged panther's, but Price didn't give her a chance to elaborate on his parentage.

"It wasn't necessary, you know. Enjoyable, but not necessary." His voice was flat, completely without emotion. "You could have whopped me most anytime before that episode."

Sunny kicked out the fire so she wouldn't have to see his gloating face. "Believe me," she said hotly. "If I had seen the opportunity, I would have."

He laughed as if she had told him a bawdy joke. "The thing is I don't believe you. I think it happened just the way you planned it. And I think you deliberately picked the most unfair moment."

She was in a high temper, too high to think before she spoke. "Unfair? What the hell are you talking about?"

Leaning back on his tree prop, he placed his hands behind his head and looked up at the moon. "I am pointing out," he said with slow deliberation, "that you chose the moment _after_ you were satisfied and when I most needed to be."

"What!" she said in disbelief. Ignoring her, he went on as if he had not heard the outrage in her voice.

He continued in a husky tone that was all too familiar. "What I am dying to know is if I can count on your completing that part of the job before we get to San Francisco?"

"Damn you, you bastard!" she screamed. "That was never part of—" White-lipped, she halted, driven to silent fury by the confession he had pulled from her.

When she found her voice, her response was peppered with oaths more vile than any he'd heard on the long ship voyages to the Caribbean islands and the South American continent. To hear them coming from the scruffy woman who had just thrown her hat on the ground and stomped on it struck him as funny. He laughed, laughed at the impossible situation he was in.

"Shut up! Shut up!" she shouted. "Or I'll put a gag in that yapping mouth of yours."

Price shut up. One reason was that she was mad enough to shoot him. The second was that he had just learned something unexpected. The picnic had been set up to get him away from town, the overnight invitation a means of ensuring his friends didn't come looking for him too soon. What had happened in the grotto wasn't supposed to have happened. But it had. And up there, wrapped in moss and his arms, she had been ready to surrender herself to him—until she had remembered why she was there.

Braced between the two trees, Price smiled silently in the darkness. Somewhere between here and San Francisco, he had to get her in that mood again.

***

In San Francisco's Golden Ring Saloon, Blanche Elton sat in the "bird cage"—the private elevated table that gave her a bird's-eye view of her domain. She was delighted with business this evening. The crowd was thick and thirsty, the music mellow, the girls laughing and dancing.

Blanche should have had a smile on her rouged face, but she was frowning so solemnly that when Rufus, the piano player, glanced her way, a sour note rang out in his otherwise perfect rendition of "Mollie Darling."

One of the girls dancing by noticed Blanche's worried look and left the wrangler who was her partner to climb up on the carpeted platform.

"Something bothering you, Blanche?" Sutie, one of Blanche's newest girls, asked as she perched on the edge of the cherry wood table. "You look as if the city council passed a law banning liquor and chippies."

"Worse than that," the distraught Blanche told her.

"What could be worse?" Sutie asked good-naturedly. A high-spirited, fun-loving girl, she enjoyed her work.

Sutie was trying to cheer her up, but her attempt at humor didn't elicit a smile from Blanche. "You remember my friend Sunny Harlowe, don't you?" the older woman asked, leaning forward slightly so that she could be heard over the melodic strains of the piano. "She was in a few weeks ago."

"Sure, I remember," Sutie spoke up. "The one with the gun." Swinging legs clad in red silk stockings, Sutie clicked her slippered heels together. "Now isn't that something? Just yesterday a fellow was asking me about her."

Blanche clasped the girl's arm. "Who Sutie? What did he look like?"

Alarmed by Blanche's tone, Sutie racked her memory. But she was not a girl to dwell on much that didn't center on her.

"Well, I didn't catch his name," she said. "He looked like a drifter who wouldn't have more than a few bits in his pocket, so I didn't talk to him long. Anyway, all he wanted to talk about was your friend Sunny Harlowe."

Blanche let go of Sutie's arm and slipped her hand into a pocket of her yellow satin gown to confirm that it still held the telegram that had arrived late that afternoon. She hadn't heard from Chick Mason in years. The news she had gotten from him wasn't good. Wes Beckler was out of jail. Before he'd left Colorado, Beckler had boasted he had a score to settle with Sunny Harlowe, something he had promised his brother Ed he would do.

Blanche had a bad feeling about the man Sutie had talked to. "What did he ask you?" she demanded.

Sutie shrugged. "Nothing special."

Blanche insisted on an answer. "What? It's important, Sutie."

The girl sighed heavily, her memory not made any better by the fear that she had done something to displease her employer.

"Let me think," she said anxiously. "He wanted to know if I had seen her lately. I told him it had been two or three weeks since she was here. And then he asked if I knew where she had gone. I didn't, but I remembered that you'd said something about her being up north of here."

"Did you tell him that?"

"I think so," Sutie said cautiously. "Does it matter?"

Blanche didn't bother to answer. "Did he ask you anything else? Anything at all?"

"He asked me what kind of horse she rode. I told him about that pretty pinto."

Blanche got up, the bells in her skirts bumping and tinkling hollowly. "I'm going back in the office, Sutie. You pass the word that I want to see each of the girls right away."

Sutie hopped off the table, her youthful spirits knocked nearly as low as Blanche's. Glancing back nervously, she paused before she stepped off the platform. "Did I do something wrong, Blanche? Did I say something I shouldn't have?"

"Nothing you can change now," Blanche replied, seeing no need to reproach the girl for her innocent responses. After all, she paid Sutie to be nice to customers. "Before you go, tell me if you've seen that man in here again since then."

Sutie shook her head vigorously. "No. And I'd be sure to notice him if he came in. He had the strangest hair. I don't think anybody else in San Francisco has hair like that unless they're old—and he wasn't. It was white, white as cotton."

***

"San Francisco," Delos mused aloud as he poured fresh cream into a steaming cup of coffee. The cup was his fourth of the morning; and Billy, finishing up the last of the transcribing, had kept pace with him cup by cup.

"You say something?" Billy asked, walking into the ranch house's big kitchen to refill his empty mug. He reached for the coffeepot Delos had just returned to the wood-burning stove and poured a cupful. Preferring the brew black, he lifted it to his lips and blew on the surface to cool it down.

"More or less," Delos returned. "I was thinking about Price and San Francisco."

"And?" prompted Billy, knowing he could be in for a long and rambling story if he didn't prod Delos to stick to the point.

"I find it extraordinary he would be planning on anything in San Francisco in two weeks when he's got to be here in Wallis at that time."

Thaddeus Lord was scheduled to announce the mine's opening in two weeks and to start hiring workers for the crews. "The only explanation is that he's planning on having Miss Peck wait for him until after we're finished here."

"That is a possibility," Delos conceded but did not admit it was one he hadn't thought of.

"There's another one," Billy supplied.

"What is it?"

"It seems to me there's a possibility Miss Peck cooked this whole thing up by herself."

"Hmmm." Delos drank his coffee. "There are elements of probability in that. You are indicating Price didn't send for her at all."

"From what I've heard of Miss Peck, she's not above using any scheme to get what she's after. Maybe she's coming out here to force his hand."

"I believe you are a far more astute man than you let on, Billy. That Miss Peck is scheming to marry Price is far more logical than his planning a wedding without telling us about it."

"Sure it is," Billy said. "And he ought to know about it while there's still time to stop her." He looked at his watch. "Eleven now," he said. "The papers are finished and locked in the safe. If Price isn't back here by noon, I'll go looking for him."

"I'll accompany you," Delos determined. "And you might as well have the horses saddled. We'll be riding into town."

As was usually so where Price was concerned, Delos proved to be correct. Half-past-noon found Delos and Billy on the way to Wallis. Billy rode astride a sorrel gelding instead of the black stallion that was his personal mount, that animal he had loaned to Price.

"The woman's staying at the Louisa," Billy said. "I reckon that's a good place to start."

"Don't count on it," Delos said dryly. "Price's escapades run toward the exotic."

Billy guffawed. He liked sleeping under the stars as much as the next cowboy, but he couldn't picture spending a night with a woman on the hard ground when a soft feather bed was available. "He'll be here," he said, "and mad as hell at us for disturbing him."

"Humph," returned Delos. "Five dollars seems a reasonable wager that he is not here and did not stay here last night."

Billy nodded an acceptance of the bet. He knew Abner Thomas at the desk and figured a short talk with the man would have him collecting his due from Delos. Delos waited on a settee in the small lobby.

"Afternoon, Abner," said Billy. "I'm looking for a friend of mine."

"Mr. Ramsey?" Abner knew who was who in Wallis and who their friends were.

"That's the one." Billy looked over his shoulder and gave Delos a victorious grin. Whispering discreetly to Abner, he said, "I believe he's visiting a lady here."

"Nope," Abner returned. "He's not here."

"But he was here?"

"Yep."

"So when did he leave?"

"Yesterday," Abner said.

Billy's face fell. "Yesterday? He hasn't been here today? You're sure? Sure he didn't slip out this morning without anyone's noticing?"

"If you're asking me if he spent the night with a female guest at the Louisa, he did not," Abner assured him. "He stopped by yesterday about this time and called for Miss Harlowe, took her on a picnic—can't say where. He hasn't been back since, and neither has she."

Abner's eyes twinkled and he was anxious for Billy to ask him more, but Billy was too concerned about the five dollars he'd lost to notice.

"Thanks, Abner. If Mr. Ramsey comes in, tell him I'm looking for him." Crestfallen, Billy motioned Delos out of the hotel.

"Have you any idea where he would have taken the lady?" Delos asked, smiling contentedly, as they mounted up.

"I showed Price a place a few miles east of here," Billy replied, having thought about just that. "A beautiful spot called Mirror Springs. He liked it a lot. My guess is that's where he's taken her." Billy turned his horse east, rode quietly for a few minutes, then, shaking his head, looked over at Delos. "I'll pay up when we get back to the ranch," he said.

Delos's smile lasted until they reached the shallow stream fed by the spring. "He does not appear to be here," he remarked, seeing nothing ahead but empty banks.

"Maybe not," Billy said riding out of the stream and turning toward the hills. "But there's another place up in the rocks where I'd guess they bedded down." He pointed to a narrow, rocky path. "Good chance they're still up there."

Riding a horse in the hot sun didn't agree with Delos. He liked trains—second to that, carriages with good springs. The medicine show caravan was tolerable. The animal Billy had loaned him was not. He stood in the stirrups, giving his behind a moment of relief. "Wouldn't he have heard us and made himself known?" he asked crankily.

"Not if he's doing what I'd be doing up there." Billy chuckled. "Anyway the source of the spring is in those rocks. He wouldn't have heard us over the rush of the water."

Delos dismounted and found a shade tree. Sitting down beneath it, he saw something that made him feel better. "Look at this, Billy," he said. "Impressions in the grass. An undeniable indication someone spread a cloth and sat here."

"Sure seems that way," Billy agreed, climbing down from his horse and leading the animal off a distance. He checked the ground back in the trees, then called out to Delos. "They tied the horses up here. I recognize the stallion's prints."

Delos heaved out a sigh. "If the horses are gone, I deduce that Price and Miss Harlowe are also gone."

"Maybe. And maybe they moved the horses somewhere else. Anyhow, I'm going to climb up to the grotto and see if they're there. You coming along?"

"I might as well." Delos pushed up off the ground. "Maybe in some way it will compensate for the ride out here."

Gusts of air cooled them as they gained the top of the path leading to the grotto. Billy, in the lead, stepped onto the rocky ledge first. "Whoa!" he said, stopping short.

Delos stepped up behind him and saw what Billy saw. The carpet of moss covering the rock floor was crushed and torn and looked as if something heavy had been dragged across it. From the pattern of the long lines running parallel directly to the path, that something had worn boots. Not far away, the shattered remains of a crystal wine glass lay near the edge of the shelf.

"I don't like the looks of this," Delos said stepping over to examine the glass.

"Doesn't much look like Price enjoyed himself up here."

"No. And look, Billy," Delos called. "A wine bottle caught over on the edge of the spring."

"It's not empty," Billy observed. "Hold it—What's this?" Leaning out precariously over the edge of the rock shelf, Billy strained to reach a scrap of cloth caught in a fern. Retrieving it, he tossed the item to Delos.

"That," Delos said, "Is Price Ramsey's sock. I've seen it numerous times."

"Hell!" Billy swore, hurrying to the path. "I can't guess what they were doing up here. But I'd give about half the Double O to have been an eagle circling up there yesterday." He pointed to the blue, cloudless sky overhead. "Reckon we'd better look around below."

A search turned up the discarded picnic basket and beneath it a crimson riding habit and a lady's blouse and underthings.

Billy picked up the garments and gave them to Delos, who examined them, observing that all of the items were new. "I can understand Price leaving without his sock. I cannot comprehend the lady leaving without her attire—unless she is the legendary Godiva." He rubbed his beard. "I admit I find this baffling."

"It's damned crazy," was Billy's comment. "And what the hell did the lady wear out of here?"

"Maybe they're not out of here," Delos remarked. They spent another unfruitful hour searching, fully expecting to find Price and his lady basking in another hidden spot. But eventually Billy circled out beyond the rocky ground around the spring and found sets of hoof prints leading south.

"Looks like the stallion's following behind the other horse," he said, no closer to understanding what Price and the woman were doing. "But he's carrying a rider."

Delos and Billy followed the tracks until they led onto the main road and were obscured by the multitude of other hoof prints. Where the road made a triple fork, they had no idea which to take. Billy pulled up his horse and signaled to Delos.

"This way," he said. "It's a back trail into Wallis, and my bet is the two of them sneaked into the Louisa last night without anyone knowing it. Let's head back there," he said, "and talk to Abner Thomas again. If Price hasn't come down yet, we'll go up to Augusta Harlowe's room." He patted the saddlebags which held the clothing they had found near the springs. "My curiosity is killing me. I want to know what she wore to the hotel and what the two of them are up to."

Delos didn't answer right away; and when he did, he had a grim set to his features. "I am seriously concerned that the two of them are not up to anything," he said.

"What are you talking about? Either he's back at the Louisa or he's gotten carried away with this woman and is off on a dalliance with her somewhere else."

"Let's hope we find him at the Louisa, Billy. Because I sincerely do not believe he would disappear on a romantic tryst right now. No matter how much he cares about his 'lady in red,' he would not be irresponsible. He would not go away with her at this time. Not while we are counting on him."

Billy didn't need to think about what Delos had said for long. "You're right," he agreed, frowning. "Let's get back to Wallis and talk to Abner."

***

Abner could see that Billy Owens was in a different frame of mind the minute the rancher shoved open the doors of the Louisa. He sensed unpleasantness and tried to head it off with a warm smile.

"Nice to see you back, Billy," he said. "You find your friend?"

"No, I did not, Abner," Billy said. Convincing Abner to assist them might require some coaxing, but he thought he knew how to get the clerk to open up. "I believe I'm going to need some help."

Abner's smile got as wide as his face. "I'm only too happy to try," the little man said.

"Good! Start by getting your key and taking us up to Augusta Harlowe's room."

Abner waved his hands in a dither. "I couldn't do that. The hotel policy—" Billy's furious expression quickly changed his mind. "I suppose if we knocked first," he said, grabbing a key from the honeycomb of slots behind him. "But I'm telling you he isn't up there."

The walnut bed with its rice posts was neatly made, the washstand untouched since the maid had replenished the water and towels the day before. The dressing table was bare. The armoire held three red dresses, one of a brilliant scarlet silk, another a beaded crimson, and a third, a cotton dimity the color of claret. Matching shoes and hats rested in neat rows on the armoire's shelves. Pushed to a corner and looking as mismatched as a cow in a sheep pen was a pair of scuffed and scarred boots.

The boots attracted Delos's attention more than any other of Augusta Harlowe's belongings. "Strange," he said of them.

Having found the room unoccupied, Billy's interest was solely on the slender, bespectacled Abner Thomas. The man's grin was too exuberant to ignore.

"You know something, Abner," Billy accused.

"No, not really," Abner said, trying to stretch out the thrill of revealing the secret he shared with Miss Harlowe.

"Abner, I've spent half the day, the hot half, riding the hills looking for Price Ramsey. If you know where he is, you'd better tell me."

"Well, if it's that urgent you find him, I guess there's no harm in telling you." Not anxious to be seen in a guest's room by the hotel's stern manager, he motioned the men out into the hall and, with what seemed unnecessary slowness, locked the door.

"What, Abner?" Billy demanded.

Looking up and down the hall to assure himself no one listened from one of the many doors, Abner whispered, "Mr. Ramsey has eloped with Miss Harlowe."

Billy rocked back on his heels. "Says who?"

Abner gave a tolerant shrug. "It's an elopement, Billy. Nobody says."

"Then how do you know about it?"

Abner started down the stairs leading back to the lobby. "Hints," he said. "Serious hints. Miss Harlowe asked me to hold her room for a week. Said she was going on a 'business' trip with Mr. Ramsey."

Delos cut in for the first time. "But you believe differently?"

"Sure I do," the clerk responded boastfully. "Just before she left with Mr. Ramsey, Miss Harlowe asked if I knew a shop which carried bridal veils."

"Is that all?" Delos returned. "The woman asked which shops stock bridal veils?"

"No," said Abner. "She bought it. And she took it with her when she left with Mr. Ramsey."

"Well," Billy said as he and Delos left the Louisa. "Guess there's no need to go looking for him now." Delos didn't reply, but that didn't stop Billy from speaking his mind. "Guess you were wrong about him sticking around right now, and I reckon I still owe you five bucks." He pulled his hat down tight on his head as he approached the hitching rail where the horses waited. "And I reckon Miss Penelope Peck's gonna be mighty upset when she gets to San Francisco."

## Chapter 11

Upset that she had let Price's goading get to her, Sunny had a fitful night. Every time she closed her eyes, she visualized what had happened in the grotto—before she had knocked Price unconscious. Each time the images leaped before her eyes, the delectable sensations she had felt in his arms came thundering back anew.

Time and again she kicked her blanket off, then pulled it back on as the hours passed with no sleep and no relief from remembrances of Price making love to her. Only when she was exhausted from fighting the memories did she fall asleep, and even then her rest was chaotic. Long before sunup, she rose and rebuilt the fire. The smell of sizzling bacon and of coffee brewing over the hot coals helped only a little.

That Price had apparently slept like a babe did not improve her ill-humor either. He lay wrapped in the blanket she had flung at him before lying down, his hands resting solemnly on his belly, his hat covering his face. She had made no effort to be quiet for his sake, but he lay there as if nothing short of a buffalo stampede could waken him. Not even Ring's barking bothered him as the dog romped off after a bird or rabbit to supply his breakfast.

Price's eyes were open and had been for an hour. The hat was not so tightly pressed down on his face that he could not see from beneath it. Against the background of the firelight, he'd been watching her since she'd stirred from her bedroll. She'd put on coffee and bacon. The savory smell of it had his stomach making turns, but he had ignored them rather than reveal that he was awake. He'd watched while she unbraided her hair and combed the leaves and grass from it.

With her back to him, she'd slipped off the baggy shirt and shaken the sand from it before donning it again. He'd seen the curve of her breast, the line of her face against the glow of the fire. Not much of her, but enough to remind him she was beautiful beneath the disgusting clothes, enough to rekindle the excitement he'd felt when he had touched her, and enough to send a burst of heat to his loins as he recalled how she'd responded to his touch. And the dog—the dog was gone. If he could only get her to come near while the monster was gone.

"Get up, mister!" she said roughly. "We'll be riding in a quarter-hour." No response came from her prisoner; and when a second shout failed to rouse him, she felt a stab of apprehension. Complaining of his stubbornness, she started up the rise; but not trusting him, stopped out of reach of his arms and bellowed at him again. "Ramsey! You bullheaded lout! Get up! We're leaving!"

His eyes on her boots, Price held his breath—a minute, maybe more—while she stood watching.

Her eyes were on his motionless chest. The man wasn't breathing. She watched another thirty seconds, recounting that head wounds could be tricky. If she'd hit him hard enough to make his brain swell, he might—

She drew her gun and took a couple steps toward him, then gave his thigh a formidable shove with the toe of her boot. One arm jerked, slid off his belly and flopped limply onto the ground. He was either dead or close. Gun in hand, she dropped down on her knees beside him and flung the hat off his face.

The devil's own smile lay on his lips; but before she could pronounce him one, she was caught. Her gun went flying into the brush. As if she were no more than his shadow, his strength swept her beneath him. His solid weight held her, wedged between him and the ground, though not still.

Like a wild-hearted animal getting her first hated feel of a man's hand, Sunny kicked and clawed and would have bitten had not his mouth pressed hers so firmly that the back of her head ground into the mat of pine needles beneath it. But that was not the worst of it. The worst was the heat of him, covering her, seeping into her, exploding into a blaze of fear and shameful memories.

Her head filled with curses, but there was no way to shout them out. The chain was between them, cutting across her throat. He could strangle her with it, she knew; and yet, helpless as she was, she knew he would not. The violence in him had changed. Murder was not what he had on his mind. Not even escape. At least not first. His hands covered her breasts, not gently as he had done on the day past, but not bruising and brutal either.

She did not know the moment he had torn her shirt open or if it was her struggles which had broken the buttons lose, but his rampaging hands covered bare, sensitive flesh. Beneath them, she felt her nipples tighten and melt against his palms.

A current, channeled half by fear, half by carnal need, pulsated through her. Desperate to break free of him and what he'd aroused in her, she sought to twist from his hands; but he held one arm clamped tight against her side, the other was pinned beneath her. Struggling to free them only made her more intensely aware of him.

She had no room to move, no air to breathe. His sex pulsed hotly against her belly. Above, the first rays of the sun shot across the somber sky. She remembered another sunrise, another man who had wanted to take her by force. As Price pressed his weight into her, the loathsome memories crashed in, carried her back. She saw the cruel face, the blood-red beard.

A desperate moan started low in her throat as overhead the black outline of the pines began to swirl. She stopped struggling, although she wasn't aware she lay motionless beneath Price. Her only thought was that she might pass out. And when she was sure she would, sure she had lost this time, he released her mouth—long enough for her to gasp in a needed lungful of air, not long enough for a scream.

Pain was unmistakable in a woman's eyes. Price knew the deep, dark glimpse of it he'd just seen in Sunny Harlowe's wasn't physical. It ran way down to her soul. Though he'd forced himself on her and though she fought him with all her will, he knew he wasn't the cause of that pain.

And knew he didn't want to be part of it. Hell! He couldn't rape a woman. No matter how contemptible a woman was—and Sunny Harlowe was high on that list—he couldn't rape her.

He groaned loudly, his need painful, his decision agonizing. Damn it! He couldn't let her scream either. And with his hands chained he could either use them to hold her down or keep her quiet. That left him no choice but to kiss her again. Swiftly, he clamped his mouth over hers, gently but firmly enough to keep her from crying out. Beneath him, he felt her stiffen as he pushed his hands over her abdomen and, groping recklessly between them, nudged his fingers into her pocket.

_Empty._ He got no chance to try the other. The deep-throated growl at his ear stopped all but his heartbeat.

Hair spiked up on the dog's back and neck. Forelegs rigid, his blinding black eyes glowed red. Exposed fangs long as daggers hung above Price's face, fangs smeared with blood from a half-eaten rabbit that lay eviscerated at the dog's feet.

Price's breath turned solid in his lungs. He hoped Lord wanted him alive, because otherwise he didn't have much chance of surviving another five minutes. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to try. Slowly, moving as if time had stopped, wishing it had, he rolled off Sunny.

"No harm done," he whispered stiffly.

"Like hell there wasn't!" she swore, scrambling to her feet, snatching her shirt together and brushing straw and grit from her clothes so violently Price feared she would set off the dog. Pacing back from him, she spat on the ground, then forcefully wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

"I wasn't going to rape you," he swore, his eyes not leaving the dog until he noticed her staring at his crotch and the erection that was still self-evident inside the tight trousers. "Damn it! I'm not saying I didn't want to. And damn it, that's your doing. You left me with a strong need yesterday."

A flare of anger from within nearly burned off her skin. "You'd better get used to it, because if you try anything like that again, it'll be the last bit of fun you have with a woman."

Had her gun been handy she would have shot him through the heart. And been glad of the deed. But a few seconds cleared her head. Whatever else he'd had on his mind, he'd been reaching for the key. Not her, the key.

Price heard the fury in her voice, but he'd also seen her cheeks flame and knew he'd touched a nerve. She was mad as a bothered badger and she had a right to be—if a woman who had done to a man what she had done to him had any rights.

But there was a soft core to the woman. He'd seen a glimpse of it.

Glancing around, he saw the dog, still dangerously close, but the animal had tired of growling at him and had returned to his breakfast. Though Price's muscles were still tight and as knotted as barbed wire, he was reasonably sure Sunny wasn't going to make him the animal's next meal. Besides, there was something about her that made him reckless, made him walk to the edge again and again, even when he knew the cost.

"Is that right, Sunny?" he said softly, easing into a sitting position and cautiously bracing firmly against the tree. "For a moment there, I was sure you wanted me to have a little fun."

Outrage coursed through her so forcefully that for a moment she was paralyzed by the intensity of it. When she found her voice, it was as cold as winter. "You flatter yourself," she thundered.

He was glistening with sweat and his heart still thudded too hard against his chest, but he kept his voice cool and calm. His eyes, gold as the rising sun, were steady on her face.

"It's not flattery, Sunny. It's hard fact. Sometimes there's something so powerful between a man and a woman it's stronger than anything, even reason. That's what we've got here."

She narrowed her eyes at his audacity. "What we've got here is a man who's so sold on himself he thinks every woman he meets will fall open-legged at his feet."

He smiled savagely as he reached for his hat. "I seem to recall that that already happened."

Cursing him, she kicked her way back to the campfire and doused it with the pot of coffee. The bacon she threw out for the dog. "You recall it your way," she said icily. "I'll recall it mine, which is with you laid out like you were ready for a funeral parlor."

She was packing up the supplies and making a racket. He had to raise his voice to be heard. "I've been meaning to ask," he shouted. "What did you do to me while I was unconscious? I've got bruises in some strange places."

She turned to look at him. "What I did you wouldn't have wanted to be awake for."

He wasn't too sure that wasn't the truth, and it kept him quiet for a while. She ignored him as she saddled the horses and took them to a stream for water and he knew the animals were likely to get better care than he would. When the dog had finished the rabbit and gobbled the bacon and the horses had grazed a few minutes, she came for him. He could see he wouldn't have another chance to take her by surprise. The dog was at her side and, he figured, would be anytime she came near him again.

Mounting up and sitting quietly as she shackled his feet, he determined he had two possible options for getting out of the predicament he was in. Either Billy and Delos showed up and rescued him or he talked her into letting him go. The first seemed a greater likelihood than the second.

"I could use a meal," he said as she mounted and tugged on the stallion's lead.

"There's hardtack in that sack on your saddle and water in your canteen."

"I won't last long on bread and water," Price warned with an oath.

"You'll last until we stop to eat again, and maybe you'll learn not to use up your mealtime trying to escape."

Unexpectedly, she put her heels to the pinto. The stallion broke into a trot to follow. Price nearly choked on the mouthful of hardtack he had bitten off.

"You seem in a big hurry to get me to Thaddeus," he managed to say.

"I am in a big hurry to get rid of you," she shouted back.

Price swallowed another piece of the hardtack. "That may be easier than you think. I have friends who are looking for me by now. They'll be catching up to us soon."

"I don't think so."

She sounded confident, so confident it worried him. And then it occurred to him she had made her plans too carefully not to have considered that someone might come after him.

"What did you do, Sunny?" he asked warily.

He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling as she called back to him. "I left word at the hotel that you would be out of town for a few days."

Like a brisk summer shower, relief washed over him. "You've made a mistake," he boasted. "They know my business. They know I wouldn't leave town without telling them personally, especially without telling them personally."

She looked over her shoulder and her smile was full-blown. "Not if you left with a woman. If you eloped, you wouldn't tell them."

He laughed involuntarily. "Eloped! That's crazy. No one would believe—"

The pattern of the past weeks came rushing at him. The mysterious woman, his fascination with her, his determination to be with her when he should have been at the ranch. He'd had words with Billy and Delos about her. Was it possible? That this devious woman knew him so well she could predict what he would do galled him. Was it possible? Billy might believe it. Delos, maybe. It was possible.

He couldn't berate himself enough. She had outwitted him at every turn. Had him chasing shadows when the game had been about something else entirely. Billy could find him. He had no doubt of that. But not if he weren't looking.

The options were going fast. Price counted himself down to one way out. He had to talk Sunny Harlowe into letting him go.

***

"Bride or no bride, I'm going to kill him when he gets back." Billy needed a double shot of whiskey after the day he'd spent looking for Price. "How could he do this now?"

"I want to talk to you about that," Delos said, finishing his drink and ushering Billy out of Wallis's only saloon. Delos had spent the past hour reviewing what they had concluded about Price and how they had arrived at that conclusion. Outside, where they could not be overheard, he spoke his mind. "Billy, I've never met a man more opposed to marrying than Price Ramsey."

Billy rolled his wide shoulders back. "I thought so, too, but apparently he met the woman who changed his mind."

"Or two of them if we are to believe Miss Peck's wire."

"I thought we decided that was all Miss Peck's idea."

"That is precisely the problem, Billy. We are arriving at the truth by guesses."

Delos had an owlish, thoughtful look, but Billy was too perturbed to notice. "With Price gone, I can't see any other way," he insisted.

"There is another way," Delos said, dipping his head slightly. "A way I have never known to fail. The use of scientific methodology."

"Which is what?" Billy asked, wishing Delos would get to the point and wondering why he had led him down the street away from the horses.

Delos slowed his steps and his speech. "Which is," he said tolerantly, "the gathering of information, facts if you will, and arranging these facts in a logical fashion to arrive at a conclusion."

"Humph," Billy grunted. "Isn't that what we've been doing?"

"No," Delos admitted, the color of embarrassment on his face conveniently hidden by his beard. "What we have been doing is letting ourselves be misled by confusing signs, a discarded picnic basket, a lady's clothes, an empty hotel room—and we have accepted hearsay stories, all interesting, but not an iota of truth among them. What we need is fact. I recommend a more thorough approach to gather it."

"Just tell me how, Delos," Billy demanded. He wanted to find Price and find him quickly, not only because they had unfinished business to attend to, but also because he wanted to tell his friend what he thought of his choosing this particular time to disappear.

Delos, however, was after something completely different. "We begin by learning all we can about Augusta Harlowe."

"Like what?" Billy asked, puzzled. He couldn't see that there was much to learn about a woman who was a stranger to Wallis and who had stayed in town only a few days. Besides, he figured he'd learn all he wanted to know about her as soon as Price brought her back to the ranch.

Delos was too intent on developing his course of action to notice that Billy was not really with him. His quick, professorial mind was ticking like a clock. "She left by horseback," he said. "Hers or rented?"

A light came on in Billy's eyes. "I can ask at the livery," he responded, beginning to understand why Delos had paused in front of it.

Delos went on, talking more to himself than to Billy. "Did she contact anyone in Wallis other than Price?"

"I'll ask around," Billy said, catching on. "And what will you be doing?"

Delos smiled, but it was a bleak, mirthless grimace. "If the telegraph operator proves talkative, perhaps I can ascertain if Miss Harlowe has wired anyone since she's been here."

Billy nodded as they went their separate ways. A little more than an hour later, the pair rode towards the Double O Ranch, sharing the information they had collected.

"She rode in on a pinto, black and white, real showy animal according to Parson at the livery. She had a dog with her, a big mutt that stayed in the stall with the horse. Parson was scared of the mutt, so he noticed that the dog was gone the night before she took her horse out last. Abner swears the animal was never in the hotel."

"Umm," Delos mused.

"As far as contacting anyone in Wallis, she didn't go anywhere but Dunn's Dress Shop that I could find. Most of the clothes we saw in the armoire were purchased there. And Abner was right. She did buy a bridal veil the morning before she met Price. She hinted to Mrs. Dunn that she was eloping."

"Hmmm," Delos commented.

"Outside of Ben Parson, Mrs. Dunn, and the hotel staff, I couldn't find anyone in Wallis the lady talked to. She took her meals in her room the whole time. Except for the ones she shared with Price." Billy smiled, waiting for Delos to compliment him on his work. He had a feeling of foreboding when no compliment was forthcoming. "What did you find out at the telegraph office?" he ventured.

Tight-mouthed, Delos answered. "The lady sent two wires before she left with Price. One to the Golden Ring Saloon in San Francisco. The other to Thaddeus Lord."

"Lord? Lord sent her? We expected trouble from him. But a woman?" Billy's blue eyes darkened. He quickly calculated the hours since Price Ramsey had left Wallis with Augusta Harlowe. "Price could be dead by now."

"No," Delos responded promptly. "I think not. Lord wants him alive. Otherwise he'd have sent a gunman and been done with it."

"A decoy?" Billy suggested. "Lord sent a woman to lure him away from the ranch and us. A woman who led him to men who—she must have drugged him. That would explain the wine bottle and the broken glass. And when he was out cold, they dragged him down to the horses."

Delos let Billy finish, then presented his own theory. "I don't think that's how it happened," he said. "Remember there were only two sets of tracks leading from the spring, your stallion and the pinto. I am not an expert tracker, but I believe that pinto carried a rider of no great weight."

"Right," Billy agreed and recalled the miles of track they followed and that no other rider had joined the two who had left Mirror Springs. But he could not believe a mere woman had collared Price and taken him even that far.

"I made one other stop in Wallis," Delos said while Billy was still trying to fit together the odd pieces of the puzzle. "I spoke to Sheriff Appling."

"You didn't tell him about any of this?" Billy's expression grew uneasy. "If he knew Price was the one who sabotaged the mine equipment, he'd have to arrest him."

"Rest easy, Billy," Delos reassured him. "I did not disburse information; I acquired it."

What Delos could have learned from old Sheriff Appling was beyond him. Billy quickly asked for an explanation.

"I gave him a bottle of elixir," Delos said. "And a jar of rose petal cream for his wife. No charge. He was appreciative and invited me to sit and drink a cup of coffee with him. And while we were talking, I mentioned having heard of a remarkable woman detective."

"What?"

Delos ignored the interruption. "Appling said he knew about the woman. He hadn't met her, but he'd heard about her from other lawmen. Nobody knows much about her origin. About five years back, she arrived in California and started work with Pinkerton, where she gained high regard for her accomplishments. She's been bounty hunting for a year or more. By Appling's account, she can hold her own with the best of them."

"Hell," Billy said, understanding.

"Her name is Harlowe, Sunny Harlowe. He describes her as a homely woman who dresses like a man."

Now Billy was puzzled all over again. "That's not what Abner and Mrs. Dunn said. And besides, Price wouldn't look twice at a woman like that."

"No. But this Sunny Harlowe rides a pinto horse and her sidekick is a dog, a big mongrel she calls Ring. And if she dolled herself up in stunning clothes and made him think she was as much fantasy as real—"

"He would be hooked," Billy concluded.

"I think Sunny Harlowe has Price. And I am certain she is taking him to Thaddeus Lord in San Francisco."

"And I am certain," said Billy, sounding more like Delos than he liked, "we can't let that happen."

***

By sundown, Billy had the second-best saddle horse he owned packed with provisions. If Sunny Harlowe had Price and was riding for San Francisco, then by traveling through the night he had a good chance of catching up with them before they got there. A woman dressed like a man, an oversized dog, and a reluctant companion shouldn't be too hard to find.

Delos would head back to Wallis to catch the morning train out. If the Harlowe woman had taken to the rails somewhere along the line, Delos would be in San Francisco right behind them. Billy hoped she had taken a train. Around people, Price would have chances of summoning help. And Delos was wiring associates to intercept the unlikely pair at the San Francisco station. Billy's hunch, though, told him Lord would have thought of both possibilities and ordered the trip made on horseback. Heavy-hearted, he bade Delos farewell, each of them wishing the other luck.

Billy knew Price would do all he could to slow Sunny Harlowe down. And, by damn, he would do all he could to catch them.

***

"Move, Ramsey. I want to reach Bailey's Crossing before nightfall."

Having stopped for a noon meal and given the horses a needed rest, Sunny was anxious to get in the saddle again. She didn't like looking at Price stretched out on the ground. There was too much of him, too much that was male and attractive and disturbing. In quiet moments, she found it hard not to study him with a woman's eye.

Price had been stretched out on his back, resting. At her prodding, he rolled to a sitting position and reached up to remove the cloth bound around his bruised head. The throbbing ache which came and went was currently with him.

"I'm moving," he grumbled. "But don't expect me to hurry. I've still got a knot as big as my fist here."

That was so. She could see the swelling and the purple mark where the handle of her gun had struck, but neither stirred much pity in her. Earlier, he'd been well enough to try returning the favor.

"Get your carcass up," she said. "If your head's bothering you, you'll be glad to know we're taking a train out of Bailey's Crossing. We'll be getting to San Francisco a lot sooner."

"Good," he responded tersely, shuffling to his feet and, as had become a habit, keeping an eye out for Ring. "I'm beginning to think I prefer Thaddeus to you."

She tightened the saddle girths while he took his time getting to the horses. He'd mentioned Lord by his given name before. When the black's saddle was secure and before she checked the pinto's, she looked over at Price again. "You talk about Thaddeus Lord as if you know him."

"We're old friends."

Her eyes narrowed although his voice had a ring of truth. "That's not what he says," she countered.

Price ran his fingers through his shock of sable curls, then stretched, flexing muscles that rippled and strained against the fabric of his shirt. Sunny looked away.

"Now that just proves you don't know Thaddeus," he said curtly. "If you did, you'd know better than to believe anything he says."

"He told me what to expect from you, and he was right," she countered, stepping away from the stallion.

"Is that so?" Price grinned suddenly, as slowly, exaggerating the effort it took of him, he mounted the stallion. He was aware of his looks, and there were times, most times, he took advantage of them where women were concerned. He had seen the faint blush on her face when she'd turned from him a moment before. She might dislike him, might be about to deliver him to his worst enemy, but she was not immune to him. "Thaddeus must have given a good accounting of me," he taunted. "You were anxious enough to try me out."

Air hissed through her teeth. "I was referring to your criminal misdeeds," she snapped. "And, contrary to what you wish to believe, I was not eager to test the merchandise. If anything, after watching you for a few weeks, I expected to find you worn out as an old stud horse."

He roared with laughter. "A stud horse only wears out from disuse, Sunny."

Saying nothing, she locked the shackle on his leg and leaped astride the pinto. Without a doubt, he was the most irritating man she had ever known. He could anger her with a look, infuriate her with a word. And that was half the reason she was taking the train for the remainder of the journey, no matter what Thaddeus Lord wanted. Let _him_ have the man a week early. By God, she would get Price Ramsey out of her hair.

Price tried but could not get a rise out of her the rest of the afternoon. Not even an answer as to why she had decided to take the train. As if he needed one. She didn't think she could stomach the long days on the trail with him if they continued on horseback. She wanted to be rid of him. Which was fine. The same would suit him—except that it shortened the time he had to convince her to let him go.

A hotel was not what he expected for the night, so when she rode up to the back of a tumbledown lodging house in Bailey's Crossing, he had no idea she meant to stay.

Sunny slid off the pinto and knocked on the weathered rear door of the building. A few minutes passed before she got an answer—from a bent old man with a shotgun in his hand.

"Well, Sunny gal, if it ain't you," the man said, propping his gun in the doorway and throwing drooping suspenders over his shoulders before dancing out on bowed legs to grab her for a swing around the stoop. When he had given her a spin, he stood back, his hands on her shoulders. "Come on in, honey. I could use some good company—and bad." He looked back at Price, who sat shackled on the stallion. "Got another one, have you? By golly, gal, if you ain't somethin'."

"I could use a room, Ollie," she told him. "If you've got one to spare."

The old man winked. "Got my best one for you, like always," he assured her. "Reckon you'll want him in there with you."

"Like always," Sunny replied. "Do me a favor and hold that shotgun on him while I get him down, will you, Ollie?"

"Happy to oblige, Sunny." Ollie picked up the shotgun and pointed it at Price's chest.

She could be glad he was wearing chains. Otherwise he would have pounced on her and broken her neck. Abruptly, he had learned it was one thing to be shackled in her presence, another altogether to be looked on by a stranger while in that condition. And she gave him no choice but to seethe and bear his rage. With a shotgun aimed at his chest and a killer of a dog at his feet, he could do nothing but meekly step down off the horse and follow her into the shamble of a building.

The room he was taken to had a bed and a chair. He did not have to guess which would be his resting place for the night. Shortly he found himself chained to the wooden arm of a massive stuffed chair with a sagging bottom. Horsehair stuck out of a dozen or more holes in the cushions. He supposed he could be grateful for the meal Ollie served. The beef stew and sourdough bread was tastier and more filling than anything she had given him, but staring into the barrel of a shotgun while he ate didn't make it enjoyable.

He would, if he had to come back from the grave, make Sunny Harlowe pay for this. Someday, someway, he would exact his vengeance. And for the hour she was gone, while Ollie warned him against giving the woman any trouble before she turned him in, Price Ramsey sat silently, inventing ways of exacting the cost.

"You're in luck, Ramsey," she said, bounding back into the room long after he had finished eating.

"I'd like to know how," he growled.

"The train stops here at ten in the morning," she said. "You can sleep late."

## Chapter 12

A tattered window shade kept out most of the moon's rays, but a spray of light found a way in and spread over Sunny Harlowe as she slept. A silver sheen on her golden braid, her chest rose and fell in peaceful rhythm. Ring slept on a hooked rug at the foot of her bed, his menacing snout turned toward Price.

And Price would have swapped places with the dog. Chained to the chair and uncomfortable, he had only succeeded in snatching a few catnaps since Sunny had retired. He could extend the one leg she'd left unshackled, but the other was chained to the chair, as were his arms. Having been as restrained in the saddle, his abused muscles cramped and ached for need of a stretch. He would have been better off on the floor. At least there he could flex his arms and legs to relieve the kinks.

Briefly, he considered awakening her with a complaint but decided against so rash a risking of his life. The dog, he had observed, reacted to sudden and violent moves. He dared not wake the animal with a loud noise or any precipitate action. Instead, he opted to test the strength of the chair. If he were to be awake all night, he might as well use his time trying to get free. And this chair, older by years than he was, was not a deep-rooted pine. Perhaps he could break the frame where it held him fast.

First, he hooked his heels around the chair leg which dovetailed the part of the frame that held his ankle shackle. After rocking it steadily for ten or fifteen minutes, he felt the aged joint weaken. The prospect of freedom brought with it a surge of enthusiasm and the temptation to try a strong kick to finish the job. But he restrained himself. He couldn't risk the noise. Continuing as slowly as he had begun, he worked the chair leg another ten minutes and was rewarded when the wooden leg sprang loose.

Breathing deeply, he fell back against the threadbare cushions. He still wore a shackle around one ankle, but only one. If he held the chain, he could run and, even with his hands bound, he could find a horse and ride. Halfway to freedom, he assessed his chances of beating the dog to the door and determined he had none. The window, however, presented a possible alternative. He was no more than two feet from it. A dive out, and he could be around the corner of the hotel before Sunny or the dog could follow. _If_ he were lucky.

But that was a piece of luck he was not destined to try. The carved arm of the chair which held his wrist shackles was made of a single piece of oak.

Age had made it harder and stronger. For an hour he worked at loosening it, only to arrive at the conclusion that nothing less than an ax could free him. Well into the night, worn into a foul temper by another thwarted attempt at escape, he was worse off than he had begun. His three-legged chair pitched to one corner; his sore arm ached from straining to get free.

And the dog slept, snoring, twitching. And she slept, curled on one side far across the bed, her back to him, her gun belt on the bedpost within quick reach of her hand. His devil found him then, told him he should have a reward for his efforts.

And the fiend did not stop at that. A hint that the bed looked inviting became a conscious thought, a demanding urge. As long as he couldn't walk out of the room, he might as well sleep comfortably in it. What could she do? Shoot him? Lord would do that after he had wrangled out what he wanted. Ring—he called the beast by name though he couldn't fathom why—would give a warning growl before he attacked.

If he bent over the chair, he could stand. Woodenly slow, he did so, holding his leg chain so it would not rattle, moving the heavy chair an inch at a time toward the bed. He was no more than a foot away when Ring's eyes slid open.

Price trapped his last breath in his lungs and stood so still he thought his legs would break as the minutes crept by. But the dog apparently saw no threat in the man's posture. Eventually the glowing eyes closed, and soon Ring's snores once more broke the stillness of the room.

Adamant in his quest, Price continued the offensive, slower, quieter, until the big chair rested close enough to the bed that he could ease down on its empty side. Lowering his weight by degrees, he stretched out on the patched sheet, resting his head on a vacant pillow. Sunny moaned softly, but he heard no change in the pattern of her breathing. Confident he had succeeded in securing a place on the bed, he let out a long, quiet sigh.

With his arms still connected to the chair, extended out to balance on the carved piece that held him, he was not entirely comfortable. But he was much more so than he had been before. And it was worth it, worth the peril—worth it, because she would be incensed when she found him there.

A man in his straits had little to smile about, but Price grinned broadly, anticipating the show of temper due him when she awakened. She could hardly accuse him of trying to rape her again, unless she thought he could molest while hoisting fifty pounds of chair over his head.

His smile grew wider, white teeth catching the moonlight. He hoped she didn't wake too soon. He wanted some rest. Tomorrow would be another trying day. He would spend it trying to get away from Sunny Harlowe. And with that objective in mind, he drifted into sleep.

The night was warm, but Sunny's dreams were cold—cold memories, cold recollections, cold reminders of the time when she had been a gentle girl, a loving wife, a passionate woman. Old memories, hard, painful, disturbing memories she could not let go—memories of Paul and the guilt that he had died and she had lived—swept her deeper, ever deeper into troubled sleep.

And as always when in her dreams she relived her last night with Paul, she asked the endless, unanswerable questions. If she had heard him stir...If she had put her arms around him...If he had been in the cabin when the Becklers came...If the rifle...

The bed shook gently as it had that night. Sunny cried out to Paul, but the sound which was audible in the darkness of the hotel room was a single, soft moan.

Entangled in her dreams, Sunny could not separate the nocturnal reverie from what was happening then. She sensed a presence in the bed.

"Paul," she whispered, her voice breaking out of the haze of sleep as restlessly she pitched out an arm.

Jolted by the sound of her voice and the feel of her arm slapping against the mattress, Price woke. Paul? Was that what she had said?

As if in answer, Sunny repeated the name. "Paul," she cried softly, her voice like a mournful wintry wind.

Was she asleep or dreaming? Most likely dreaming—of Paul. Price lay in the bed like a stone. He had not had enough sleep, and he didn't want to wake her. But while stillness helped, it did not minimize the heat his body made. Drawn to it, Sunny twisted toward him, coming to rest curled against his back, her breath a warming whisper on his shoulder. Her arm curved around his waist, the soft fingertips pressed inside his opened shirt front and lingered on his chest.

"Yes," she mumbled softly.

Yes to what? Price wondered and wondered, too, what sort of man felt instant arousal in the embrace of a woman with another man's name on her lips. But she had set his blood aflame—the soft touch of her hand, the gentle swell of her breast against his back starting a fire that tore a burning path to his loins. What sort of man felt this?

_A madman._ The answer roared in his ears. _A madman wants a woman who would kill him as quick as she would draw a breath, a woman who would sell his life to the likes of Thaddeus Lord._

Then he was a madman, because he wanted her, wanted to sink into her and forget all the crazy things that had brought them together—as enemies. He wanted to know her, to find her truth or if she had any.

He did not sleep for a long time, not until his body cooled, not until he reminded himself what Sunny Harlowe had done to him, would do to him yet.

The kick that knocked him out of bed and onto the splinter-laden floor felt as if it had broken his spine. And if not, it was doubtful that the bones in his arms had survived the savage twists they had undergone as he had rolled over the chair. When the gun clicked at his temple and he heard Ring's low-throated growl, he did not suppose either injury mattered much.

Sitting hard on her knees atop the mattress, Sunny's eyes were glazed with anger. "You horny son-of-a-bitch!" she said, pushing the icy barrel of the Colt into his skin. "I ought to blow a hole through that hard skull of yours!"

"Hell, Sunny! I was just sleeping." Nothing moved but his lips. He wouldn't even allow his eyes to blink until he saw her fingers relax on the trigger.

Seeing that he was still partially chained to the chair, she removed her finger from the trigger guard. "In my bed? Why?"

"The damned chair broke."

None of the fury had left her eyes but, as on the morning before when she had threatened to shoot him, Price felt his reprieve was genuine. Slowly, he uncoiled his chains and his arms from the painful tangle his swift exit from the bed had made. The only place he could go was into the chair. Keeping a watch on the gun barrel and the dog, he gingerly eased into the sloping seat.

"With a little help from you, I'll wager." She swung her legs out in front of her and stepped off the bed to take a closer look at the lopsided chair.

Price ventured a quick look first and, when he was certain she couldn't tell he was responsible for the destruction, shrugged. "Look at it," he said. "It fell apart."

"Over there." Her gaze went across the room to where the remains of the chair leg lay, then flew back to him, laden with harsh accusation.

That he had carried the chair to her bedside was self-evident, so he didn't try to explain that away. Why he had crawled in beside her demanded an explanation. "Hell!" he said, irately staring back at her. "I kept sliding out."

Her brows lifted sharply. For a weighted moment she was quiet; and then she waved a hand to Ring, signaling the big animal, who had not ceased growling since Price hit the floor, to settle down on the rug. But her frown made it clear she was not satisfied with the excuse Price had offered.

"So you decided to spend the night in my bed?" she asked, determined to get at the truth.

"It was either yours or the dog's," he countered. "And you smell a little better."

"Watch yourself, Ramsey," she warned.

"Watch myself? Damn it!" He believed he was losing all semblance of reason, but he had to taunt her, had to make her madder. "You didn't mind using me for a pillow most of the night," he said hotly.

She cut him to pieces with her eyes. "You were dreaming. I wouldn't have touched you with Ollie's shotgun."

"The devil!" Price breathed. "You were wrapped all around me; and you had your hand inside my shirt, though I'll be polite enough not to say where else. And I might mention," he added, seeing the color wash out of her face as she wondered if he were telling the truth, "that you talk a whole heap nicer in your sleep than you do awake."

"I do not talk in my sleep."

"Oh, yes ma'am, Sunny Harlowe." The drawl was distinct, exaggerated. "You do."

She was trembling with rage and for a minute there was no sound in the room but that of her labored breathing. When she found her voice, it was harsh as a rasp on metal.

"Hold yourself up in that chair, Ramsey, while I fasten that leg iron. Ollie will take you out back for a few minutes. And since you're so fond of the bed, when he brings you back I'll hook you in there."

Practiced at fastening the shackle, she knelt and had it on him before he could blink. As she stood, though, his eyes snared her with a seductive, lazy look. "Are you coming, too—to bed, that is?"

Sunny ground her teeth and, only because she considered it beneath her, refrained from kicking him in the shin. "I've got better things to do than bed down with a thieving skunk."

"I may be a mite smelly," he retorted. "You haven't given me a chance to bathe. But I am no thief."

She huffed. "If you aren't, it's because I caught you before you could finish what you had started."

"You can say that again." He laughed and she didn't grasp why until she saw the gleam in his eye and caught his meaning.

She responded with a slow shake of her head. "You know, Ramsey, I'm beginning to wonder if putting up with you is worth the money Lord is paying me." At that, she spun on her heels and went to the door, flung it open, and called loudly for Ollie.

With Price and Ring gone, the room seemed pleasantly peaceful. Sunny slumped down on the side of the bed and looked behind her at the rumpled sheets. He'd been telling the truth, if not the whole truth. The soft mattress still bore the impressions of two bodies curled together near the edge. And since he had been chained, unable to move from the spot where he'd lain down, she had to accept that during the night she had turned to him.

She did not have to like it. Or understand why at the first touch of him she had not been startled awake. She had slept molded against him, waking slowly as sunlight filtered into the room. Not at all pleased, Sunny nervously rubbed a hand over her face, remembering she had awakened with a feeling of contentment that her arms were filled.

Growing more and more annoyed with herself, she swallowed hard, then swallowed again. She had indeed embraced Price Ramsey, though she would never know for sure if her hands had roamed as he claimed. Blast him for telling her that. Before he'd boasted of her folly, she had believed him unaware she had slept pressed to his back. Now she had to suffer with the knowledge that he had felt her close to him and had allowed her to stay that way all through the night.

Solemn, troubled, Sunny dropped her head into her hands, covering her eyes, massaging her temples with her slender fingers. For the past five years, since Paul had died, she had slept alone. No man had shared her bed, not even for a few hours. Clayton Guthrie, a gentle, temperate man not nearly as prudish as Blanche believed, would have if Sunny had given any indication she was willing. But she hadn't and she hadn't because for her the intimate part of life had been over and done.

Until she had seen Price Ramsey. Until she had played at being a seductive female and wound up seduced. Almost. Were there degrees of seduction? Or did lying naked beneath a man and welcoming every caress, being lifted to the heights of ecstasy by his golden touch, suffice?

He had made her feel alive, hungry, passionate. And she had been afraid of the feeling, afraid of seeing it through. She had stopped him, stopped him before he had joined his body to hers and there was no turning back. And now she was saddled with him, saddled with seeing him every hour of the day and remembering her frantic need, his fiery but gentle touch, the urgency of his lips and hands upon her.

Damn him! The man was an outlaw and heaven knew what else. She didn't like him. He was completely dishonest, unreasonable; he complained at every turn. Why in blazes were there times when she still wanted him? After so long, why in blazes if she had to find she still had tender emotions, did they have to be for Price Ramsey?

***

Two hours later, at nine-fifteen by the town clock, with Ring at her side, a somber Sunny Harlowe ushered Price out of Ollie's hotel. She'd made arrangements to transport the pinto. The stallion she would leave in Ollie's care until she knew where to send him. Before boarding the train, she wanted to see to the loading of Nugget herself. The mare was skittish at ramps; and without her there to supervise, Sunny was afraid some rough handler might spook the animal and cause her to be hurt.

Taking an alleyway rather than hauling Price through the center of town, she was nearly to the livery where Ollie had stabled the horses when she saw, crossing the street, a man who chilled her blood and turned what had warmed in her heart to ice. _Wes Beckler_. Half a block away she was sure of his identity. The way he carried himself and the cotton-white hair were forever in her memory.

With a hurried shove, she pushed Price into a doorway and signaled Ring out of sight at her feet. As a precaution she drew her gun and placed the barrel at Price's throat.

"Don't say a word," she whispered.

With the deadly end of the Colt poking him, he wasn't about to; and, with an uneasy twist of his head, he told her so. She was close, standing arm to arm against him, her body taut. He felt a tremor shake her. In the shadows he could see her face, green eyes dark with pain and hatred. He'd seen the look before, part of it. What had brought it to the forefront now? He strained to see, following the direction of her eyes until his, too, focused on a man walking into the railway ticket office, a man with white hair and a face even he would not look forward to seeing again.

When the man was behind the closed door of the ticket office, Sunny pushed Price back the way they'd come. "To Ollie's," she said. "We've had a change of plan."

"Why? Who was that man?"

The gun barrel against his back, she gave him another urgent shove. "You don't need to know."

Price stopped, refusing to go on until she answered. "Like hell I don't. When a man earns me a stroke with a gun barrel, I want to know his name."

Realizing that it was no time to argue, she supplied the information. "Beckler," she said. "His name is Wes Beckler." Obligingly, she holstered the gun; but when he still refused to move, she gave him a strong push with her hand.

Price walked on toward the hotel. "Who's Wes Beckler to you?"

"Somebody I don't want to meet when I'm busy," she replied, following him up the steps into the hotel. "Ollie," she called, stopping short when she nearly collided with the old man.

"I was comin' after you," he declared.

Sunny shook her head furiously. "Whatever it is will have to wait," she told him. "I saw Wes Beckler on the street not five minutes ago. And going into the ticket office. Do me one more favor, will you, Ollie? Get the horses pronto and bring them back here. I don't want to find myself on a train with Beckler. Not when I've got Ramsey to look after."

Ollie's craggy face crinkled up more when he frowned. "That no good weasel is here? Hellfire, gal. I was hurryin' out to tell you a boy just brung a telegram from Blanche sayin' he'd been let out of prison. She was hopin' you would have stopped by here." The old man's voice took a bitter turn. "Beckler's lookin' for you, Sunny. Aims to settle the score."

Her throat was tight and dry. "He'll have to wait," she said. "I've got a job to finish, and I don't need a fight with Beckler slowing me down. But you watch out, Ollie." Her voice gentled. "He must have learned you're in Bailey's Crossing or he wouldn't be here."

"Don't you worry about me, gal," the old man assured her. "I can handle the likes of Wes Beckler."

"You be careful," she said and gave the old man a kiss on his stubbled cheek. "If Wes is like his brothers, he'll kill you first and talk to you afterwards.

Half an hour later, Sunny and Price were astride the horses, riding out of Bailey's Crossing. Ring loped along behind them.

"Tell me about Beckler," Price demanded. "Will he be coming after you?"

"If he finds out I was there, he will."

"Why?" He kicked his heels to the stallion's sides, sending the animal cantering alongside the pinto. "I've got a right to know, Sunny."

Although she couldn't reasonably blame Beckler's appearance on Price, her temper flared at his demand. "You've got a right to nothing," she said flatly, "except to sit on that horse and to get fed once in a while."

Price had not given up the idea that he would get free from Sunny before she delivered him to Lord. But Beckler changed things. If he came gunning for Sunny, Price would be caught in the middle, chained and helpless. He refused to let up until he knew what was going on and why.

"You hate the man," he said, hoping to draw her out.

"I hardly know him."

Determined, he persisted. "I saw it in your eyes, Sunny. You hate him."

"I hated his brothers," she said, relenting. "They're both dead. If there's any hate now, it's his for me."

"Why? Why would the man come looking for you as soon as he got out of prison?"

"Because I killed one of his brother's and got the other one hanged."

"Then Beckler wants to kill you."

"Probably."

She was silent after that, but she let the stallion stay alongside the pinto. Price could see her eyes, see that she was remembering some terrible moment Beckler had been part of.

"Sunny," he said, purposely breaking the quiet. "Who's Paul?"

She pulled back on the pinto's reins and stopped the surefooted animal dead in the road. The stallion had to stop, too, since his lead was tied to the pinto's saddle. Her eyes, green and cold as glacial ice, riveted on him; her jaw was tight, her face both hard and grim. "What do you know about Paul?"

Price felt he was closer at that moment than at any other to having her pull the gun and fire. He had treaded on forbidden territory, and that the trespass was unforgivable. It was also the first time he'd ever seen past the barrier in her eyes. He'd seen pain there and he had seen anger, even frustration and disgust, passion—if that had been real; but now he saw far beyond, deeper, and he knew that the feeling which gripped Sunny Harlowe was sorrow, abiding sorrow. And sorrow had been part of her a long time, shaping her, making her the forbidding woman that she was.

"I don't know anything about him," he said, a gentleness slipping unnoticed into his voice. "Except that you called his name in your sleep."

"Paul was my husband," she said softly.

"You loved him?"

She wheeled around in the saddle. He thought for an instant she was coming out of it and at him. "What the hell is it with you, Ramsey?" she shouted. "Do you want to read my diary?"

The stallion snorted and jumped, as surprised by her sudden fierceness as Price was. He had to grab the saddle horn to keep his seat. When he had it, he glared at her. Did she want to see him hanging from the stallion's belly? The black look he got in return told him she wouldn't care. Whatever openness had shown in her eyes had vanished. They were cold again, as glazed with ice as a frozen lake.

The combative spirit rose again in him, too. "Yes," he said. "I'd like to read your diary. I'd like to know what in blazes made a woman turn out like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're somewhere between being a man and a woman. I don't know what you are, and I don't think you do either."

"I know what you are."

"I doubt it."

"You're an arrogant, long-winded, renegade polecat."

He kicked the stallion, which had started lagging back. "No, Sunny. I'm a man who's been prevented from finishing a job."

She gave him a vicious look. "Oh, hell. Don't start with that again."

"I'm not starting with that. I'm serious. You're making a major mistake taking me to Lord."

"You can take that up with him when I get you there."

"Does it make any difference to you that he's going to kill me?"

She sighed wearily. "I can't say that I blame him."

"You're as cold-blooded as a damned snake."

Sunny snapped her head toward him. "Lord's not going to kill you."

"Not while you're around. But that's what he's planning as soon as he's gotten something that belongs to me."

"I think maybe you're a little crazy, mister. You go around wrecking a man's business and then you want my sympathy."

"Sympathy? Hell! I want you to use your sense. I want you to see the kind of man Thaddeus Lord is. Or do you always take people at face value?"

"Face value. Now there's a bit of irony. You go around trading on your looks, using that handsome face to sell worthless elixirs and to solicit information from lovelorn women. I look at you and I see a philanderer, a swindler, and a saboteur. Is there more?"

He couldn't see a way to refute her opinion of him, but he hoped he could convince her he had a sound reason for being all she'd labeled him. "Sunny, I know how it looks. But what I've been doing is for a good cause. I'm trying to save Claret Valley and the ranches and farms in it. As soon as Lord's got the land rights he needs, he's going to start hydro-mining. When he does, what he hasn't stolen from the people in the valley will be a river of mud with no fit water for the livestock. Good farmland will turn to muck."

Sunny had spent enough time in the gold fields to know how hydro-mining could devastate a valley. And she recalled that the equipment on the rail cars Price had wrecked had been covered with canvas tarps. But Lord had spoken of drilling and jobs and helping out the people in Claret Valley. She had been up to the new mine headquarters and seen the preparations for doing just that. And she had seen how Price Ramsey worked.

"Thaddeus Lord is a respectable businessman," she said. "What he's doing in Wallis will be a help to the valley."

"You're a bigger fool than I thought."

"I'd be a fool if I believed anything you said."

"Hell! I should have known better than to try and talk sense to you. You'd probably turn your own kid in if the money were right."

"That's enough," she said.

Her voice sounded strange. Price turned and saw her ashen face, her hands locked in a grip on the reins, and her look of pain. He thought she was ill, maybe on the verge of a seizure.

"Sunny—"

She silenced him with a wave of her fist. "You say another word, and I'll stuff a saddle blanket in your mouth."

He should have known better than to try kindness. But what had he said to upset her so quickly? She didn't care about Lord. And she didn't believe what he had said about the valley. His insults bothered her no more than water on a duck's back. So what had reached her, raised the pain to her face? The kid. He'd mentioned a kid, her kid. She had a child. Or she had lost one.

One thing was certain. He wasn't going to find out from her. Not today. She wouldn't even look his way again. And when they stopped to eat and rest, she shoved his food at him and walked off, leaving him in Ring's care until she was ready to ride again.

The long afternoon went the same and at sundown he found himself at the foot of a low cliff getting friendly with another tree. Sunny bedded down beneath an overhang of rock a good twenty feet away. The dog burrowed in behind a boulder but close enough to Price to be on him in a single leap.

The gravel-strewn ground didn't make as good a bed as the mattress in Ollie's hotel; but long before the moon rose high, Price had fallen asleep. When a thump on his forehead awakened him, he grumbled sleepily and pulled his hat down over his face. A second thump knocked the hat off. Wide awake after that one, Price looked around warily. He spotted a tiny pebble on his chest which undoubtedly accounted for one of the thumps. Without stirring, he continued to canvass the immediate area. Eventually, with the help of the moon's soft glow, he spotted Billy above him on the cliff making hand signals.

"Where is the woman?"

Price carefully lifted a shackled hand and pointed to the overhang, aware Billy could not see her below it. The relief he felt at spotting his friend and knowing he was close to rescue was comparable to having a stagecoach lifted from his back. But he started counting his blessings too soon. As had proved calamitous before, he'd forgotten Ring.

Billy hadn't, and he signaled, "Where is the dog?"

Cautiously, Price indicated the boulder near him. Billy nodded, motioning that he was on the way down. The panic which had gripped Price let go.

A few minutes, and he would be free. He closed his eyes as premature elation filled him. He wasn't even going to mind all the ribbing he'd get from Billy and Delos over being captured by a female. Hell no! He was too grateful to his friends for saving him from her.

Billy would have to shoot the dog. That was a shame in a way. He was a fine, loyal animal.

Price's regret was unfounded. A strong breeze whipped up, licking over the cliff and down its sloping face, carrying with it the scent of danger. The dog sprang to his feet, snarling. Sunny Harlowe was armed and on guard a few seconds later.

"Go, Ring!" she shouted.

The dog took flight, bounding atop the boulder and leaping from there to the cliff's edge. Price saw the flash of the white ring on the animal's hind leg as he pushed himself over the top. Billy's furious curses cut into Ring's vicious growls, and Price's heart felt as if it had taken a deathblow.

"Billy!" Furious that he could not help his friend, Price jumped up kicking and tugging in a vain attempt to break his leg chains.

Sunny whizzed by him with a rope over her shoulder, climbing up the rocks after Ring. Price felt his muscles constrict and heard his pulse thundering in his head. And from above, he heard the rumble of rocks sliding down a hillside. He cursed viciously and hoped that either Sunny or the dog or both were carried along with them. He bellowed his rage, but he could only sit and hope Billy survived the dog's attack. And Sunny's.

She came back without the rope. And without Billy. "Where is he?" Price demanded. Outrage tightened his throat, making his voice hoarse. "What did you do to Billy?"

"Trussed him up tighter than a Christmas goose," she said, grinning. "And no, he's not hurt. Ring knocked him down the hill and winded him. I tied him up before he could hurt himself."

"You're lying."

"I'm telling you the truth, Ramsey. I've got no quarrel with your friend. He's not tied so tight that he won't get loose by daylight. Of course by then, we'll be miles away. We're leaving as soon as Ring gets back."

"What's that devil dog doing? If Billy's hurt—"

Price cursed through clenched teeth, then stopped dead, realizing the ineffectiveness of any threat he could make. Damn her all the way to hell. It was too much to believe she would allow Billy the advantage of starting after them again at daylight.

She knew what he was thinking and did him the courtesy of relieving his mind. "He will have to hunt his horse when he gets free. Ring's putting a good scare into the animal," she added matter-of-factly. "And I dropped his saddle and bridle down a pit."

"You malicious bitch!" Price swore fiercely again. Billy could be a day or more finding his horse and getting another saddle.

"Sometime," she said, her lips stretched into a tight smile, "when you're in a better frame of mind, you can tell me why it is that when a woman outwits a man he calls her a bitch."

## Chapter 13

"A woman like that should be locked away."

" _Mais non_ , Edmond!" Standing amid the stacks of trunks and bags about to be loaded on the train's baggage car, the petite Emilie held a gloved hand over her mouth. "She is the mistress."

Edmond, dressed in the brown uniform of Osborn Peck's stable, ran callused fingers through his cropped sandy hair. "Hah!" he said. "She's anybody's mistress. The conniving little tart." Gently he caught Emilie's upraised hand. "Don't go with her, Emilie," he pleaded.

Shocked and pleased all at once, Emilie's glittering eyes filled with hot tears. "Edmond, please. I have no choice. My employment...If I leave her, she would give me no references."

Edmond's pained face told what he could not bring himself to say. If he could afford a wife, he would ask Emilie to marry him. But his welfare was as much tied to the spoiled Miss Peck as was that of Emilie. And he was the one who would be left in St. Louis to face her father's wrath when Osborn Peck learned his daughter had run away to marry a man in California.

" _There_ you are, Emilie." Nose held high, Penelope Peck, superbly stylish in a raspberry-colored traveling costume, picked her way through the avenues of trunks to reach her maid. Her voice echoed revulsion at the mundane surroundings as she dropped an overstuffed traveling bag at Emilie's feet. "Why, you may explain to me, must I hunt my maid when it is time to board?"

Snatching her hand from Edmond's tender grasp, Emilie attempted to justify her tardiness. "I'm sorry, Miss Peck. I was seeing that your trunk got aboard, and Edmond—"

Penelope shushed her with a wave of the pale yellow kid glove she had removed from her hand. "That is hardly necessary. Edmond can see to the trunks, and I have already informed him what he is to tell my father." She cast her haughty eyes on the handsome young man. What a shame that he was a penniless driver from her father's stable. "You do know what to tell him, don't you, Edmond?"

"Yes, Miss Peck," he said, his manner direct and insolent. "When he inquires, I'm to tell Mr. Peck that I drove you to the station and that I do not know which train you took or how long you plan to be away."

"Yes," Penelope said curtly. Worrying about her would serve her father right. He had scarcely allowed her to breathe without his permission since the incident with Price. She only wished she could see his face when he learned she had married the man. To Edmond she gave a threatening glance, wishing she had the time to remind the impertinent servant of the hazards of forgetting his place. Unfortunately, she was in too much of a hurry. "Come along, Emilie," she directed imperiously. "And take that bag. I couldn't find a porter anywhere, and I shouldn't have to carry my own things."

"I could take it," Edmond offered.

"You stay right here and be sure my trunk gets on this train," Penelope ordered. "Emilie can manage fine."

With a quick goodbye to Edmond, Emilie hurried after her departing mistress, the heavy traveling bag banging against her slim legs as she tried to keep up. She had not gone far when Edmond caught her by the shoulder and twirled her around. Emilie gasped and dropped her burden as Edmond swiftly took her in his arms and kissed her so hard she almost lost her breath. Her face was flushed as was his when he let go.

"Emilie," he whispered. "If I could...If..."

"I know, Edmond. I know," she answered softly.

Bleakly, he picked up the bag and put it into the hands of the tiny French girl. "Come back to me, Emilie," he pleaded. "I love you."

"I will," she whispered as a joyous new warmth entered her heart. "I will. I love you, too, Edmond."

On the boarding platform Penelope had just discovered she was alone. She reeled around and saw Emilie engulfed in Edmond's arms.

"My, my, Emilie," Penelope taunted when her rosy-cheeked maid joined her. "Perhaps you are more French and more worldly than I thought."

"I'm sorry, miss," Emilie said, but she didn't mean it. "We were saying goodbye."

"I could see that," Penelope snapped. "As if you didn't have ample time before we left the house," she added, forgetting that she had kept the girl in a run since dawn. _Fetch my hairbrush. Find my glove._ She had repeatedly sent Emilie up and down the stairs to make certain Osborn Peck had not returned early. "I'm the last one to board because of your inconsiderate behavior. I expect I'll have to push my way through to my compartment."

"I'm sorry, miss," Emilie repeated, seeing that her mistress's complaints were grounded for once. The platform was indeed deserted of all but a few well-wishers waving goodbye. "Here are the tickets, miss," she said to the straight line of Penelope's back.

"Keep them until the conductor calls for them," Penelope scolded. Did the girl know nothing? "You can get me settled in my compartment while we wait for him. And then you can go to your own quarters."

Emilie, holding the bulging bag before her, led through the passageway to the private compartments, thankful the corridor was not filled with people as Miss Peck had anticipated and thankful for the attendant who relieved her of the traveling bag.

"Your number, miss?"

"Twelve," Penelope answered before Emilie could get the word out.

"Twelve?" The man's graying brows drew together.

"That is what I said," Penelope responded, her tone scathing, wondering why today of all days she was plagued by incompetents.

"Could I have a look at your ticket, miss?" the attendant asked politely.

Penelope's blue eyes rolled up. "Give it to him, Emilie, so I can get out of this stuffy corridor."

Emilie produced the ticket. Frowning, the attendant looked at it and then at Penelope. "There's been a mistake, miss. Compartment twelve is occupied."

"For goodness sake!" Penelope exclaimed, looking at the man as if he were daft. "Is that all? Simply find me a vacant compartment and be done with it."

"That isn't possible, miss. All our compartments are occupied. We do have an empty sleeper berth, however."

"A berth? I can't sleep in a berth." Being refused anything did not sit well with Penelope. She shook a finger beneath the attendant's nose. "I demand you open that compartment and tell whoever is in it to leave. It's mine."

"But your ticket was purchased later," he objected weakly.

"I don't care! Do as I say or I will summon my fath—" Penelope stopped in mid-sentence. She could hardly threaten the man with her father's position and power when she was running away from him.

"Is there a difficulty here?" A new voice entered the fray.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir." The attendant tipped his hat to the slender, attractive man who stood in the open doorway of compartment twelve and to the shorter, bald man behind him. "Unfortunately one of our agents made a mistake and sold two tickets for your compartment."

"My compartment!" Penelope insisted, deliberately tossing her head up and challenging the man who had spoken.

"Of course, it's yours," he responded politely. "We wouldn't dream of depriving a lady. If you will allow a moment for repacking, we will vacate the compartment and you may have it."

"I'll do that for you, sir," the attendant volunteered, happy for an excuse to get away from Penelope's sharp tongue. As the attendant stepped inside with the bald gentleman, the other occupant stepped out.

Penelope's flaming face cooled down as the door to compartment twelve closed behind the attendant. "This is extremely sweet of you," she said, noticing that the chivalrous stranger was quite handsome in a bookish sort of way. And the cut of his clothes and the elegance of the fabrics indicated he was a man of means. Forgetting for the moment that she considered herself the fiancée of Price Ramsey, Penelope smiled flirtatiously. "You must tell me whom I have the pleasure of thanking."

"Clayton Guthrie," said the man, making a slight bow.

Long flaxen lashes fluttering, Penelope stretched out a hand. "I'm delighted to meet you, Mr. Guthrie," she said. "I am Penelope Peck."

Clayton gallantly took her hand and lifted it, softly touching his lips to its gloved back. "Miss Peck?" he asked.

"Why, yes," Penelope responded, her voice trilling as a spark of excitement entered it. "Just plain Miss Peck. Tell me, Mr. Guthrie," her winsome smile broadened as Clayton continued to hold her hand, "are you traveling far?"

"All the way to San Francisco," he replied, squeezing her fingers lightly before he released them.

"Why, isn't that grand!" she exclaimed, her head tilting coyly to the side. "I'm traveling to San Francisco myself, and I am ever so pleased to know there is someone on board I can talk to along the way."

Smitten by the beauty of the golden-haired young woman and made bolder by it, Clayton wasted no time inviting her to dinner. "Perhaps we could begin our conversations this evening, Miss Peck. If you would care to join me at a table in the dining car."

"I can think of nothing I would rather do," she said, euphoric at the prospect of a new, unexpected conquest.

The attendant and the bald man reappeared, each carrying a satchel. Clayton insisted on conveying Penelope's heavy bag inside and stowing it until her maid could unpack.

"At eight," he said, pausing with his hand on the door when he had seen her inside.

"At eight," she consented, thinking the long train ride to San Francisco would not be nearly as boring as she had feared and never doubting that Price would want her to be entertained since he had not come for her himself.

***

At sundown, Wes Beckler walked in the front door of Ollie's place and found the old man sitting behind a table, the makeshift desk of the two-story hotel. He'd hoped that by watching Ollie's for a few days he might get lucky and see Sunny Harlowe go in. The girl at the Golden Ring had said she was up north and it stood to reason she would drop in on an old friend from Eureka. What he'd heard out in the street, however, made him suspect he'd missed his chance. And he wasn't happy about it.

"Evenin' Ollie," he said.

Instead of returning the pleasantry, Ollie removed a pair of spectacles and, pretending he didn't recognize Beckler, waited for him to come across the hall. "You want a room?" he asked.

"I want information," Beckler told him.

With one hand Ollie reached into his thinning hair and scratched, with the other he reached beneath the table for the shotgun. "Room's four bucks. Information's free if I've got it."

Beckler's harsh laugh shook the propped-up table. "Four bucks is a lot for this rat box, ain't it, Ollie?"

"It's what I get," Ollie returned, his withered cheeks coloring.

"Not from me." Without warning, he gripped the old man by the shirt front and lifted him clear of the chair. He was fast and seized the shotgun from Ollie's hands before the old man could raise it. With Ollie dangling in the air, the gun bounced on the floor. Beckler kicked it aside. "That's not too friendly, Ollie, but I'm gonna overlook it if you tell me what I want to know."

Ollie never winced. "I said the information's free if I've got it."

Beckler gave him a rattling shake. "You've got it. A boy on the street said he saw you with a pinto horse early today. Was it hers?"

"Whose?"

Swearing, Beckler reached behind him and brought back a short but razor-sharp pocketknife. He dug the filed-down point into Ollie's ear. "The Harlowe woman," he said.

"You don't scare me, Wes," Ollie replied calmly.

"Well, then I'll try harder," Beckler said, bringing the blade of the knife down Ollie's ear lobe as if he were cutting butter. "Does that make you want to talk?"

Blood fell like drops of rain on the old man's white shirt. He said nothing, but his silence was answer enough for Beckler.

"You think I can't read what's in your eyes? Which way did she go?"

After a few minutes and another slash of his knife, Beckler realized that the old man would let himself be cut to ribbons before he would give the girl away. Cursing, he gave Ollie a ferocious shove that sent him crashing into the wall.

Badly bruised, Ollie moaned and tried to get up, but his skinny legs crumbled under him. Beckler laughed. He could have easily killed the old man—and wanted to for the part Ollie had played in sending him to prison. But he couldn't take the risk. He didn't want a posse after him before he caught up with Sunny Harlowe. He had a balance to tally with her. She owed him, and he was going to start collecting by getting what his two brothers had died for.

"She ain't been gone long. I'll find her," Beckler swore, savagely shoving the table on top of Ollie.

Ollie groaned. "You best leave her be," he said through the pain of what he guessed were a couple of cracked ribs. He wanted to help Sunny and did his best to scare Beckler off. "She's not alone," he moaned. "You'll have to take two of them."

"I appreciate the warning, Ollie." Beckler wiped the stained blade of his knife on his pant's leg and closed it. He laughed as he looked down at the hearts engraved on the silver handle and slipped the knife into his pocket. "And I'll tell Sunny how helpful you were when I catch her."

***

"I'm going to wring that woman's neck until I hear it snap. And that damned dog is going to wind up a rug in my parlor." Billy talked to himself, the prairie dogs, the coyotes, any creature within listening distance.

And while he talked, he wore the skin off his wrists, working his way out of the ropes she had tied him with.

"Damned imperious bitch! Leaving me bound up like this."

At least two hours passed before Billy freed his hands and went to work on the ropes binding his legs. Where the woman had learned to tie knots he couldn't guess, but she knew a few twists he'd never seen before. And to think he'd been congratulating himself on coming across the pair so soon after setting out.

Still wondering where this side of hell a woman like Sunny Harlowe came from, he loosened the last knot. His wrists were raw, his ankles grooved from the tightly binding ropes. Taking a few minutes to massage his arms and legs and restore circulation to his feet, Billy decided that for once he envied Delos. His friend only had Thaddeus Lord to contend with.

When he stood, his feet stung as if he'd stepped on a wasp nest and he had to walk gingerly for several minutes. He looked for his horse, worrying when the animal didn't respond to either a call or a whistle. Then he remembered the sound of hoofbeats and barking when he'd been dazed and trying to catch his breath. That gunslinging female's dog had run his horse off. Hell! He wouldn't have a chance of finding his mount before sunup.

Finding his holster empty, Billy sat down and waited for the sun to rise. There was nothing else he could do. And when the burst of orange and gold light did streak across the heavens he still couldn't believe that Sunny Harlowe had outsmarted Billy Owens and left him in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere with no gun and no horse.

He was shaking his head in disbelief beneath the first thin light of morning when he set out tracking his horse, glad nobody other than Price knew he'd let it happen. Price wasn't going to kid him about it. Not when he was equally guilty of seriously underestimating the woman. Grudgingly, Billy admitted that as sure as he was kicking up dust, he'd expected to slip into her camp and take Price back in a shake. Of course he hadn't known what the dog could do. Dogs growled and bit, but he'd never before come across one that climbed cliffs and slammed into a man hard enough to knock his legs out from under him.

He wished he'd gotten a better look at the woman. But he had been jolted nearly senseless by the fall and she had jammed his face to the ground while she tied his hands behind his back. He would not forget her voice, though—feminine and melodic, but with a feline snarl to it. And he would not forget her words.

"I'm surprised you would risk your life for Price Ramsey," she'd said. "Does he pay you to look after him?"

"He's my friend," Billy had managed to cough out.

"Choose your friends with more care, mister," she'd told him. "His kind will only get you in trouble—like now."

He'd wanted to tell her she didn't know what trouble was yet; but with the dog in his face and her knee in his back, he'd been in no condition or position to do so. And then she was gone. He did wish he'd gotten a better look at her to see if she were a beauty as Price had said. He doubted it. He believed she was part wildcat and part witch.

***

"You're unnaturally quiet today, Ramsey," Sunny said, looking back as she did periodically to see that all was well with her prisoner. Giving him a catlike grin, she added, "But I am not one to be ungrateful for small favors."

Price's jaw tightened and he scowled at her, but he made no reply. After a moment she turned her head, and he was glad she hadn't pressed him further. He didn't feel like talking. He didn't even feel like tormenting her. Up until last night he had only been a little worried that he might not succeed in getting away from Sunny. Now that little had become a lot. She had stopped Billy, which was something a host of Indians and Union soldiers had failed to do.

And with Billy stuck miles from a town, he didn't know if the rancher could catch up with them again. He hung his head, and the sweat which had been trickling down his brow changed course and flowed into the corners of his eyes. Price let it run, not even noticing the burning under his eyelids. He kept thinking about Billy. He wasn't sure what condition Billy had been in when she left him and he worried about that, too.

Evidently Delos waited at the ranch for word from Billy. Delos had worked hard planning this mission. He would be disappointed at the word he got. Hell! He had failed Delos. Failed Billy. Probably cost Billy the ranch he had promised to help save.

And that was a worse blow because it was Billy who had helped him buy the smaller spread down the valley, the one that just happened to contain a sector of track that was part of the Claret Spur Line. For once it had seemed fate was his friend. Chance had granted him another encounter with Thaddeus Lord, an opportunity to avenge himself and the man he had let down in Brazil. And he'd played loose with that chance, let it get away from him because of a woman.

He might still succeed in keeping the lease out of Lord's control. He was willing to die to do that. But Lord could operate the mine for a short time without the rail even though it would hardly be worth the cost to him. But no doubt out of spite he would do enough hydro-blasting before he abandoned the mine to ruin the land along the Claret River, and that included Billy's ranch.

The knowledge ripped the heart out of Price. He kept remembering Rosanne's words when he'd asked her to marry him. She had seen the flaw in him way back then and given him what turned out to be a prophecy. His womanizing would be his ruin. And sure as sin, because of his lust for a woman he had let down the two best friends he had...if he didn't find a way to right things.

Convinced a man couldn't be more miserable or more in need of righting his wrongs, Price nudged the stallion's sides with his heels. The animal leaped forward to match his stride with the pinto's.

He hadn't seen much indication of it, but maybe Sunny had a heart. Maybe he'd been using the wrong tactics. Maybe if he could persuade her that Thaddeus Lord's intentions were less than noble, she would reconsider handing him over to the bastard.

Sunny didn't look at him. The glance she had from the corner of her eye was disturbing enough. A man ought not to look that good when he hadn't had a shave in days or the benefit of a comb. Fact was he was a sight prettier than she was at present. Leaving in a hurry, she hadn't bothered with her hair; and after several days on the trail, her clothes were more dust than cloth.

She didn't know why she was so conscious of her appearance. She wasn't any different than usual. But before she knew it, she was pushing her unruly hair out of her face, sitting straighter, and silently cursing him for making her aware of how she looked.

Price noticed that Sunny cut her eyes his way and fidgeted in the saddle. Expecting at any minute to be ordered to keep his horse behind hers, he rode without comment, until she was completely ignoring him again. Once he felt assured she wasn't going to make a fuss, he spoke. "I want to talk to you, Sunny."

After the angry scowl he'd given her a short while before, Sunny was apprehensive. She, too, had Billy Owens on her mind.

"Talk if you like," she acquiesced. "But keep in mind I'm not in the mood for any of your farfetched conjecture on my sentiments toward you."

"That's not what I've got to say," he assured her. "It's about Billy."

"Billy?" She nodded, wondering at the similarity of thought. "The man who stupidly tried to rescue you last night?"

"Billy's not stupid."

"No?" She challenged him with a look. Perhaps a battle of words was what she needed. At least then she would not be so aware of his handsome, sullen face. "Then why did he come alone to get you? If he'd been smart enough to bring help, you might be free and I might be the one wearing those chains."

Price bit back the urge to say her wearing the chains would be a pleasant change. She seemed anxious to pick a fight, but for once he didn't want to make her mad. So he spoke in a voice smooth as a preacher's on Sunday. "I don't think Billy expected to find me shackled. I think he believed what you wanted him to believe, that I was with you willingly."

"Maybe." Sunny raised a brow. There was logic to what he said. But she didn't know if he honestly believed that or if he were searching for a roundabout way to say that Billy had figured taking on a woman would require about the same effort as shooting a penned deer. "But if he thought you wanted to be with me, why did he sneak up on us?"

Price smiled, at least he had her thinking the way he wanted. "Walking into the camp of a man and woman who just got married wouldn't be good manners, would it?"

Sunny pulled off her battered hat and mopped her brow with her arm. "You're saying he was being discreet?"

"Yes. Not that it matters. What matters is that he won't make the same mistake twice."

"I reckon not," Sunny agreed. "Unless he finds a horse that can run full-out night and day, we won't see him again."

"We'll see him again," Price assured her. "Now that he knows I need him, he'll find a way to catch up. I'd do the same if he were in my—" His eyes fell on his chains, "—shackles," he finished.

"Why?" What he was saying didn't fit what she knew about him. A man who swindled and thieved for a living didn't risk his life for another.

Price laid his hands on the stallion's lathered neck. Billy's horse. "Because Billy Owens is my friend," he said, meaning it. "Because I owe him my life more than once already."

Her eyes took on a curious glow. Last night the man she'd hog-tied had said almost the same thing. "You think you could perform a miracle because of that?"

"I'd try. And Billy will, too."

"Well, now, this is all touching." She placed a hand on her heart. "What am I supposed to do—let you go because you say you've got a pal who won't give up?"

"Exactly."

"What?" she asked, sharply. She must have heard him wrong.

"Billy Owens is a rancher, and he's a fine man."

"Good for him."

Sunny sighed, wondering if Price had been in the sun too long. She already knew Owens was a rancher. Bertha Whaley at the Louisa had told her he owned the Double O and that folks around town thought highly of him. Price was a long-time friend of Owens. The doctor, Delos Hixley, was a newcomer to Wallis, and Mrs. Whaley hadn't known his connection to Billy Owens. Mrs. Dunn at the dress shop had said essentially the same, praising Billy even more highly.

Sunny hadn't thought much about it. She wanted Price, and the other two mattered only because he was always with one of them. What's more, it was possible that Owens had the townspeople fooled and was involved in Price's crimes. Or that he was ignorant of them.

Price's tolerance nearly deserted him. He would like nothing better than to tell her what a damned difficult woman she was. But then she knew it, worked at it, and honed her talent for it to a fine art.

"I know what you're thinking," he said, the timbre of his voice still deep and resonant—warm.

She hoped not, because fighting with him hadn't changed her thoughts about his attractiveness. He still made her feel hot and uncomfortable, as if she ought to have a bath and a bottle of cologne to..."Why don't you tell me," she invited crossly.

A touch of his knee, and the stallion wove closer to the pinto, so close that Price's leg bumped against Sunny's. "You're thinking Billy's part of—"

"Your gang," she cut in and, at the same time, cut out with the horse, putting new distance between the pinto and the stallion.

"There's no gang," he said, pursuing her with another hidden signal to the stallion. "Billy's a rancher and he has a stake in stopping Lord up in the valley. His spread is one of those that will be washed out by the operation."

"And your smooth-tongued, medicine-show huckster. What's his part in this?"

She was listening, and he was encouraged. "Delos is a geologist," he said. "He's been making tests throughout the valley, studying the river, establishing how much damage will be done by the hydro-mining. And while he's been researching, I've been gathering information about Lord's plans for the Claret Spur Line. The sabotage was to be sure he didn't start his operation before we could prove what he was planning and what it would do to Claret Valley."

Sunny nodded her head up and down several times. Price felt sure he had persuaded her to his cause, but then she slapped her knee hard. "Bravo!" she said. "You should have been hawking the elixir and let the doctor do the shooting. That is the best cock-and-bull story I've heard in a month."

"Hell, Sunny!" The frayed thread holding his patience broke. "Do you think I could make up a tale like that on the spot?"

"Yes," she said; and while he was left to ponder her opinion of him, she pulled the horses off the trail and into the woods where there was a small stream. "And stow the rest of it for a while, will you? These horses are tired, and I am, too. We're going to stop and rest while the sun's hot. We'll travel again tonight."

"Sunny." He couldn't give up. Fighting her hadn't worked. Straightforwardness hadn't worked. He would try what he did best. He pulled off his hat, laid it on his thigh. His eyes sought hers and snared them while his fingers stroked the red feather still laced into his hatband. "Do you know what I thought the first time I saw you?"

"Let me guess." With difficulty, she broke her gaze away from his and swung off the pinto. "You thought, 'There's a woman I haven't had.'"

Goddammit. Nothing could be easy with her. But he fortified himself for the new assault. "No," he continued tenderly. "I thought, 'There's the prettiest woman I've ever seen.'"

"Hah!" She tossed the stirrup up on the seat of the saddle and unbuckled the girth.

"It's true. And the next time, I looked out into the crowd and I didn't see anyone but you. A hundred people around," he said, "and I couldn't see anyone but you."

Sunny hoisted her saddle from the pinto's back and threw it on the ground. "What about that redheaded schoolteacher you went home with?"

Price grimaced. Damn her. He didn't know she had watched him as closely as that. "Business," came his quick response. "I kept thinking about you. I kept remembering the sweet way you had looked at me that day."

"I don't recall anything special," she retorted. But she did. She remembered meeting his eyes, feeling as if she were in a shower of sparks. And she hated him for reminding her.

"And the next time," he continued. "I saw you, and I forgot I was supposed to be shooting at the target Delos tossed for me."

"You hit it."

"Barely," he said. "I tried to find you afterwards."

He put his hat on, and Sunny saw that he'd eased the end of the egret feather loose so that it stood out like a tiny red flag. Damn him for that. Pretending indifference, she whistled for Ring, then unshackled one of Price's chains so he could dismount. "I didn't want you to find me," she said.

"No," he ground out. "But you wanted me, Sunny. I'm not wrong about that. I'm not wrong about what I saw in your eyes before you disappeared."

"Over there." She pointed at a thick part of the grove. "Go."

He obeyed, docile as a lamb while she hooked his shackles around still another tree.

"Sunny?"

"What?"

Her voice was softer and she wouldn't look at him, but she hadn't told him to shut up yet; and until she did, he would keep going.

"I was real happy when you showed up in Wallis."

Breathing out roughly, she leaned a shoulder against the tree next to his and crossed her arms defensively over her chest. "Uh huh," she said.

Price stood with his hands braced on his tree pillory. "I thought I was the luckiest man around that a beautiful woman had singled me out."

She nodded dispassionately. "That being unusual for you."

He ignored her sarcasm. She still wasn't screaming at him, and she was still standing near his tree.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he leaned toward her. "Sunny, kiss me," he said softly.

"You're crazy," she hissed.

"I know." His eyes flashed, and his low, husky voice sent a shiver up her spine. "I am. I ought to hate you, but I don't. Look at me. I can't move more than a foot. I can't hurt you. I can't do anything to you that wouldn't leave me in a worse predicament than this. Kiss me. Please. It's not too much to ask."

"Yes, it is."

She said it too slowly, and he knew she was thinking about it. And she was standing so close. A tilt of his head was enough. His lips touched hers, light as a breeze. He didn't raise his hands. He didn't want to remind her of his chains.

Sunny moaned softly as his mouth opened and closed hungrily on her lips, tender yet demanding. The shock, the satisfaction caught her. She trembled, felt a whirlwind rise and twist within her, felt the spiraling power of it numb her mind and inflame her senses. Her knees shook, and her eyelids slid down as the heart of the storm swept deep in her abdomen then spun up and out, higher and higher. Until he moved away.

"Sunny," he whispered. "What if I'm telling you the truth about Lord? What if what we're both feeling is real?"

She stood there dumbly a second or two more, then bolted away. She went to the horses, watered them, rubbed them down with the blankets, and tied them out to graze. She built a small fire and cooked a meal, took Price his share, and went back to the fireside to eat her portion. She sat and stared over the flames at him.

Was he telling the truth? Or would he tell her anything to get away from her? He hadn't begged her to let him go. Why? That was what the kiss had been about. Wasn't it? It couldn't have meant anything to him. Could it?

And what of her? Where was the remorse, the anger at what he had done? Why did she keep thinking about what it would be like to kiss him again?

Price watched her sitting at the fireside, pensive, knees pulled against her chest, arms wrapped around them. She was thinking about what he'd said. And that was better than nothing. He had his tactics right now. He knew how to reach her, how to soften her up, how to make her think he cared about her. Turnabout was fair play. She had tricked him, and she deserved the same.

## Chapter 14

Late in the afternoon after he'd left Bailey's Crossing, Wes Beckler was miles away, squatting beside the blackened ring of a dead campfire. A scorched stick in his hand, he stirred to the bottom of the ashes. Placing his palm over the spot he'd uncovered, he felt a small residue of heat, enough to tell him fire had burned there quite recently. When he rose, his thin lips stretched into a wide smile.

Tracking Sunny Harlowe wasn't proving too hard after he'd picked up the pinto's tracks behind Ollie's place. The other horse had a bigger hoof and a longer stride—a man's horse, he concluded. And there was a dog track, too, so he reckoned one of them had a pet. Knowing who was on the other horse would have been a help; but since he didn't, he would have to ride up on them cautiously. And he'd have to remember the dog. Dogs were damned good at barking an alarm.

Not wanting to miss anything which might give him an advantage, Beckler continued to look around where the two had camped. The tracks were confusing. They had done some scrambling in the night, or gotten playful cozying up to each other. He wondered if Sunny Harlowe had taken another husband since his brothers had made her a widow.

He hoped so. He had a yen to widow her a second time before he took his use of her. Yep. He could enjoy that. Beckler laughed, his hand sliding down to his groin. The thought of taking her after she watched him kill her man made him hot and hard as cannon iron.

Astride his horse, Beckler made a last round of the deserted camp. About four yards from the fire, he came upon a tree with the bark skinned away down near the ground as if a chain had been ground across it. He supposed they kept the dog chained at night to keep it from running off and getting lost. He'd be glad of that if he were lucky enough to catch up with them under cover of darkness. But he wasn't counting on it. And when he saw that honey-haired bitch who had cost him all his family, he wasn't waiting another minute to show her she couldn't get away with killing a Beckler.

Setting his spurs to his horse, he galloped on. The ground was hard, and the pair wasn't sticking to the road. But he knew where they were going; that little cutie at the Golden Ring had told him her boss's friend planned to be back in San Francisco soon. So even if he lost the trail for a time, he was sure to pick it up again.

He had counted the days away, five years of long, dull days in a small musty cell. He had carved a mark on the wall for each passing day. And when they had let him out the wall had been a hodgepodge of slashes and crosses. The same pattern would look good on the girl, a slash for each day he'd spent in prison because of her, slashes made with the knife that had once belonged to her husband. The knife was the one thing he'd taken from Ed after the miners in Eureka had hanged him. He'd enjoy using the knife on her. Not first, though. He wouldn't cut her first. He wanted her pretty when he took her, pretty and scared and begging for her life.

The sun was setting, a blazing orb slicing down into banks of clouds low in the western sky, when Beckler threw back his head with a menacing smile. Catching Sunny Harlowe was going to be worth all the trouble and all the waiting.

"Well, now," he said, seeing that the track he followed was fresh. "Well, now, I reckon Wes's luck is running right again."

***

"Time to move on, Ramsey," Sunny called to wake her prisoner.

Ring heard her and stood and shook, then stretched, whining as he bowed and sent his hindquarters and black banner of a tail high in the air.

The dog trotted over to her, winning a scratch on the head for his trouble. She'd rested longer than she'd intended. The sun was setting as she smothered the campfire and led in the horses to get them ready to travel. Like Ring, the big animals shook and stretched; but the grass had been plentiful-and the water cool, and she knew they had recuperated enough to make up the time lost.

She was the one who was tired. Yawning, she reached into the air, trying to instill a feeling of liveliness in her limbs. She had dozed, but the sleep hadn't refreshed her. She'd had too much on her mind to really rest. Price had gotten her thinking—about hydro-mining, about Claret Valley, and about his kiss.

And while he'd gotten her too disturbed to benefit from the afternoon respite, he'd leaned back against a rock and slept the hours away. After another call for him to get moving, she watched him propel his hard, strapping body from the ground and heard the rattle of his chains as he, too, stretched muscles which had been at rest. The white shirt with silver piping was soiled, the trim, perfectly tailored pants smudged with dirt; his pale hat was streaked with sweat, his once-glossy boots covered with a layer of dust. And none of it diminished his looks. The fancy clothes did not make him, Sunny realized; he made them.

"Mind if I wash up?" he asked when she came to open his shackles. "A splash of cold water on my face would feel good."

"Suit yourself," she mumbled, noting that her heartbeat jumped a pace too rapid when she got near him. But he was being too nice, and she was leery of his come-lately politeness. She was more accustomed to his biting taunts and not quite ready to believe he was ready to forget his anger that she had nabbed him—no matter how wonderfully he had kissed her.

Ring following close enough to nip his heels, Price ambled to the narrow, trickling stream, unbuttoning his dirty, sweaty shirt as he went. With his hands chained together, he could not remove the garment; but he could push it off his shoulders, exposing his chest as he knelt by the stream. With cupped hands, he splashed cold water on his face and throat and chest.

In the ruddy light of the dying sun, his skin glowed like molten copper; his wet hair gleamed with a contrasting ebony sheen; and his eyes, smiling up at her, shone like polished gold. Sunny's green eyes melted. Her skin tingled under a coating of goose bumps as she watched and wished he'd been pocked and bald and bowed in the legs.

He didn't bother buttoning the shirt. And he wet it down so that it clung to his skin, showing the sinew beneath like bands of cable playing to the rhythm of his long stride as he came toward her.

It was a ploy, a trick to weaken her will, to make her want the taste of his lips, the touch of his hands. She recognized the device for what it was—and still it worked. She waited by the stallion like a woman hypnotized, caution forgotten, purpose set aside if only for a moment. And a moment was long enough. He was beside her.

"Sunny," he whispered, the word a caress that sent a shiver running down her back.

"Yes," she mumbled, unaware that she had spoken at all. Watching him intently, her eyes followed the silver rivulets of water. The droplets streamed down his chest, over the bunched muscles, through the shallow furrows that came and went with the in and out of his breath. Her breath, ragged and labored, stirred the crisp, damp hairs on that same broad chest.

His hands were on the saddle. But instead of gathering his weight to pull himself astride the horse, he made a circle with his arms. Slowly, arduously, he slipped them over Sunny's head and past her slim shoulders, following the gentle bend of her back.

She did not realize he held her until she felt his hands on her waist and the cold weight of the chain on the curve of her hips. By then he had eased her against him, and the panic that rose in her could not offset the precarious pleasure of feeling her body thigh to thigh with his. But she tried.

"Let me go or I'll call Ring," she threatened feebly.

"Not yet." His voice—deep, throaty, and strained—sent a new avenue of shivers along her spine. "Let me die fulfilled at least."

"Price..." Awed, consumed with wonder that such a gentle touch could start a blaze inside her, she could only whisper his name.

Fingers splayed, his hands cupped her buttocks, lifted her to his loins, and held her tight against the throbbing shaft that told of his desire.

On fire, she sagged against him. She burrowed her face into the damp fur on his chest, and the last flicker of reason died out within her.

"Sweet Sunny," he murmured. His lips at her ear, he caressed the shell-like contours with light strokes of his tongue. "Let me make love to you, here, now."

No! For an instant her resolve was firm. She saw clearly the hundreds of reasons why she should fight him with all her strength. Then, like the trail of a comet, they sped by. Out of sight. Out of mind.

Whimpering, she flung her arms around his neck, laced her fingers into the damp sable curls at his nape, and brought his face down to hers. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes."

Price, too, had lost his sense of purpose. He forgot he'd meant to strike while she was weak, stripping the key from her pocket, or converting her to his ally with skillful loving. When his lips found honeyed enchantment in her response, he wanted only to pursue his passion.

He invoked her name in a throaty chant as his teeth nibbled a path down the slender column of her neck. She was salty and sweet, satin and silk under the assault of his mouth. And her murmuring cries were soft, erotic sounds that drove him further and further from his planned course. He needed her and she needed him. All else would have to wait.

She had lost all judgment and didn't care. Her face lay against his chest, her breath a hot flame as she kissed him, licked him, until the rock hard muscles quivered and shook.

"Touch me, Sunny," he implored. Yet he was surprised when her hands slid into the waistband of his trousers. Deftly, she plucked the buttons free of their bindings.

Moaning in sweet agony, Price brought his mouth back to her lips. Kissing, nipping, and gently sucking her soft lower lip, he lowered her pelvis against the throbbing shaft of flesh she held in her hands.

His golden eyes tortured, he swore he'd make love to her if it were his last living act. He wanted this woman, not because he needed to defeat her, not because he needed to escape her, but because his body cried out for the loving satisfaction only she could give. He wanted to penetrate her mystery and her sorrow. He wanted her.

***

On foot, shielded in a copse of trees upwind of Sunny's camp, Wes Beckler lifted a Winchester to his shoulder. One eye closed, the other squinting through the sight, he gauged the angle of his shot, then lowered the barrel of the gun.

He could wait. Right now, the lovers were entwined too closely to fire. He might kill the woman and then his long journey in pursuit of Sunny Harlowe would have ended too easily—for her. He wanted to rape her, and he wanted her alive when he did it. And, by damn, he _would_ do it soon. Maybe while she was still slick with another man's juices. The two, hands all over one another, looked as if they might fall writhing and coupling on the ground any minute.

The thought of watching them make love just before he put a gaping hole through the man thrilled Wes Beckler. Aroused, he was panting for his turn at the flaxen-haired woman. She wasn't nigh as pretty as she had been back in Colorado, not wearing those ugly loose pants and that old rag of a shirt. But underneath, she would still be the same, he reckoned—slim where she ought to be, full and soft where he wanted her to be.

Engrossed in their sexual performance, Beckler didn't notice the chains on the man's hands or the one trailing on the ground from his leg.

What he saw was the sultry beat of their hips, the heated kisses, the building passion. And then he was almost blinded by the pain in his groin and the building anticipation of what he would soon be doing to Sunny Harlowe. Beckler, doubling over, bit the inside of his jaw to keep from emitting a primal groan of craving. Out here in the wilderness, he could keep her alive for days, satisfying his lewd pleasure. He'd dreamed of this revenge for years in the bleak confines of his cell.

Yes, sir! Long past due, his luck had changed from bad to good. Finding Sunny Harlowe with her lover was perfect. Perfect. Hand at work on his aching groin, Beckler's face contorted with hatred and lust. Sunny Harlowe's warm, soft flesh would do the next pleasuring of his body.

Breathing unevenly, his pulse roaring, Beckler slammed his eyelids shut until the storm in his groin ended. And when he opened his eyes, he saw the woman, breasts bared, offering the sweet, rose-crested mounds to the man's foraging mouth. He felt himself growing hard. Again. And he knew he could not wait.

Beckler grabbed his Winchester and took steady aim at the central point between Price's eyes. And fired.

Fortunately for Price, years without practice had taken the certainty out of Wes Beckler's aim. And even more fortunately, over Sunny's shoulder he saw the glint of gunmetal in the trees. He had less than a second to act. Her back was the likely target. Yelling a warning as the shot came, he threw his weight into her, spun her around, and knocked her to the ground.

Side by side with him in the dirt, imprisoned by his arms and his chains, Sunny screamed and cursed. "You're up to your old tricks," she accused, pummeling him. Following her lead, Ring was immediately upon him, a snarling, growling mass of fury.

But before Ring could pin him, Price saw the glint of light in the trees again and realized that Sunny was still an open target. Heedless of the dog, he rolled on top of her and made himself an easy shot.

Beckler's aim was better the second time, but not deadly accurate. The bullet struck the back of Price's head, cutting away hair and skin. A blinding pain cut across his skull, turning daylight into dark.

Ring had Price by the collar but sensing no fight left in his foe, did not sink his wicked fangs into the unprotected throat. Nor did he hear the approach of another enemy until it was too late too spring.

Beckler clubbed the dog across the head with the rifle butt and kicked the furry brute out of his way.

Ring fell in a limp, lifeless heap beside Sunny's head. Still fighting Price and trying to free herself from his weight, she saw Beckler too late to even the odds. But she did try. When he pulled Price aside, she went for the gun at her side. Entangled in Price's shackles, she could hardly lift her arms; and although she got off one shot, she missed Beckler by a mile.

His foot struck the gun from her hand and he hauled her up by the hair. He saw the downed man's chains then and knew they had saved his life. Viciously, he twisted Sunny's arm behind her back and crushed her against his chest.

"Well, ain't that cute," he said, "you coddlin' your prisoner that way. I reckon you ain't as picky as you was five years ago when you shot my brother for wantin' what you were givin' away to that one."

Sunny dared not struggle against a grip that threatened to break her arm. Her spirit, however, was intact. "You take your hands off me, Wes Beckler!" she screamed. "Or I'll send you where you can ask Stu what he was thinking when he died."

Shirt open to her waist, her uncovered breasts heaved as she gasped for breath and control. Tantalized by the sight of the pink-tipped ivory orbs, Beckler squeezed her arm tighter. He threw down his rifle to free his other hand, ready at last to sample Sunny's tempting flesh.

"Still a feisty one, ain't you? Well, I ain't Stu and I ain't Ed and I won't stop 'til I get what I want from you."

"Damn you!" Sunny screamed as his short, callused fingers closed on her in a vise-like grip, pinching, twisting, bruising first one breast and then the other.

Her relief when he let go was short-lived. His hand groped downward, almost as punishing, as he shoved his fingers into her pant's pocket. He thrust so hard into her belly that she thought he must have ripped the pocket's seam.

"Bet I'll find a key for them chains on you somewhere," he said. "And since your sweetheart won't be needin' them anymore, we'll see how you like wearin' them."

Sunny hadn't had a chance to look at Price, but now as Beckler twisted her around, she saw him face down on the ground, the back of his shirt sodden with blood from a head wound.

The man was dead, and she knew without a doubt that he had died putting himself in the way of a bullet meant for her. Why had he done that?

And then she saw Ring, his big speckled body as lifeless as Price's.

"Oh, hell! Here it is." Beckler laughed crudely as he pulled the small key from her pocket. "Looks like I ain't goin' to get to search anywhere else. And I was hopin' maybe you had hid it in a more interestin' place."

"You're slime, Beckler," she told him. "Belly-crawling slime."

"I'm gonna crawl all over you, Sunny Harlowe." He slammed his hand hard between her thighs, forcing her legs apart. "And in you."

"Bastard!" Sunny kicked back with all the force she could muster, striking Beckler a cruel blow on the shin. He howled as his leg buckled and then, catching himself, cursed and spun her around, nearly succeeding in breaking her arm. But in thrusting her away from him, he had also given her room for another kick. She was set to try again when he reared back and landed his right fist against her jaw.

The smell of smoke woke her—and the cold wet feel of water dropping on her eyelids, slow bothersome drops like noisy rain on a windowpane. She was not alert at once, but the pain in her jaw and the gritty, rocky feel of the ground beneath her quickly revived her. Moaning, wanting to sit up and massage the pain away, she lifted a hand to her face. And could not move her arm.

Frantic, she jerked the other arm. It, too, was bound. Her eyes flew open, and she saw the wavering, flittering light of a fire. Overhead hung a dark, moonless sky. Her shirt was ripped away, and she lay on her back, her hands caught against the rough bark of a tree. On her wrists she felt the cold metal rings of the shackles. Straddling her, Wes Beckler grinned and wrung water from a sotted handkerchief.

He sneered when he saw her eyes frozen on him. "Ed and Stu didn't know how to handle a gal like you. They should have had me along. They'd be alive if they had."

Chortling, he squeezed drops of water onto her breasts. He licked his lips as the dusky peaks involuntarily drew into tight, hard buds.

Sunny squirmed but the trickle of water kept pace with her twitches and twists. "If you had been there," she said, her nostrils flaring with anger, "you would be dead, too."

His hooded eyes gleamed, until she could see the dark threat of hatred within them. "You're a mouthy bitch," he growled, reaching into his pocket. "Recognize this?"

Sunny saw the glint of the blade in the firelight. He showed her the handle engraved with a pair of linked hearts. _Paul's knife._

"No," Sunny whispered and jerked on the chains. Seeing him with something that had belonged to Paul was worse that what he intended to do to her.

"If I didn't want to hear you beg and scream, I'd cut your tongue out right now," Beckler sneered. "With your old man's knife."

And he could. She was helpless. Caught in her own shackles. Price's shackles. And Price was dead. Dead because of her. He'd been in her custody, been her responsibility. And she'd gotten him killed over something that had nothing at all to do with him. She should have known Wes Beckler would be hot on her trail. She should have protected Price Ramsey.

Of course, Price was an outlaw, even if he wasn't known to the law. She had been taking him to Thaddeus Lord for a reckoning. Price had said Lord would kill him, but she had never believed that. His words had been a ploy to persuade her to let him go. In spite of her situation, she smiled softly as a bittersweet memory floated through her mind. He'd tried everything. He'd fought. He'd taunted. He'd teased. He'd loved...

A sob, the first to come from Sunny Harlowe in many long years, echoed in the darkness. She wished she had made love to Price, wished it with all her heart. And she didn't feel disloyal to Paul for wanting it. She didn't know why, but somehow it had seemed right in those last moments before Beckler came upon them. Even if it had been only lust and longing and Price's reasons for wanting her could never come close to her reasons for wanting him, it had seemed right.

She was going to die at the hands of a Beckler. That was a terrible irony. But she could accept death. What she could not accept was that, after years of keeping all men at arm's length, she was going to die after a brutal, torturous rape by the one man who represented all that was ugly and cruel in this world.

Again her heart cried out to Price. Maybe she could have loved him, maybe she did a little. She had found qualities to admire in him—his boldness, even his arrogance, and his reckless determined spirit. He had not loved her, but he would have made love to her with gentle affection. He would have cherished her body and made her feel a whole, vibrant woman once more before...

Hot tears streamed from her eyes. She wished there had been time.

"You cryin' because you can't wait for me to ride you?" Beckler squatted at her feet. "Don't try nothin'," he warned, "or I'll have to slug you again. And that would be a shame, me takin' you while you're dead to the world."

"I'll kill you yet, you yellow-backed rodent!" Sunny screamed as he grabbed her legs and snatched off her boots.

She kicked. She had to fight. But without her boots, her feet did no damage. Beckler, true to his word, struck her again—not as hard a blow as before, but a powerful slap that knocked her half-senseless for a few minutes.

Stripping off her pants, he shoved her legs apart in the dust. He stared at the apex of her thighs and the golden triangle of tawny hair curling against pale white skin.

Grinning, he dropped down on his knees between her legs and put his hand on the patch of wheat-colored hair. "So that's what my brothers died tryin' to get," he snarled.

Sunny tried to buck away from him to no avail. He threw his weight on her legs and held her fast, incited even more by the scuffling.

Her eyes, burning with hatred, followed his hands. He opened his fly, and she locked her jaw, gripping the chains with her hands. He wasn't going to take off his clothes, but she was glad—glad she wouldn't feel his skin on hers.

And then his weight came crashing down on her, too hard. Squeezing her eyes shut, she steeled herself for his assault, but it never came. Wes Beckler wasn't moving, not on his own; but he was being dragged off her.

"Sunny?" rasped a ragged, weary voice. "Sunny, are you badly hurt?"

She'd never heard anything so good. "No," she squeaked. "No, just scared."

"Me, too," he whispered, pushing Beckler over with his foot. "I thought I was too late. I thought..."

"He didn't," Sunny interjected hoarsely.

Price dropped a stout tree limb and eased down beside Beckler, rifling through the man's pocket. Sunny gasped as she got a good look at Price. He was wobbling, his face frighteningly pale, and he had to brace his knees on the ground to keep from toppling over. But he found the key and crawled beside her to unlock the shackles. He unfastened one and then, with a dull thump, slumped to the ground.

"God Almighty!" Sunny cried. "Price. You can't be dead now."

Trembling, she slid the chain around the tree and crawled to Price. His pulse was weak, and his blood flowed unchecked. "Wake up," she urged. She bound his head with her bandanna, securing the pad with strips torn from the bridal veil she'd bought at Mrs. Dunn's. His breathing was shallow; and while she dressed, she watched for other signs of life in his still form. So intent was she on the pallor of his face that she was startled and her heart began to race when she heard a high-pitched whimper behind her.

Gasping, she spun around, desperately looking for a gun. But the sound hadn't come from Beckler. He lay where Price had left him. His nose was broken and he looked dead, but then she had thought the same of Price. As a precaution, she snapped the shackles onto Beckler's limp arms.

The whimper sounded again. _Ring._ "Where are you, boy?" she called.

Ring whimpered louder, and Sunny went to him. He had a knot on his head and a cut where the rifle butt had hit him, but he was alive. Weakly, he wagged his tail, and Sunny started to cry—deep, drenching sobs that shook her to the bones. She did not, however, afford herself the luxury of crying for long. Price needed a doctor. Immediately.

She loaded him onto his horse—carefully, this time, sitting him upright in the saddle. She tied him on so he wouldn't fall. "I'm sorry," she told his inert figure. "I nearly got you killed, and yet you saved my life." She tested the rope to make sure he was secure. "Please live, Price," she begged, "so you can hear me say I'm sorry." She caught Beckler's horse and balanced Ring over the saddle. Once certain they would both stay put, she leaped astride the pinto.

Beckler needed killing, but she couldn't shoot a man who was half-dead already. She couldn't handle him and Price and the dog, so she left Beckler on the trail. If he came to, he was on his own.

But if there were any justice at all, Beckler was dead.

***

"How is he, Doc?" Sunny asked of the physician she'd roused in Ray City in the middle of the night.

"Weak," the young doctor replied, wondering why he had chosen to begin his practice in the unsettled West when he could have stayed in a big eastern city and kept reasonable office hours. "And he'll feel worse when he wakes up completely. That bullet took a chip off his skull." From a glass-fronted cabinet he removed a small green bottle stoppered with a cork. "Until he gets his strength back, give him a spoonful of this every couple of hours. It'll help him rest."

Sunny took the bottle and tucked it into her pants pocket. "When can I move him, Doc?"

"On horseback? Not soon. If you've got to get him somewhere, you can take him in a buckboard tomorrow," he said, washing Price's blood from his hands. He tilted a lamp to get a better look at Sunny. "That bushwhacker took a swipe at you, too, I see."

She shrugged and when he tried to examine her bruised face, she led him to Ring. "My dog's hurt," she said. "See what you can do for him first."

Shaking his head but smiling, the young physician tended the big, grateful mutt. He knew why he had come west. He'd just removed bandages made of a wedding veil from a gunshot wound, and he'd put a stitch in a dog's head. His life would have been inordinately dull anywhere else.

"The dog will be fine," he assured Sunny. Over her protests, he treated her injuries. He looked closely at her torn, tied-together shirt as he applied antiseptic to a tiny cut on her chin.

"Is there anything else I need to—to—"

"No," Sunny insisted. "The rest of me is fine, or will be as soon as I get this man to San Francisco."

## Chapter 15

The curtains were muslin and plain as an old maid's petticoat. A plaid blanket topped the soft sheets pulled up to his chin. And his head, in spite of the down pillows that held it, ached.

"At last." Sunny rose from a pine ladder-back chair and came to the bedside. "You ought to be caught up on your beauty sleep, Price Ramsey."

He sought the familiar voice through a murky haze. "Where are we?" he croaked.

Sunny poured a glass of water and offered it to him. Price reached for the glass, but his hand merely skimmed the slick surface and fell heavily back to the bed.

"Need a little help?" She slid her palm beneath his head and lifted it gently from the pillow, pressing the rim of the glass to his lips.

When he'd slaked his thirst, he tried again. "Where—"

"We're in Nickerson. At my house," she answered as she set the glass on a bedside table.

Her house? Price blinked his eyes. The water seemed to have cleared his vision as well as his throat. Sunny Harlowe looked the same, and yet there was a difference. Her loose denim shirt was starched and pressed, her pants creased, and her hair neatly combed and tied at her nape with a wide blue ribbon. She had a softness, a prettiness in her expression, that he hadn't seen before. And then he saw her chained and naked and frightened.

Had that been a nightmare? He tried to remember.

She was opening the curtains and letting in the afternoon sun. He could see more of the room, small and plain with whitewashed walls. A single oval-framed picture looked down on him, and a young, dark-haired man smiled out of the tintype. Without asking, Price knew the photograph was of Paul Harlowe. What he didn't know was how he had gotten to Sunny Harlowe's house. Or why he was so weak he could scarcely lift his hand.

He remembered gunfire and dust and the taste of blood. And she was a part of it. But how and why? His head throbbed and the room spun, trapping him in a whirlpool of confusion that threatened to pull him down. With effort, he jerked upright in bed, only to feel he'd met the ceiling with the top of his head. Moaning loudly, he fell roughly back to the stack of pillows, staring at Sunny. He was astonished by the sudden look of anguish on her face.

And then the whirlpool slowed and some of the memories came floating back. Touching his head, he encountered a thick pad of bandages.

"Beckler?" He had discovered that talking hurt and relied on the single word in place of all the questions swirling in his brain.

Sunny understood. "I left him out there," she replied. "He was hurt, maybe dead. I don't know. I don't care. I had to get you to a doctor."

"Doctor?"

"Yes." She made him drink more water. "You bled a lot from the gunshot wound."

He summoned up the feel of Sunny in his arms and then the unmistakable pain of a bullet piercing bone. Beneath the covers, Price tested his arms and legs. Both seemed to work. He could see. He could talk. So why did she look so concerned? Unless he was close to death. "Is it still in there?" he asked hesitantly. "The bullet, I mean?"

Sunny shook her head vigorously. "It only grazed you. Carved out a little piece of your skull, though."

How little, he wondered. He rubbed the back of his head to find out but encountered too many layers of bandage to get his answer.

Sunny saw his anxiety and tried to diminish it with a smile. "The doc says it's nothing you won't get over," she told him matter-of-factly. "A few more days in bed, and you'll be good as new. Better."

The way his head throbbed he had his doubts about the doctor's judgment. And he had his suspicions about Sunny's reasons for bringing him to her house. "Better? And then what?" he asked.

Her smile vanished. She wasn't ready to tell him that. She couldn't. She didn't know. If he looked closely enough at her, he would see that she was more confused than he was. And she had no injury to blame. He had saved her life. Without hesitation and almost at the cost of his own. He had saved her life and freed her from the chains. And she didn't know what she was going to do about it.

She owed him. But she also had her reputation and her future in the detective business to consider.

***

" _...and hair that's spun from gold."_

In the dining car of the San Francisco-bound train, Penelope Peck, attired in a saffron-velvet gown, considered the words spoken by Clayton Guthrie. Sharing her third meal with him in as many days, she was charmed by the man. And each day she devoted less and less time to thinking of her fiancée, Price Ramsey.

Clayton had recited an original poem, a lovely romantic verse which sounded, on his lips, as if it had been penned with her in mind. Price had never said lovely things like that about her. He'd claimed she was one of those heartless women who got a man buried before his time.

Of course Clayton wasn't as handsome or manly or as exciting as Price, but he was awfully sweet. And remarkably, he knew how to talk to a woman about things that were important to her. Although he didn't reside in a large city, Clayton was knowledgeable about everything from the latest play to the newest fashions.

"That was divine," she said. "For a rancher, I declare you unbelievably cultured."

Clayton, who in his poetic mind was devising a new line comparing his lovely companion to a ray of sunshine, smiled at the compliment. "I'm not really a rancher," he confessed.

Penelope's pretty face fell. "But you said you had five thousand acres and that your cattle number in the thousands, too." She briefly pursed her lips. "You haven't been teasing me, have you, Clayton?"

"Oh, no, Penelope," Clayton assured her, perplexed. "I wouldn't do that." Gently, he patted the top of her hand. "I do own a ranch," he explained. "But it was my father's creation and my inheritance. I own it, but I don't run it. I have an able foreman who takes care of the management of the spread."

"Of course you do," Penelope said, appeased and beaming. "Why should you run a ranch when you can hire a servant to do the job?"

"Ned Marcus isn't exactly a servant. He's more like an uncle," Clayton explained. "Why Ned was my father's right-hand man for eighteen years! Dad trusted him; and now that Dad's gone, Ned's really the one who's in charge."

Penelope fingered the diamond-and-gold-brooch pinned to the collar of her lace-trimmed blouse. What Clayton was saying coincided exactly with her own philosophy. If a person were wealthy, he or she ought not to spend their time working. "If Ned's in charge, what do you do to occupy yourself, Clayton?"

Clayton grinned. A long time back, both he and his father had come to terms with his lack of interest in ranching. "Ned's in charge, like I said. Of course, as owner I'm not completely out of it. I approve all Ned's decisions, and usually I'm the one who makes the deals to sell our beef to eastern buyers."

"I see," Penelope said, thoughtfully tapping her long finger against her chin as she tried to tally just how much five thousand acres and thousands of head of cattle would be worth. But having no inkling of land values or cattle prices, she could only guess it must be a sizable amount. "Is that why you were in St. Louis?"

"Yes," Clayton confirmed. "I met with buyers in St. Louis and made a deal."

"A good one?"

"Good enough to make Ned happy. Selling cattle is one thing about ranching I do better than Ned." His voice broke as his eyes momentarily met Penelope's soft blue ones. "About the only thing."

"I suppose you travel a lot selling cattle."

"Not so much as I'd like. Admittedly, traveling is one of my vices. Every year, in addition to the business trips, I take a long excursion purely for pleasure."

Penelope bent her head across the table so far that the ostrich plume crowning her ribbon-trimmed hat tickled Clayton's brow. "You must tell me about the places you've been," she said silkily.

A lump formed in Clayton's throat as the lilac scent of Penelope's perfume entered his nostrils. He didn't hear the commotion at the far end of the dining car until a woman's scream pierced his and Penelope's chatter. Alarmed, he whirled in his seat to encounter two armed, masked men ordering passengers to hand over their valuables.

Clayton's face paled as he warned Penelope to keep still.

"Shoot them, Clayton," she whispered in return.

"My dear," he said, paling further. "I never carry a gun."

Penelope couldn't believe her ears. A man of the West without a weapon. Why Price was never without his Colt. Her outrage at Clayton, nevertheless, was forgotten as the bandit reached their table and aimed his gun at Clayton's nose.

"Empty your pockets, mister!"

Shaking, Clayton did as instructed, laying his money and valuables on the table and watching helplessly as the bandit scooped them into a bag. Hat pulled low on his brow, the bandit then cast his dark eyes on Penelope and the diamonds she wore.

"Hells bells!" he shouted to his partner, who—backed against the coach's rear door—kept a watch on the entire car. "Look here, Slim. This little miss is wearin' enough baubles to make this drop-in worthwhile all by herself."

Penelope's hand flew to her throat. The thought of losing her diamond brooch enraged her. With a haughty shove, she pushed the gunman's weapon from her face. "I demand you leave me alone!" Her eyes flashed fire at the man. "My father is Osborn Peck of St. Louis, and he'll see that you are hanged if you so much as lay a finger on me."

"Got a uppity little spitfire here!" the bandit bellowed. "And I'm gonna cool her down."

His arm snaked out, and his curled fingers grasped the oval brooch at her throat. A fierce snatch ripped away both the brooch and the lacy front of Penelope's blouse. She screamed and flung her hands over her stripped bosom. But the bandit wasn't through with her: He wanted the diamond drop earrings dangling from her dainty ears. Penelope screamed again as he wrenched the loop from her lobe. When he reached for the other earring, she clawed his wrist. He struck back, slapping her hard across the face.

Clayton, who never in his life had lifted a hand in his own defense, could not abide seeing Penelope abused. With newfound courage, he raised his gold-crested walking stick and swung at the bandit's gun hand. The ebony cane broke, but so did the thief's wrist. Roaring in agony, the gunman fell to his knees, and his gun skidded beneath a table.

Slim heard his partner's cry and fired a warning shot through the ceiling, but another passenger—galvanized by Clayton's success—tackled him. Soon, the bandits found themselves at the uncertain mercy of their victims.

Clayton, meanwhile, wrapped his frock coat around Penelope's ruined dress and at her request ushered the distraught girl to her compartment.

Emilie, waiting there, saw her mistress's ripped dress and the unmistakable red imprint of a hand on her paper-white cheek. She shrieked. "Miss Peck! What has happened?"

"A bandit," Penelope explained, pushing past her maid and into the tight confines of the compartment. "And this man saved me." She looked up adoringly at Clayton.

"Oh, miss!" Emilie clenched her fist. "If it is like this, we can't go on."

"Nonsense." Penelope leaned heavily on Clayton's thin shoulder. "I'm not afraid of anything with Clayton beside me. Not anything. He is the bravest man I've ever met."

"Well I...I..." Clayton stammered. He caught a glimpse of satin chemise and bared breast beneath the coat hung over Penelope's shoulders. Then he noted the gratitude in her wide blue eyes. A surge of confidence stiffened his spine and deepened his voice. "I couldn't let that man hurt you," he explained. "And," he added even more boldly, "I can't let you stay in this cramped compartment after what you've been through."

"But what else is there?" Penelope looked at him questioningly.

"There's my private car, the _Continental_. You and your maid can move in until we reach San Francisco."

"You—you have a private car, a Pullman of your own?" Penelope caught her breath. Even Osborn Peck could not boast of owning a private rail car. "But I thought...You were in this compartment when—" To her dismay, she could not phrase a sensible statement.

"My secretary had the compartment," Clayton explained. "I had only dropped by to see that he was aboard. And now I must insist," he went on, "that you take my car. That awful experience has left you pale as milk. My dear, you should lie down until you get your color back."

Penelope was certain her lack of color was not related to her experience in the dining car, but she shrewdly chose not to disagree with Clayton. Pressing the back of her hand to her forehead, she managed a quick order to Emilie to pack their belongings. Then, grasping Clayton's arm, Penelope clung to him like a vine as he led her through the corridors of the train to his Pullman.

"You will stay with me tonight, won't you, Clayton?" Penelope whispered shakily as he led her inside the palatial private car. She took a moment to admire the carved wall panels of rich oiled walnut, the stained plate glass, the silver-plated metal trappings, the thick Brussels carpet, the luxuriant velvet and sumptuously soft Moroccan leather upholstery. She glanced overhead at the frescoed mosaics of gold, crimson, and blue. Beautiful, elegant, expensive.

She had a startling thought. If Price really loved her, he would have at the least hired a private Pullman for her trip to San Francisco.

"I...I..." Clayton's collar had grown tight around his throat. Staying the night with her would be improper, but he could hardly refuse Penelope after her frightful ordeal. "Yes," he said.

"I knew I could count on you," she returned, putting on a sweet smile and laying a slender hand upon his chest. "And I'd be terribly frightened to be alone tonight."

***

"It's late. You said you would hear from her before now."

Joshua Keegan's thin lips curled defiantly as he paced the floor of Thaddeus Lord's large, oak-paneled study while his boss sat in a tufted leather armchair, calmly smoking his ever-present cigar.

A puff of smoke floating from his full lips, Lord replied, "I fully expected to, but it wasn't ironclad, Joshua." Keegan strode by again, casting a shadow on the folded newspaper in Lord's lap. "And for the sake of my sanity, stop that confounded pacing. It annoys me."

Keegan made one more turn of the spacious room and came to a halt at the velvet-draped window. Bending down, the heels of his hands resting on the windowsill, he stared out into the lighted garden of Lord's mansion until his breath clouded the glass pane before his face.

The view obstructed, he pushed away and continued his complaints to Lord. "She's overdue two days telegraphing you. That means something."

Lord laid his newspaper aside and propped his short, heavy legs on a squat ottoman. "Or nothing," he said evenly. "Are our men through in Claret Valley?"

Slowly twirling a glass of whiskey he'd just poured, Keegan slumped into a chair. "They're finished to the last homestead."

"Good."

Keegan's thin mustache seemed to twitch independently of his mouth. "It's no good if Ramsey proves what we're doing," Keegan said sharply. "If they were convinced, those ranchers and settlers would rise up and turn on us like a pack of wolves."

"No doubt. But in a few more days, it won't matter if they do. I'll have clear title to the spur and most of the prime land in the valley. Let them object then; it'll do them no good. The courts will support us."

"I'd feel better if we knew where Ramsey was," mused Keegan.

Lord grinned and put out his cigar in a brass container beside his chair. "You worry too much, Joshua. She'll get him here."

"That's what you keep telling me. But—" He stopped short, interrupted by a tap-tap at the closed door of the study.

Having left orders with his staff that he was not to be disturbed, the heavyset Lord snorted. "See what that is," he growled.

Keegan hurried to the door and swung it open. "Sorry sir," a befuddled house servant apologized, "but this came for Mr. Lord. I was certain he would want it straight away."

Keegan plucked a telegram from a silver tray and slammed the door shut without a word of thanks. His brow knit, he crossed the room and handed the envelope to Lord. "From the Harlowe woman," he said.

Proved right again at Keegan's expense, Lord tore open the envelope. His mocking laughter ceased at once.

"What does she say?" Keegan asked uneasily.

Lord slammed a thick hand down on the arm of his chair. "Ramsey's been shot."

"She shot him?" Keegan's smile was the only soft line on his hard, angular face. "Why does that bother you? It's good news."

Lord's expression was thunderous. "She didn't shoot him. Somebody else did. And it is not good news, you fool. Remember we need Ramsey alive. We need his signature. Otherwise we might be tied up indefinitely trying to get a clear title to the spur line. We could lose the mine and both go broke."

"Where is she?" Keegan asked, bristling from the dressing down.

"She didn't say, but the wire's from Nickerson."

"Nickerson," Keegan reflected. "That's a day, day-and-a-half ride from here. Want me to send a man up there?"

"I want you to go yourself." Lord's brief show of temper over, he smiled, showing broad white teeth and the inside of fleshy lips. He was starting to think this complication, like most others, could be turned to his advantage. The Harlowe woman had left out too much in her wire. Either she had gotten sweet on Ramsey, as he had predicted, or she was having trouble and it was time to step in.

"Me?" Keegan started to complain but quickly changed his mind. He was beginning to think his boss was taking too many risks with Joshua Keegan's future. He did want to go to Nickerson. He wanted to handle the rest of this himself. "Sure," he said. "I can be ready by morning."

"I thought so." Lord pushed his bulk out of his chair and rang for a servant. "You can take my buckskin. He's fast; and all the way up there, you can think about how nice it would have been to have owned him."

"I still might."

"Not a chance," Lord returned. "I think you're going to find a pair of lovebirds in Nickerson. Drop in on them, but don't cause any trouble. And as soon as you've talked to Sunny Harlowe, you get a wire off to me."

"First thing," Keegan agreed.

Another knock sounded at the study door. Keegan again admitted the servant, who crossed the room to Lord and listened intently to his boss's instructions.

"Send word to the stable to have my saddle horse ready for Mr. Keegan at dawn tomorrow. And see that he's got provisions for several days on the trail." Lord waited until the servant had departed before he spoke to Keegan again. "Joshua," he said, his deep-set eyes brooking no refusal, "while you're in Nickerson, keep in mind that I'll decide what the next step is."

***

"Those steps are tricky," Blanche Elton warned the attractively dressed bearded man who had asked if he might have a few minutes of her time. "Watch yourself."

"I prefer to watch you," he said in a voice so mellow it unlocked a girlish excitement in the golden-haired saloon-owner.

Blanche laughed gaily as he held out a chair for her. "Delos Hixley, you do have a way about you."

"Is it the right way?"

Eyes hooded, Blanche answered as the tinkle of silver bells from her petticoats stilled. "That depends on where you want to go."

"I think," he said, seating himself next to her, "that we would have to know each other better before I tell you where I want to go."

"Does that reticence include telling me why you're here?" Blanche waited until the barkeeper set down a tray of drinks. "This is—let me count—your third visit to the Golden Ring in four nights. And San Francisco is loaded with saloons."

"San Francisco, my dear," Delos cavalierly kissed the back of her many-ringed hand, "has only one Blanche Elton."

"Delos..." A tightness gripped Blanche's throat. Gentlemen of Delos Hixley's caliber were rare as hen's teeth. He was distinguished, refined, and more sophisticated than any man she had conversed with in ages. Unless she had lost her intuition about such matters, he genuinely enjoyed her company. She only wished she could believe the interest he was showing was sincere.

"You doubt me. I can see it." With good reason, he admitted to himself. He'd entered the Golden Ring four nights ago and headed straight for the full-figured, blonde owner, mistakenly thinking flattery and drinks would buy answers to his inquiries about Sunny Harlowe. He had quickly but belatedly learned that Blanche Elton was an intelligent woman who guarded her friend's privacy with what amounted to a vow of silence.

Honesty had always worked best for Blanche. She swallowed the uncomfortable tightness in her throat. "Delos," she said. "A woman in my business is suspicious by nature and experience. I like you," she continued. "You excite me, and I didn't know I was capable of feeling excitement for a man anymore."

"Then we are having a mutual experience," Delos said softly.

Blanche's kohl-lined eyelids lifted and lowered. "Be that as it may, I cannot escape the feeling that you want more from me than companionship."

"Your perception is incontrovertible," Delos admitted. "You are a beautiful, provocative woman I find delightfully stimulating. And to be candid, I came here expecting to meet a woman I wouldn't like."

"Why did you come here Delos?"

"To find a friend of mine who's in trouble."

Blanche felt a heaviness settle on her chest, the same dread she'd felt on finding out Wes Beckler was looking for Sunny. "You expected to find him here?"

"Not precisely. I expected to find a clue, the whereabouts of your friend Sunny Harlowe."

"Sunny has him?" So, this wasn't about Beckler.

"I believe she does." He cupped her hand in his. "This man is important to me. His life is in danger if I don't get to him. Can you help me?" Delos's warm, dark eyes invited Blanche to confide in him.

Blanche squeezed his hand and sadly shook her head. "I'm sorry. I don't know where Sunny is."

"And if you did?"

Blanche breathed out a heavy sigh, mulling over her answer. So many times in her life the good things had been just out of reach—respectability, the affection of a man who cared about more than her money. She had a fleeting notion that a relationship with Delos Hixley was one of those things that would have been worth holding on to. But it was not to be.

She answered with a sorrowful smile. "I wouldn't tell you."

Delos finished his drink and was about to say goodbye to Blanche when the brawny youth who kept the peace in the Golden Ring hurried up to the bird cage with a telegram.

The change in Blanche's face as she read the wire was almost indiscernible, but Delos was adept at deciphering even the slightest alteration of expression. Whatever the message was, it had upset her. Trying not to be obvious, he stared at the back of the paper she held. The bright lamplight behind the bird cage illuminated a portion of the missive. Though they were random and backwards, two words made his train trip to San Francisco worthwhile.

_Harlowe_ and _Nickerson_. He could still see the reversed letters of each word long after he had left the Golden Ring. Nickerson, one of the sleepy small towns the rail lines had bypassed, was a hard day's ride north of the city.

If Sunny Harlowe were holding Price there, that meant Billy hadn't been successful in catching up with them on the trail. Of course, he had no firm proof Price was in Nickerson. But a hunch he would never admit to told him otherwise.

As Delos paid his bill at the hotel and instructed the desk clerk to send a boy out early to get supplies for the trail, he reviewed the few facts he'd put together in San Francisco.

Lord didn't have Price. A watch on his mansion and place of business confirmed that the mine owner was still awaiting Price's arrival. Sunny Harlowe hadn't taken the train. Not unless she'd gotten off above Nickerson and continued by horseback. Which made no sense. And neither did Billy's failure to send the promised wire. Where was the rancher?

***

Billy Owens rattled the locked door of the tiny office equipped with a signaling device, a desk, and a chair. Where was the danged telegraph operator?

"Hell!" he spat out. Dirty, tired, and mad as a disturbed rattler, he flopped down on a hard bench on the station platform to wait. He should have wired Delos days ago. But after the humiliation he'd suffered at Sunny Harlowe's hands, he'd been determined to have her on a leash when he contacted Delos.

He still didn't know how she had given him the slip. After he'd lost another day hunting his horse, he'd ridden to Bailey's Crossing and loaded on to the next stop, figuring he'd make up the time lost that way. Since then he'd combed the countryside and asked after them in every town along the route. But if she had stuck to the trail, she'd done it without leaving a trace. Either that or she knew a way to San Francisco he hadn't heard about.

He was only a few days out himself. So most likely Delos had intercepted the gun-toting she-cat when she got into the city. He hoped so, because Billy Owens had done his damnedest to find them and failed.

"You waiting for me?" A wiry little man with red hair spoke to Billy.

Testily, Billy looked up. "Maybe. You the telegraph operator?"

"Unless they got a new one."

"Come on." Billy jumped to his feet. "I've got an urgent message to get to San Francisco."

"You and everybody else," the little man quipped.

"What's that?"

"You said urgent," the little fellow replied. "Everybody thinks his message is urgent."

***

"I came right away like you asked."

Sunny tipped the youngster who had ridden out from Nickerson to deliver a reply to her telegram to Blanche Elton. Anxiously, she tore open the folds of paper and read.

Arriving by stage day after.

Beware! Wes Beckler searching for you.

Blanche

She had forgotten to let Blanche know she had already dealt with Beckler. Sunny folded the telegram and slid it into a shirt pocket. The young messenger had gone and it was too late to catch up with him. She sighed. She could tell Blanche when she arrived. Besides Beckler was no longer news. Price Ramsey was her problem.

She took a slow stroll around the grounds of the ranch house. She wished she didn't have to wait for Blanche's arrival. She needed her friend to help her sort through the confusion in her mind. And time was getting short. If Price didn't mend soon, she was going to be late—for what? She couldn't decide what to do about Price. Every time she decided the honorable thing to do was to live up to her contract with Lord, she remembered that Price had saved her life twice—first by putting himself in the way of a bullet and second by stopping Beckler from raping and murdering her.

What he had done took character no high-rolling swindler possessed. But he had broken into those records offices and mining offices. And he had sabotaged mine equipment. And she couldn't see a legitimate reason for any of it.

Something was out of kilter. Either she was wrong about Price Ramsey or she was wrong about Lord. But which?

All she knew for certain was that she needed Blanche to help her decide. She couldn't trust her own judgment anymore. It was too easily clouded by Price Ramsey. His merest touch could lead her astray.

Reluctantly returning to the bedroom and her patient, Sunny again lamented that the stage journey from San Francisco took two days. She needed Blanche now.

Price attempted a smile, but he had worn himself out trying to sit up. Sunny laid a hand on his cheek and gently rolled his head to confirm that the bandages were clean. "You look better," she said.

"Better than what?" He grimaced, then groaned. Every facial movement hurt.

"Better than a dead mule."

"Thanks."

She refilled his water glass and put it within his reach. "You're welcome. But seriously, I mean it. You do look better. I can tell your face from the linens now."

"Was I that pale?"

"Paler than a winter moon." She fluffed his pillows and straightened the sheets. He really did look better, so much better she couldn't simply think of him as her patient anymore. He had that virile, dangerous look to him again, the one that prompted a strange ache in the pit of her stomach. She needed to keep him talking about things that would distract her, take her mind off her wayward emotions. "How do you feel?" she asked.

Price heaved out a sigh. "Like a dead mule."

Sunny laughed. He was certainly on the upswing. "You'll be fine," she reassured him. "The doctor said so."

He was leery of her reassurances. True, he felt intact, but head wounds did not always manifest their damage immediately. And this was his second in a short time. "Did he say exactly how much of my skull that bullet blew off?"

"Not much. You'll still be pretty."

He bore the pain of a quick scowl. "I'm not worried about being pretty. I'm worried about everything working right."

She had to laugh again. "You'll still be sweeping ladies off their feet and onto their backsides."

The scowl came back, threatening to become a permanent feature. "I doubt that," he growled. "I doubt I'll ever feel up to it again."

"What?"

"Considering the outcome of my last two foiled attempts at making love to a lady, I doubt that part of my anatomy will ever respond again." A corner of his mouth twitched, and she wasn't sure if it were the start of a smile or a deepening of the scowl.

"You're joking."

"Try me."

## Chapter 16

"Send it again." Delos stood impatiently in the telegraph office waiting for acknowledgment that his return wire to Billy had been received.

The operator looked at his shelf clock and shrugged. "If you say so, but it won't do any good. Little Red's the only man in Bellville who can run the telegraph. He comes and goes as he wants. And he always shuts down for breakfast at eight-fifteen."

"Send it," Delos repeated in his most authoritative tone.

The man grudgingly tapped out the message; and up in Bellville, at twenty after eight, Little Red received it.

"He's got it," the man said. "Can't understand it, but he's got it."

A reply was coming in, so Delos didn't take the time to explain that Little Red didn't usually have Billy Owens standing by threatening to shake out his teeth, which was what he imagined was going on in Bellville.

"Thank you," Delos said as the man gave him the handwritten slip containing Billy's response. He pocketed the paper. Reading it wasn't necessary since he had decoded the message as it came in. Billy would meet him in Nickerson in two days.

Out on the street, he collected his horse and watched a morning stage roll in. He was not particularly surprised to see a golden-haired woman in a wine-colored Princess-style gown waiting to board the stage once the team was changed. The dress was a Paris design, the figure familiar. Another more gaudily dressed woman helped the blonde into an ecru linen duster.

After the stage pulled out, Delos stopped a man struggling with a load of lumber. "Where's that coach headed?" he called out.

"That's the turnaround to Nickerson," the fellow told him, heaving a strapped box into a waiting cart. "Back here in four days."

Delos tipped his hat and rode on. Whether or not Blanche Elton would be on the return run was anyone's guess.

***

Exactly one-and-one-half days after leaving San Francisco, Joshua Keegan rode Thaddeus Lord's fine buckskin horse into the one-street town of Nickerson. Tired, dusty, and saddle-weary, he dismounted in front of the only hotel, a small false-front structure portentously called The Grand.

The time was shortly past noon. Much of the enthusiasm Keegan had felt for seeing Sunny Harlowe immediately upon arrival had been lost along the way. Accustomed to daily barber-shop shaves and a comfortable suite of rooms in one of San Francisco's best hotels, he hadn't enjoyed the constraints of the ride. He wanted a hot bath and a hot meal and maybe a good night's sleep before he confronted the Harlowe woman. A look at The Grand's sparsely furnished lobby made him wonder if he would find any of the three in Nickerson.

The hotel's proprietor, clerk, and cook was one and the same, a woman named Maizy Villiard. Keegan confirmed that he was expected and was assured by Mrs. Villiard that he could indeed get a bath and dinner.

"I'm looking for a woman," Keegan said before going up to his room.

Maizy Villiard was accustomed to rough-mannered cowboys and miners. "You ought to try the saloons," she told the hawk-faced young man.

"Not of that persuasion, Mrs. Villiard," Keegan said crisply. "I am looking for a woman who lives in Nickerson. Sunny Harlowe."

"That one," Mrs. Villiard said with distaste. Her personal opinion was that a woman had no business acting like a man. But some folks around Nickerson liked Sunny Harlowe, especially since she had started going out with the Guthrie boy. She gave Keegan directions to Sunny's house but also a warning. "You're not likely to get in unless you're expected. The place is up in the hills, and there's only one road in. She keeps guards up there."

Keegan thanked her but made no comment as to whether or not he was expected.

***

At two o'clock, but still three hours before the stage was scheduled in, Delos Hixley rode into Nickerson swearing he had made his last long ride in a saddle. He was anxious to find Sunny Harlowe and Price, but he couldn't start asking around for the woman. He couldn't risk Price's safety by revealing the purpose of his visit. However, asking shouldn't be necessary if he practiced a little patience.

He dismounted, tethered his horse to a hitching rail, and stepped up on the weathered plank sidewalk in front of the hotel. Dust-covered, he determined he had time to clean up and get a change of clothes and a meal before the stage arrived and Blanche led him to Price.

"Good afternoon," he said to the gray-haired woman wielding a feather duster over a monstrous hat rack in the lobby of The Grand. "Do you have a room available?"

Mrs. Villiard, confirming that she did, pushed him a leather-bound register and quill pen. Delos had begun his signature when he noticed the fresh ink on the line above. Joshua Keegan. Lord's man. Quickly, the bearded Delos Hixley renamed himself Del Smith. Thankful he had suggested Billy meet him in the saloon, Delos went straight up to his room, his analytical mind running at a fever pitch.

Keegan's presence in Nickerson confirmed that Price was in town and that Lord did not yet have him. But undoubtedly, Keegan was here to remedy that situation. He hoped Keegan was alone.

A boy arrived in Delos's room dragging the hip bath he had ordered. Delos stripped off his dusty clothes and climbed into the steaming tub. He let the water soak away the grime and aches while he smoked a cigar. He was going to need Billy; but, unless the rancher arrived soon, Delos Hixley might have to undertake a rescue on his own.

***

The stage was late, which was usually because of the bad roads on the last stretch of the journey. Blanche Elton, who had made the same trip many times over, was the first passenger to depart the coach. Her long linen duster was wrinkled and streaked with dirt that had blown past the leather flaps on the open windows; but underneath, her wine silk dress was as unsoiled as when she had begun her journey.

Blanche did not remove her duster or the gauzy wrapper pinned protectively over her hat. She still had a few miles to go to get to Sunny's place and she was anxious to get there, so she wasted no time standing on the street. She hired a buggy from the livery and within minutes had her small trunk and valise loaded aboard.

Delos watched her drive off. She was a surprising woman. She had the pretty, delicate look of a hothouse flower, but she was handling the buggy as if she made her living at it. That she was driving herself was a bonus for him. With her eyes on the road and her attention focused ahead, she'd be less likely to notice him following her.

He estimated they had covered five miles, moving from Nickerson's level street into hilly, rocky terrain. He had to drop back as the road narrowed. The steep path led through a rugged gap hardly large enough to accommodate the buggy.

Blanche stopped at the pass, and Delos noticed that the opening was blocked by a wooden gate. Beyond it on a high grassy rise, he could see a frame house, a plain unpainted structure that he guessed was Blanche's destination.

Blanche held the buggy horse at rest in the road; and Delos, fearing she might have encountered trouble, was tempted to reveal himself. But as before, patience paid off and he saw that she was signaling to someone beyond the pass.

"Evenin', Zeb," she shouted. "It's Blanche Elton. Sunny sent for me."

"Yes, ma'am, I know," Zeb hollered back. "She told me to look out for you. You come on in, Miss Elton."

The voices echoed—Blanche's like the silver bells she wore on her petticoats, the unseen Zeb's like an old drum. Delos listened to them bouncing off rock after rock, but it was impossible to get an accurate fix on Zeb.

"Thanks." Blanche clucked to the horse. "Where's Frank today?"

"He's got the next shift," Zeb replied, giving Delos the welcome information that there were two guards.

The gate swung open, and Blanche drove through.

"I'll see him up at the house, then," she said, and the echo of her merry call started anew.

Soon it was joined by the lower-pitched vibration of Zeb's voice. "Yes, ma'am. Good to see you again, Miss Elton. It's been a long time."

The place was a fortress. And as pitifully inept as he was with a gun, shooting his way past the hidden sentry was out of the question. But at least Keegan hadn't made his way here yet. Delos had seen him heading for one of Nickerson's two saloons. A cautious look in the establishment's window had revealed Lord's henchman settling down at a table with a full bottle and a glass.

Delos, having concluded that he could do no more without Billy's help, turned his horse toward Nickerson. A glass of whiskey did sound appealing; and by now, Billy ought to be waiting in the saloon.

A thought that turned Delos ashen sent his heels crashing into his mount's sides. Soon he was riding at a gallop, a pace he considered deadly. What if Billy should choose the same watering hole as Keegan?

***

"I've never been so glad to see anybody." Sunny stood at the doorway of her house, ready to give Blanche a good hug.

Blanche, having removed her dust-laden wraps, flung her arms wide. "And I never thought you'd ask for my help about anything."

Sunny's eyes were briefly downcast. "I know, and I wasn't sure you would come."

"Not come?" Blanche frowned, but her eyes twinkled. "Sunny, you do me an injustice. With Beckler on the loose and you asking for help, I couldn't get here soon enough."

"Forget Beckler," Sunny said as she brought Blanche into the parlor, a room with plastered walls and furnished in the same simple hand-hewn pine furniture as the bedroom. "I've already run into him."

Blanche's hands stopped in the act of removing the pins which held her plumed hat in place. "You saw Wes Beckler and there was no trouble?"

"He caused me plenty of trouble." She took Blanche's hat and laid it on a polished tabletop, then pushed open a door which led into the house's big kitchen. Blanche followed.

"Sunny, tell me—" She heard a soft whimper from a corner of the kitchen and identified Ring stretched out on a pallet. The hair on the top of his head had been clipped away. "What happened to him?"

"Beckler nearly killed him."

Blanche gasped. "Sunny, what happened to Beckler?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't—"

"Kill him?" Sunny's face was bleak. "No, I didn't. But I think someone else did."

"Who?"

"The man I had in custody at the time. It's a long story, Blanche."

A pot of chicken stew simmered on the stove, and a pan of biscuits covered by a striped cloth warmed beside it. Blanche shook her head to Sunny's suggestion they eat. She wanted information, not food. And she wondered why Sunny was stalling.

Now that Blanche was with her, Sunny found she didn't want to talk about Price. She was afraid Blanche would misunderstand, and she hated admitting to parading around in dresses. "Coffee?" she offered, but Blanche refused.

"I think you had better tell me the story, Sunny," Blanche said, striding to the cupboard for the sherry. "All of it."

Sunny filled her in quickly, starting with the red dress that had been a gift from Blanche and ending with Beckler's attack. She judiciously left out the intimacies between herself and Price.

"And now I feel indebted to the man," she finished. "He saved my life."

"And you also feel you have an obligation to turn him over to Thaddeus Lord as you promised?"

"I don't know what to do, Blanche. That's why I sent for you."

Blanche pondered Sunny's story, considering what she had told her—and what she hadn't. She had known Sunny too long not to notice a change. The long flaxen hair that was usually a snarled braid was tied-back with a pretty ribbon so that it hung like a silken tassel down her back.

And that the lace-edged linen blouse Sunny wore with her ridiculous denim pants had spent several years stuffed in a drawer Blanche knew for sure. She'd presented it to Sunny as a Christmas gift two seasons past. What had prompted Sunny to put it on now? What had prompted her to look halfway like a woman? Her visits had never before rated a change in Sunny's mannish attire.

Blanche finished her sherry and bent down to unbutton her high-topped shoes. She slipped them off and stretched her aching toes. She was tired, almost too tired to think, certainly too tired to help Sunny with a monumental decision. But she was also suddenly very curious to see the man Sunny had been talking about.

"Where is he, this Price Ramsey?"

"Why?" Sunny hadn't tasted her sherry. She hadn't had a taste for anything stronger than coffee since...Cheeks coloring, she pushed her glass aside.

Blanche was watching closely and noted her flushed face. "I want to see him, Sunny. I'm better than most at judging a man's character, but I need a good look at him."

Sunny shook her head. "I don't know if that's smart."

"Is he dangerous?"

"Not now," Sunny admitted. She didn't want Blanche to see Price. "He's still weak," she equivocated. "I told you Beckler shot him."

Blanche got up. Sunny was hedging. More than ever, she wanted to see Price Ramsey. "Then now seems the perfect time," she said.

***

The room was darkened, the shades drawn and the curtains down. The man lay on his side in Sunny's bed, and Blanche was positive that if he had not had his long legs bent, his bare feet would have hung off the feather mattress. She smiled. There was certainly plenty of him, most of it uncovered. The snowy bed sheet hovered around his waist. His bare back, broad and banded with muscle, was turned to her.

Moving quietly in her stockinged feet, she approached the bed. The light was shadowy, but she could make out sable hair beneath the wide strips of cotton that encircled his head. She could make out the strong square jaw, clean-shaved, and the well-shaped nose. She understood why Sunny was in a quandary about what to do about him. She would be, too.

Blanche turned to tiptoe out of the room, but a deep, soft voice stopped her. "Don't go, please. I could use a back rub."

The moment was ripe for Blanche to reveal who she was, but she decided against it. She went quietly to his bedside and laid her hands on his shoulders, at once kneading and stroking the hard, tight muscles. Soon she felt the tension lessening in the immense shoulders and heard a soft moan muffled by the pillows.

Price savored the feel of the warm, skilled hands massaging the tautness from his cramping muscles. Being bed-bound had left him stiff, aching in every joint and tendon; but as yet every time he tried to stand, a spell of dizziness sent him back to bed. Sunny had taken adequate care of him, fed him well, even offered him books to read, but until now had refused to take pity and give him a rubdown.

She had also refused any further discussion of Thaddeus Lord or his uncertain future. Perhaps now was the time to try again. If she had overcome her reluctance to have any more than cursory physical contact with him, maybe she was also ready to listen to reason about Lord.

And maybe he would wait a minute more. Her hands felt good, gently, expertly loosening his tense neck. They had, in fact, a sensuous feel that made him think he'd like to do his talking with her lying in the bed beside him.

He groaned with pleasure as the hands slid down his spine, applying soothing pressure all the way to the small of his back. It was all the enticement he needed to roll over and gently catch one of the agile hands that had so successfully relaxed him.

"You're very sweet, Sunny," he said huskily, drawing the hand slowly to his mouth. "And very good at making a man feel better."

"I've had years of practice."

Price nearly shot out of the bed. The sultry voice was strange and from his new position he could see that the figure it came from was too full and femininely dressed to be Sunny.

"Who-"

"Blanche Elton," she cut in as she walked over to the bedroom window and tied back the curtains and raised the shade. "I'm a friend of Sunny's. She sent for me."

Tongue-tied with shock, Price watched in silence as Blanche glided across the room. Her dress was elegant, a fine Chinese silk trimmed with loops of cream-colored braid and tasseled epaulets on the shoulders. He'd have thought her the wife of a well-to-do businessman or rancher had it not been for the paint on her face that was as telling as a uniform.

"Well...ah...pardon me for not getting up, Blanche," he stammered.

She chuckled then smoothed out the covers at the foot of the bed and sat down. "I came up from San Francisco," she volunteered. "I own the Golden Ring Saloon down there."

"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure—"

She cut him off again. "Of coming in. I know. But a friend of yours has been around a lot this last week. A charming fellow with class, gray eyes, a beard—"

"Delos."

Blanche's heart lightened. "So you do know him."

Price shoved the pillows against the headboard and sat back against them. "We're friends. What was he doing in the Golden Ring?"

Blanche's reply rippled with laughter. "Not what most of my customers do. I believe your friend Delos was looking for you."

So Delos had found a connection between Blanche and Sunny-Augusta Harlowe. Price kept quiet, but the information comforted him. There was a good chance Delos had followed Blanche; and if Delos were looking for him, Billy was, too.

"You seem pleased," Blanche remarked.

His smile had an air of confidence. "It's good to know your friends care about you."

She patted his knee. "Don't get your hopes up. The only friend who can do you any good is a new friend."

He shrugged, and the sheet he'd pulled up beneath his arms fell down his chest to rest across his hard, flat belly. "I don't follow you."

"I mean me."

"You? Why would you help me?"

"To help Sunny." Blanche had made her decision quickly. Price Ramsey was the reason Sunny was looking and acting more like a woman. And Blanche would see to it that the transformation was complete.

"Sunny?" A muscle beside his eye twitched. "She doesn't need any help. She's a one-woman army."

Blanche chuckled at the fierce scowl even the bandages couldn't obscure. "You're sweet on her."

He groaned loudly. "Sweet on her! Lady, getting close to that she-demon is the kiss of death."

"Just how close did you get?"

Stunned, Price's face warmed at the unexpected frankness. "You want me to tell you—" Blanche nodded. "Close," he said.

"You made love to Sunny?"

He hesitated but decided he had nothing to lose. "Not completely." His hand went unbidden to his head. "A bullet can spoil a thing like that."

"That's what you were doing when Beckler came?"

Again Price hesitated. He wasn't sure what perverse pleasure Blanche Elton was getting out of the conversation, but she did have a way of inviting a man's confidence. And he was damned if he were going to lie. "Yes," he admitted.

Blanche made a clicking sound with her mouth. "So that's what this is about."

His eyebrow pushed up under his bandages as he gave her a sideways look. "If you think I have any idea what you mean, you're wrong."

"I don't suppose you know that you're the first man Sunny's let near her in five years."

"What?"

Blanche's eyes studied his face. "You're the first man she's been intimate with since her husband died."

Price swore. "That's—" And then he thought of the way she'd fought him and fought the magnetism that kept drawing them together. "That explains a lot."

"She could be in love with you."

"Oh, hell!" Price swore at the blatant absurdity of Blanche's words. "The woman damned near decapitated me. She's not capable of love."

Blanche disagreed. "Yes, she is. I've seen her in love. She was a different woman then."

"She'd have to have been."

Blanche laughed at him. He had strong feelings for Sunny; he just hadn't sorted them out yet. "You love her, too, or you wouldn't have saved her from Wes Beckler," she said.

He crossed his arms stiffly over his chest. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"I think you did," Blanche asserted. "I think you followed what was in your heart."

Price's golden eyes darkened. "If I had, I'd have skinned her alive and nailed her hide up on a tree."

"I can see this isn't going to be easy," Blanche observed.

"Nothing is easy where Sunny Harlowe is concerned."

"That, my friend," she said, rising from his bed, "is absolutely true."

She started to leave the room; but Price, bewildered, called her back. "Blanche. Wait a minute. You said you would help me."

She paused in the doorway and looked back at him, thinking she couldn't have picked a better mate for Sunny. "I will," she said softly. "So, don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it. How could he do anything but worry about it? Sunny had a friend as crazy as she was. Love. Hell. He'd wanted her. That was for sure. But she was the last woman he could love. Maybe, just maybe, he could have loved Augusta—if there had been anything real about her. But Sunny. Never.

He pushed himself off the pillows and swung his legs over the edge of the bed; and, for the first time, the room didn't start spinning. Heartened, he tossed the sheet aside and got to his feet, trying a few steps. He was shaky at the start but soon had made a round of the room and then another.

Not wanting to push his luck, he returned to the bed and stretched out. Another day or two of rest, and he wouldn't need Delos or Billy. He could get away on his own. And then the scowl that was getting to be a part of him came back. He could get away, except for one thing. He was naked. Sunny had hidden his clothes and said keeping him bare as a new babe was as good as shackles. Damn her!

And damn that blonde saloon-owner who thought he could love a woman like Sunny Harlowe.

## Chapter 17

"I've never been happier."

In a tangle of bedclothes, their garments strewn throughout the _Continental_ , Clayton Guthrie and Penelope Peck greeted the morning sunshine.

Penelope, her golden curls spilled upon the pillow, kissed Clayton's bristly cheek and observed the intensely worried set of his features. "I can't say that you look at all happy, Clayton."

"Oh, I am. I am happy. You make me happy." He pulled Penelope into his arms. "But—" His tortured eyes closed down tight. Penelope was his first woman. Of course, he would never tell her that. Making love to her had been the grandest experience of his life. But he could scarcely contain his guilt over what he had done to her.

"But what, Clayton?" Penelope curled against him, pressing her bare bottom to his loins and delighting in the feel of his instantaneous reaction.

Set afire by the gentle pressure of her soft buttocks, his anguish burst out. "I've compromised an innocent girl. And I think," he nervously shuffled away from her, "if I don't get out of this bed, I will do it again. I can't help myself. Can you ever forgive me, Penelope?"

Penelope gasped. An innocent girl? She had realized Clayton was inexperienced at lovemaking, but his eagerness had more than made up for what he lacked in skill. Still, she'd never guessed he was so naive as to think he had taken her virginity. So while she listened to Clayton's loud anxious breathing, she lay quiet. Perhaps there was an opportunity to be realized from the situation. After all, most girls did not get the chance to lose their innocence twice.

"I forgive you, Clayton." Penelope pressed her hands over her eyes and feigned a sob. "I just don't know how I'm ever going to explain to my father..."

Clayton gulped. He hadn't thought about her father. But he was a man who knew his duties. He sat up in the bed and with jittery fingers brushed tousled hair out of his eyes. And then he caught Penelope by the shoulders and pulled her up against him. "There will be nothing to explain if you'll agree to marry me, Penelope. Say you will."

Penelope sobbed, dryly. She didn't need long to think over his proposal. Of course, he wasn't Price. But then Price had never been as accommodating as Clayton promised to be. Besides it would serve Price Ramsey right to be stood up at the altar after the way he'd run out on her a year ago. Back then, he'd sworn marriage was the last thing he had on his mind. So what if he got a broken heart. Clayton suited her much better. He was richer than her father, rich enough to keep her in style; and he was very, very malleable.

More worried than ever by her long silence, Clayton lifted Penelope's chin, looked into her sad blue eyes, and pleaded with her. "Penelope, say there's a chance."

With a slight curve to her mouth, she put her arms around him. "I'll marry you, Clayton," she said. "And I think it ought to be soon."

"Is an hour soon enough?" Clayton, elated, jumped out of bed and began hunting his clothes. "I'll send a porter out to see if there's a minister on board. We can be married right here in the _Continental_."

Smiling contentedly, Penelope lolled back in the big bed. "And then we can get off at the next stop and take an eastbound train back to St. Louis so you can meet my father."

"I suppose we could do that," Clayton said with only a slight hesitation. He had no will to deny Penelope anything.

"You're going to like my father," she continued sweetly, scooting up in the bed and allowing the rumpled sheets to slide below her breasts.

Clayton's throat grew painfully tight at the sight of her. "I'm sure I will," he croaked.

Penelope rolled over and out of the sheet. Twisting her lithe, uncovered body she landed propped up on her elbows. "And he's certainly going to like you."

Stumbling, because he couldn't take his eyes off her gently swaying breasts and her rounded derriere, Clayton stepped into his drawers. "I hope he'll be pleased with his new son-in-law."

"Oh, he will." Penelope stretched languorously, enjoying the evidence of the effect she was having on her soon-to-be husband. Her easy smile widened, became a yawn. "Be a sweetheart, will you, Clayton, and send my maid to me before you go."

Counting himself a lucky man, Clayton sat down beside her, reached out hesitantly, and cupped the swells of her breasts in his hands. She giggled and kissed him quickly on the lips, sealing his fate as a hen-pecked husband.

"Yes, Penelope," he said.

***

"A message, sir." The clerk in Thaddeus Lord's office brought a wire from his agent in Denver.

Lord, as close as he ever got to being nervous, tore into it. The message was expected, a confirmation that Miss Peck was aboard the train from St. Louis when it pulled into the Denver station, as proven by her acceptance of a bouquet of flowers he'd arranged to be delivered to her in Price Ramsey's name. But the confirmation was not forthcoming. It seemed, in fact, that Thaddeus Lord had just lost one of his aces. The lady had met a gentleman on the train, taken a liking to him, and married the fellow en route. At Denver, the pair had switched the bridegroom's private coach to an eastbound train and even now were returning to St. Louis.

Lord needed a large brandy to calm him, but he was not entirely disillusioned, not even with time running out for acquisition of Price Ramsey's sector of the spur line. He still had an ace left in Sunny Harlowe. He had only to wait for Joshua's wire that it was time to play that card.

***

"Now that you've seen him, what do you think?"

Sunny allowed Blanche only enough time to sit at the big rectangular pine table in the kitchen before she demanded to know her friend's opinion of Price.

"I not only saw him, I talked to him," Blanche said, welcoming the plate of stew and biscuits Sunny put before her. With her curiosity satisfied, the food looked appetizing.

"And?" Sunny, a fresh cup of coffee in her hand, pulled out the chair across the table and sat down. Her eyes sought an instant reply.

_My, my,_ Blanche thought. For someone who had been reluctant to let her see the man, Sunny was certainly impatient to hear what she thought of him. But Blanche took the time to shake out a napkin and place it on her lap and to pick up her pewter knife and fork before she spoke. She cast Sunny a surreptitious look and said, "I think I made a long ride up here for nothing."

"How's that?"

Blanche skewered a piece of chicken meat with her fork and held it suspended in the air as a wisp of steam crooked and curled above her plate. "I can't see that there's really anything to do except turn him over to Lord as soon as he can ride."

"Why?" Sunny had expected Blanche to spend hours, perhaps days, of arduous soul-searching, working out a solution to her problem. She was mystified that her friend could have made up her mind in only twenty minutes.

Blanche took a long time to chew and swallow the mouthful of stew. Then she sampled a biscuit. "The man has scoundrel written all over him," she said at last. "He's no good. No man that handsome could be any good."

Sunny had once thought the same thing about Price, but she came immediately to his defense. Which was exactly what Blanche had intended.

"He did save my life— _twice_ , "she said with rising indignation.

Blanche shrugged and continued eating. "Because he thought it was the only way to save himself," she said between bites.

Sunny's eyes narrowed. That was an easy assumption to make, but Blanche hadn't been there. "I don't think so," she replied. "He pushed me on the ground and shielded me from Beckler's bullets. That's how he got shot. And when Beckler had me chained, Price could have climbed on a horse and ridden off. Beckler wouldn't have noticed."

Blanche's head turned slowly from side to side. "Sunny, the man's no good. You saw him damaging mining property and breaking into places. He's a liar. An outlaw. What other proof do you need?"

Sunny got up, pushed her chair under the table, and stood with her hands on the back of it. "He said he had to do those things to help the people in Claret Valley. He said a lot of people would lose their land if Lord fouled the river and took the rail rights."

"And you believe him?"

Sunny shoved her weight off the chair. She hadn't when he'd told her, but it sounded much more plausible now. "It could be true," she said.

"Sunny."

Telling color stole into Sunny's face as she stared at her friend. She'd never realized how stubborn and hardheaded Blanche was. Even a rake deserved more than a quick judgment based on his looks. Perhaps she had made a mistake in summoning Blanche. This really was a decision she had to make on her own.

"I have to give him the benefit of the doubt," she said tersely. "That's only fair."

"Look." Blanche had an urge to grin but kept it to herself. "There's something I haven't told you. A man was in the Golden Ring this week looking for Price Ramsey. He was a suspicious sort, a dapper dresser, had a beard, talked fancy. He's probably part of Ramsey's gang."

Struck silent with disbelief, Sunny stared at Blanche. Price had no gang. He'd said so. The man Blanche had described was the harmless barker and elixir-peddler Dr. Delos. And if he were not that, he was the geologist Price had claimed. Now she knew she had made a mistake and that Blanche had made a long stage ride for nothing. Evidently the saloon-owner was an even worse judge of men than she was.

Blanche didn't let up just because Sunny had grown quiet. She had the barb in, and she wanted to anchor it. "Think of it, Sunny. The man is worth ten thousand dollars to you. Be smart. Collect your money."

Sunny's voice had a ring of finality. "Everything isn't a matter of money, Blanche. There's a principle here. Maybe this is something that could be worked out with a meeting between Price and Thaddeus Lord. Maybe I owe Price that chance."

Blanche wagged her head. "You don't owe that reprobate a thing. Unless," she rolled her eyes accusingly, "you've gotten soft on him."

Sunny threw up her hands. "Don't be ridiculous! The only reason I'm considering giving him a second chance is because he saved my life."

"He means nothing to you?"

"Not a thing," Sunny swore and spun around so that Blanche couldn't see that once more her face was flooded with color. "A couple of times I considered putting a bullet in him myself."

Blanche jabbed a finger at her. "Where a man's concerned, you should always follow your instincts, Sunny."

Cooled down, Sunny turned to face her friend. "Maybe you're right," she said solemnly.

Blanche, believing she deserved a pat on the back, gave in to the urge to grin. "I am. And if you'll sleep on what I've said, I think you'll agree with me completely by morning."

"Speaking of sleep," Sunny said, deliberately changing the subject, "that stage ride is torture. You must be tired. I've got the spare bedroom ready."

"What about you?" Blanche pushed her plate aside. Sunny's house had two bedrooms, the large one Price was in and a smaller room with a single but comfortable cot.

Sunny dismissed Blanche's concern. "I'll throw a blanket down in here by the fire and keep Ring company."

Blanche gave Sunny a motherly hug. "You think about what I said. Trust your instincts."

Sunny nodded. "Sleep well," she called as Blanche glided toward the guest room.

"You too," Blanche replied, quickly turning her head to hide a sly smile. "And by the way," she called over her shoulder, "that Price Ramsey wanted to see you before you turned in."

Blanche hurried out of the kitchen, entertaining a feeling that Sunny wouldn't get much sleep at all.

***

After Blanche left, Sunny gave Ring his supper and straightened up the kitchen. Price had eaten earlier, and she'd had her meal then, too. She couldn't imagine what he wanted. The water pitcher was full, the bandage was clean. He wasn't taking the medicine anymore.

Maybe he wanted to talk. Blanche must have made it clear how she felt about him. No doubt Price was worried about being hauled off to Lord while he was still weak.

And there was no need for him to get worked up. As soon as she got out of the danged tight boots she had on, the new ones she'd bought in Wallis which weren't yet quite broken in, she'd tell him. While Ring ate, she dragged a chair to the hearth and sat down, spotting Blanche's shoes under the table as she tugged off her knee-high boots.

Sighing with relief, she stood and took off her gun belt and hung it on a peg by the outside door, then lined up her boots and Blanche's shoes by the hearth. And then, she ambled toward the big bedroom. Before she turned in, she'd look in from the doorway and see what Price wanted and let him know he could forget his worries.

He wasn't worrying. The room was dark; and Price, sprawled on his back, was sleeping soundly. She would have quietly closed the door and left him if she hadn't noticed that Blanche had left the shade up and the curtains open. That would give him an unwelcome blast of sunlight in early morning. She wouldn't have been concerned except that he'd complained a few times about bright light hurting his eyes.

Padding across the room in her stockinged feet, Sunny went cautiously to the window. Moving silently she reached for the shade cord, but as she did a scrap of black cloud floated past the moon freeing a shower of silvery light spread fan-like through the narrow window opening. Sunny's eyes followed the iridescent light to the contours of the man beneath the pristine sheets.

He seemed to be resting well. She heard his soft breathing. And Blanche's words rang in her mind. _A scoundrel. No good._ But she couldn't agree. Not when he was like this, she thought. Not when he was at rest and his face was devoid of smirk or smile and his lips were quiet of biting words. Like this he looked all good. All man. Solid, sensuous man.

She didn't know what had gotten into Blanche. She'd taken an instant dislike to Price. It wasn't like Blanche not to give anyone a fair hearing. Of course, Sunny had taken an instant dislike to him, too. No. That wasn't precisely true. She had been attracted to him from the first. And afraid of that attraction. She'd been drawn to him, repelled by him, afraid of her feelings for him.

What else had Blanche said? _Follow your instincts._

Sunny muffled a joyless laugh. How could she? She would need a divining rod. She didn't know how she felt about Price, not even now. She did know that in return for her life, she owed him at least the benefit of the doubt.

Some force—curiosity?—drew her closer to the bed. He was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling as rhythmically as the lap of waves on a seashore. His hair, dark on the white pillow, had the sheen of true ebony in the moonlight. Even his lashes and brows gleamed with the richness of midnight.

He moved, a half-turn, and she held her breath, remembering that he was naked beneath the sheets. She had tended him, bathed him when he'd been insensible. She knew every inch of the sleek muscles, the golden skin. And she had never touched him without a tempest of heat rising from her very core. Like now.

But she had never given in. She had resisted temptation. Until now.

She bent over him, and her dark shadow fell across his face. She could feel his breath, warm and damp as her lips brushed his.

Price felt a delicious warmth and sighed in his sleep. He'd been dreaming of emerald eyes and velvety skin and silken hair falling over his shoulders. He'd been dreaming of Sunny, Sunny Augusta Harlowe on a bed of cool, green moss. And he'd kissed her and she'd kissed him back.

"Sunny?" His voice was the slightest, barest whisper. He opened his eyes and saw her, proud and beautiful, outlined in moonlight. He didn't move, dared not move, because that might end the dream.

"Yes." She spoke to herself, saying yes to all she'd denied within her. She wanted him, needed him.

Framed by the window and the glow of the moon, she slipped out of her clothes. She slid beneath the sheets, but he lay as still as stone, afraid that a movement, a word would change what was happening. He would have stopped the beat of his heart and the pounding of his pulse, but they were not his to control. His heart raced painfully as she skimmed soundlessly across the bed until her hands were upon him. Caressing. Stroking. He could not be still then. Every nerve came alive; every sensation heightened.

Yet he was afraid to touch her, afraid she was a dream and that she would disappear. He began to shake. She'd loosened her hair, and he felt its satin touch on his skin. He ventured a breath, emitting a moan of pleasure. She inflamed him—her hands, like torches, gliding across his chest, her fingers stroking his cheek, brushing his lips. When he could hold back no longer, he touched her. And she was real. Warm, smooth, soft, real. He whispered her name, chanted it as her bare flesh burned against him, and his loins quickened.

Her hands cupped his face and she kissed him, plunging her tongue wickedly into his mouth. And then it was impossible to tell who gave and who received. She lay against him like a flame, and his hands reached out to the fire, roaming with abandon over her body. And though her skin was cool and soft, the smoothness of her flesh beneath his fingertips fanned the fires inside him until the flames leaped higher and the blaze burned hotter.

He whispered to her as his hands found the full, lush curve of her breast. He breathed in her scent, the clean, fresh woman's scent that was hers alone. And it drove him onward. He felt her nails on his back and knew that he had turned her and that he hovered above her. He was glad for the silver blanket of moonlight that covered them. He could see her eyes, green as the sea, radiant, glowing, filled with passion.

"Price." Her cry was ragged and full of need. He knew for certain then that he was awake and alive and that the woman in his arms wanted him as desperately as he wanted her. This time, they would both be fulfilled.

She remembered the feel of his lips, his caress gentle but urgent. She'd experienced his sensuous touch in dreams, had awakened shuddering. But fantasy had not done him justice. Her reveries had not captured the ecstasy of his mouth sweeping across her throat, his lips playfully exploring her secret hollows, and his tongue stimulating her nipples until they tightened and tingled.

And imagination had not captured the sensation of hands. And now she marveled at their passion as they closed around her waist and crossed her belly like hot irons. Resting on her hipbones, his palms curved around her like wings.

He lifted her, turned her so that she rested on her stomach. He heard her whimpering cry as his long fingers slid like feathers down her spine. She shivered in the aftermath of his touch until his lips kissed away her tremors. His hands flowed across her skin and came to rest on her buttocks at the low curve where they joined to her legs. He kissed her in every soft place and in every curve, and his hands slipped between her thighs.

She cried out in pleasure as he found her warmth and wetness. And then he placed her beneath him. His lips seized hers again, and her need for him soared. She had to touch him, hold him in her hands. She heard his strangled cry as she drew him closer and then her own as he sank into her like a raging storm.

"Sunny, my love," he whispered as she rose to meet his every thrust with a fury that drove him to plunge deeper and deeper into her.

He thought he would be lost, that all else beyond his fevered need would cease to be. He was lost, gloriously absorbed in the sweet scent of her, in the silken squeeze of her body pulling him inside.

Sunny closed her eyes, then opened them. She wanted to see all, to count every sensation. She did not know when she would ever feel again, if she would ever feel again. She wanted to capture these new memories. She bound them in her heart with the lightning that came with every stroke of him inside her.

"I love you." The words soared forth, not from conscious thought but from the deep joyous emotion he'd released in her.

He answered with whispered endearments. She could not hear him; the pleasure was too great and carried her too high. Awash in fiery desire, her nails cut his back and her legs locked around his. She felt herself fill with steam and lava from his heat. His hardness loosed the sweet, wild exhilaration that had been lost to her for so long.

And when the exquisitely maddening spasms began, she felt a shattering tremor in him, too. A rough cry tore from his throat. The moonlight revolved around them. Sunny lost her breath as the pace of their loving grew more frenzied, the convulsions stronger, thunderous, one lost in the other.

She collapsed in his arms when it was over, too content to pull away, too giddy to speak.

Price lay with the honeyed skeins of her hair tangled on his chest. Coming to him she had given him strength, loving him she had taken it. He felt he'd been lifted on the moonlight. He was lightheaded, his body damp, but he was too happy to complain. She was all he had known she would be—sleek, sensual, and as beautiful as the stars that shone in the heavens. And he thought perhaps he did love her.

"Sunny." He fell asleep with her name on his lips.

And when he awoke he was alone with only the aftermath of contentment to prove she'd shared his bed.

"Sleep well?"

Blanche Elton brought a tray of eggs, biscuits, bacon, and coffee. She grinned gleefully, like someone who'd just struck gold.

"Well enough," he allowed, wondering at her smugness. Sunny wouldn't have told Blanche about last night.

"Sunny's not up." She chuckled, helping him with his pillows before she placed the tray beside him. "Which is understandable, I suppose."

Price shrugged and accepted the coffee. It was hot and strong and he needed it.

Blanche picked up a blanket that had been tossed to the floor and made an effort to straighten its jumbled folds. "My guess is you've earned yourself a reprieve."

At first the words didn't register. But then the realization swept over him. He had taken a swallow of coffee and barely managed to get it down without choking. She did know.

"I'm not counting on it," he said.

***

Joshua Keegan arrived at nine, mad as hell about the difficulty he'd had getting past the sentry. Price had heard the horse coming in and peered out from behind the shade. He recognized Keegan and could think of no reason for Lord's crony to be there except to get him. He had never felt more vulnerable. He had no weapon, no clothes, and not much strength. But he thought he could give Keegan a good fight if he could take him by surprise.

His room was across from the parlor. Price threw the sheet aside. It would only get in his way. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, straining to hear.

"He's here, isn't he?" Keegan asked. He was fuming. He'd made a mistake. No, _Thaddeus_ had made a mistake sending him to Nickerson alone. He was trapped. With only one trail in and two guns beside Sunny Harlowe in the compound, he was hamstrung if there were trouble.

And he'd needed only one look at Sunny Harlowe to know he'd lost the buckskin. She was dressed like a woman, close anyway, with a silk blouse and a satin ribbon in her hair. If she hadn't been wearing her gun belt and pants, he wouldn't have known she was the same female who had come to Lord's office.

Ramsey had seduced her. No doubt about it. A woman didn't have that bloom in her cheeks or that glow in her eyes unless she'd been with a man.

Sunny showed Keegan into the parlor. His visit took her by surprise, and she had to think carefully about what she would tell him. She didn't say anything to him until he asked his question a second time. And by then she was as mad as heck because the bastard was regarding her as if she had two heads. Besides, that look made her shiver with revulsion. He had the cold, unblinking eyes of a rattler.

"Where Ramsey is isn't important," she told him bluntly. "What matters is that I've got him. Thaddeus will get him when I'm ready to bring him in, and he'll get him on my terms."

Contempt flashed from Keegan's small black eyes. "You're forgetting that you signed a contract and that you've accepted part of the fee already."

Sunny nodded. "Thaddeus can sue me if he doesn't like the way I'm handling things."

Keegan's lips curled into a humorless smile. "Is that what you want me to tell him?"

Sunny's face constricted, but she managed to speak with amazing calm. "You can tell him that he'll hear from me in a couple of days," she retorted and sent Keegan on his way.

Price couldn't catch much, even with their voices raised. The only thing he'd gotten clearly was that they disagreed over the contract. And that was enough to tell him Blanche was wrong. He swallowed painfully. He'd been a fool to believe her, but he reckoned any man could be duped when a woman said she loved him. But now he knew that although Sunny might have been sweet and loving in his bed, she still intended to turn him over to Lord.

He heard footsteps and pressed against the wall behind the door. The hinges creaked. Price counted a second, two, then sprang out.

Sunny felt a steely arm string around her neck threatening to crush her windpipe as she bumped back against a long taut body.

"Damn you!" She stomped hard and heard a yelp as her boot heel came down on bare toes. "Don't you ever think of anything else?"

Matching her curses while he hung on to her, Price stared out into the hall and saw that she'd come alone. He let her go. "I thought you were Keegan."

"Do I look like Keegan?" she hissed.

"Let me check." He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away. She didn't look a thing like Keegan, not in the hugging shirt of soft silk, not with her cheeks blazing like a bonfire.

"Keegan's gone," she said. And she was trembling. He'd done that to her, started the heat rising in her again.

She stepped back and looked Price up and down. He was magnificent—no other word was right. He stood face to face with her—naked, proud, and unashamed. She had a sudden burning wish to be naked, too. She had thought once would be enough to cure her of wanting him. But now she knew it would not, that she would never be cured of wanting him. The realization angered her; and she turned her anger on him, scorching him with a look. "I thought you were too weak to stand."

"I was," he admitted. "But I had a miraculous cure. Want to hear about it?"

"No. I want you to hear me out." Both of them were aware that her voice shook. She whirled and grabbed a sheet from the bed and tossed it to him, more for her sake than his. Price draped it around himself like a toga. Only then could she speak calmly. "I came to tell you that I've decided to arrange a meeting between you and Lord. On equal terms," she added.

## Chapter 18

The uneven tapping on the window sent Price scrambling out of bed. And then he saw the familiar profile of Billy Owen's Stetson hat. Price eased over to the window and slid up the sash.

"Come on in."

Billy eased one leg and then the other through the window. He was edgy, and his hand rested on the handle of the gun tucked into his waistband. "Where's that damn hellhound?" he asked.

"Knocked loco. Forget him."

Billy's eyes cautiously swept the room anyway, then came back to rest on the sheet-clad, bandaged Price.

"What happened to you?"

"I got too close to a bullet."

"Sunny Harlowe shot you?" Billy pulled his gun, ready to retaliate.

Price caught him by the shoulder. "She didn't do it. A fellow named Beckler—"

Billy stopped him, disappointed he'd lost a good reason for thrashing the yellow-haired witch. "You can tell me about it later," he said. "Get your clothes on and let's get out of here. I've got a rope down the cliff, and Delos is waiting for us." He noticed Price wasn't following his directions and had, in fact, seated himself mutely on the edge of the bed. "What the hell is the matter with you? Get dressed."

"I can't," Price growled. "I don't have any clothes."

Billy's shock turned him red-faced as he held back his snorts and guffaws. "You're telling me she keeps you locked in her bedroom, naked? What does she do to punish you?"

Price thundered to his feet. "Goddammit, Billy! This is no laughing matter."

"No. I reckon not," Billy agreed, sobering. The important thing was getting Price out of her female clutches and, consequently, Lord's. "Well, you can shinny up that cliff bare-assed," he said.

The jubilation Price had felt on seeing Billy was gone. "Hell, Billy," he said glumly. "I can't climb. I still can't take five steps without getting lightheaded."

Worried, Billy rubbed his brow. He wasn't about to give up, not after all the trouble he'd had finding Price. He shook himself. "We'll have to find another way to get you to San Francisco for your wedding."

"What the hell—" Price stared at him blankly. "You sound like you're the one who got shot in the head."

Billy shrugged. "Maybe so, but I sure as hell read a telegram from your Miss Peck saying she got the proposal and tickets you sent and that she was on her way to San Francisco for the wedding."

Price glowered. Hadn't he told Billy this was no time for jokes? And then he saw that his friend wasn't joking, and he groaned. "I never sent—I wouldn't marry that little society tart if old Osborn Peck rammed a shotgun down my throat."

Naked or not, Billy was ready to get Price out and gave him a nudge toward the window. "Then let's get out of here so you can tell your fiancée the wedding—"

"Your fiancée and the wedding will have to wait." Sunny stood in the doorway, gun in hand, eyes like ice. "You and your friend Owens aren't going anywhere until I say." Her lips were white, her voice bitter.

"Hold it, Sunny." Price started toward her, but she waved him back with the gun.

"You hold it," she threatened. She felt betrayed, crushed. And it was worse than the feeling she'd had when she'd thought she was going to die at Wes Beckler's hand. But she wasn't in a frame of mind to delve into why she could feel betrayed. "I told you I'd arrange for you to meet Lord on equal terms, but it'll be done my way."

"Sunny—"

She glared at him, daring him to speak again. Zeb, the gate guard, came in. "Take Mr. Owen's weapons, escort him down to the pass, and let him go," she ordered.

"Wait a minute—" Billy sputtered seeing himself in a repeat disaster. "My horse is—It's miles—"

"And make sure he goes," Sunny said emphatically to Zeb, ignoring the rancher.

Billy, fuming, was about to put up a fight, even if it meant a gun battle at poor odds; but Price interceded.

"It's all right, Billy," he said, putting himself between Billy and Zeb before there could be further trouble. "I'll be in San Francisco Friday. At Lord's office. You and Delos wait for me at the hotel." He knew Billy would know the one he meant. "I'll be there when it's done."

"That's enough." Zeb took Billy's guns while Sunny kept a drop on him. And when the rancher was disarmed, Zeb shoved him out the door. The lock clicked behind him.

Sunny stood with one hand on her hip and the other wrapped around the handle of her Colt. Price didn't think he'd ever seen her looking madder or prettier or more distant.

"You neglected to mention you had a fiancée."

He started toward her, but she wiggled the gun at his chest and stopped him. "I don't have a fiancée," he said. "Billy was—"

Her eyes climbed to his face, but the gun stayed trained on his heart. "Billy went to a heap of trouble to come here and talk about someone who doesn't exist."

"He didn't come here to tell—" He stopped. "Sunny, be reasonable."

"I am being reasonable," she said icily. "I could still haul you to Thaddeus Lord in shackles. I am giving up ten thousand dollars so you can meet with him and make your bargain."

"Sunny..." He didn't try to tell her it would have come to that anyway if she hadn't interfered. He saw the pain inside her anger, saw the pain burning her up, and couldn't bring himself to say anything that would make it worse.

"I reckon my life is worth ten thousand dollars," she spat out. "My life and—"

Dammit! He didn't want her to regret making love to him. "Nothing's changed, Sunny," he said softly. "What happened last night meant—"

Her look was hard, implacable. "What happened last night meant payment of a debt."

Damn the gun. He strode toward her. "You're lying! Last night you were a woman in love."

"Last night was nothing!"

She holstered the gun, but the defiance in her face was implacable. For some reason it mattered very much that he break through that impenetrable shield.

Cursing, he grabbed her and jerked her hard against him. He found her lips and kissed her violently, bruising her mouth but finding the taste of her anger intoxicating. "Bastard!" she shrieked, thrashing wildly in his arms. But he felt her trembling, too, as he forced her lips open and plunged his tongue into the wine-sweet dampness of her mouth. She cursed him again and kicked him, but in a moment her arms were around his neck and she was pulling his head down harder, returning his kiss.

They melted together, lips and limbs. He knew she'd felt his manhood grow hard against her, but she hadn't rebelled.

Sunny moaned as desire came upon her like a sudden summer storm. Lightening shot into her loins, and a wind chased out her anger. Thunder shook her, and the warm washing drops of rain swept from her mind all she knew except the feel of him against her and the taste of his kisses. She could have forgiven him anything at that moment. But then it was over, and he set her away from him.

"Interest," he said.

It wasn't her style, but she slapped him hard, leaving his cheek flaming. Then she left him, locking the door behind her.

He didn't see her again until the day she'd arranged for them to take the stage to San Francisco. Someone had laundered his clothes and found him a complete pair of socks. His bandages were off; and, though he wasn't back to full strength, he felt a whole lot better just being in his pants again.

Without Ring to back her, Sunny took Zeb along. Zeb and Blanche. The ride was long and dusty, and Price was plagued with headaches which he bore without mention. Had it not been for Blanche, the whole trip would have passed in silence. But Blanche acted as if there were nothing wrong, and he was grateful for that. Sunny wouldn't look at him; and since he had no kindly feeling for Zeb, there was no discourse there. Nevertheless, he wasn't prepared for Blanche's parting remark when the stage arrived in San Francisco.

"You come in to see me when you get finished with this business," Blanche told him. "Sunny can show you where the Golden Ring is. I'll be looking for you."

She meant well, but she was a few cards short of a deck or she wouldn't have kissed him goodbye as if he were an old friend. Price couldn't think of a suitable response to Blanche, and Sunny shot her friend a sour look. But Blanche, unwarrantably cheerful, took a carriage to her establishment.

Thaddeus Lord was considerably less jovial when they entered his office. He'd been backed into a corner and his too-heavy face had new lines to show for it. But the gleam in his eye made Price suspicious.

"So, Ramsey, it looks as if you and I are going to do business."

Price nodded. He hadn't known the hatred in him ran so deep, but it was still there, eating at him. And Thaddeus Lord had not changed. Aside from the expensive clothes and the posh office, he was the same loathsome bastard he'd always been.

The agreement was that Sunny and Zeb would stand by while Price met with Thaddeus. And Keegan, dark mustache waxed and shining, was in the office, too, his dislike for Sunny evident in his cold smile.

"You're a damned fool," he told her, sidling up to her while his employer and Ramsey talked across Lord's desk. "Letting ten thousand dollars go for the likes of him."

"It's a matter of honor, Keegan," she said through clenched teeth. "You wouldn't understand that."

"Honor?" He snorted contemptuously. "More likely it's a matter of a man getting those pants off you."

Keegan shut up when he heard the hammer slide back on Zeb's gun. The exchange completed, he positioned himself across the room.

"I've had the documents drawn up the way you specified," Lord said from behind his desk. "Anybody who's already settled on railroad land can buy a deed to it for a hundred dollars more than what it was set when the spur was put in. That's a breakeven price. I won't make a dime on it."

"That's fair," Price stated and added his signature beneath the document. Zeb and Keegan signed as witnesses.

"If there's any hydro-mining, which is unlikely, we'll channel the run-off into the dry lakebed south of the Claret. That would take more men and cut into the mine's profits." He lifted his head and his voice. He seemed to be speaking for Sunny's benefit. "But my engineers had already suggested rerouting under those circumstances, and we would have done it at any cost."

"Save it for someone who'll believe it, Thaddeus," Price told him. "You wouldn't take a dollar out of your profits to save Claret Valley. This way, those people will get something worthwhile out of the mine, too. Think of it as buying goodwill."

"I'll think of it as blackmail," Lord told him bluntly. To him, it was. His Boston partners had been willing to listen to reason about Ramsey, but they had wanted to come out to Wallis and see for themselves how the mine was doing. And when they did, it wouldn't have mattered if he'd had an extension or not, he'd have lost their money before he was making enough to keep going on his own. "I know when I'm beat." He pushed a third document to Price. "This is the agreement between you and me. I pay you twenty-five thousand for your sector of the Claret line, and you sign all rights over to me."

Price read the document twice making sure it was as he'd specified and that the sale of his sector was null and void unless the two previous agreements were instituted and continued. The agreements weren't what he wanted. He wanted Lord out of it altogether. But when he'd seen the letter from Lord's backers agreeing to grant him an extension, he'd known he had to compromise. Lord could run without his sector of the spur line, not as profitably, maybe not forever, but long enough to ruin Claret Valley.

"That's fair," he said, signing. Then, in unison with Lord, he signed copies of each agreement.

"There," Lord said, stacking up his copies and shoving the others at Price. "You've got what you wanted, now get out of here."

"Not so fast," Price said. "There's the matter of the announcement." He wanted the agreements made public, not just in the papers but by a pronouncement from Lord's own mouth.

"It's arranged." Lord handed the documents to Keegan, who secured them in the big ball-footed safe. "Tomorrow afternoon at four in Wallis. If you want a band to play, you'll have to hire them yourself."

"Watch that temper, Thaddeus." Price pocketed his papers and rose. "Getting excited isn't good for your heart."

"Go!" Lord bellowed.

Guardedly, Price backed out of the room. He wasn't really satisfied with the outcome, but he had done his best under the circumstances. Everything had gone smoothly until now, but he wasn't going to risk turning his back on Keegan. He was grateful for Zeb and Sunny. He knew he could count on Sunny to keep her word even if she were mad at him. She'd promised he'd get in and out of Lord's office safe, but he was still short of breath when the three of them reached the street. Sunny and Zeb stayed at his side for several blocks, but she never looked at him.

Finally, he said, "Sunny, we've got some talking to do."

"No," she retorted coldly. She was wearing her old clothes and had reverted to her old ways. A mask as hard as a shield guarded her face. "You clear out," she said. "I'm through with you and glad of it."

He couldn't insist with Zeb there. And he knew Billy and Delos would be waiting at the hotel. And he had to be in Wallis tomorrow when Thaddeus told the people of Claret Valley what they could expect of Lord Mining. He was looking forward to that.

And afterward? Well, he had twenty-five thousand dollars and all the time in the world to make Sunny Harlowe listen to what he had to say.

***

"He's a real son-of-a-bitch." In Lord's office, Keegan shared a drink with his boss after everyone else was gone.

"Gold-plated. But still an understudy when he's dealing with me." He set his empty glass aside. "How many men did you send after Ramsey?"

"Four," Keegan replied. "And I told them to nab him where there weren't any witnesses.

"You take care of the one who signed as witness yourself.

"Kill him?" Keegan put aside his drained glass.

Lord nodded. He looked at his watch with a smirk. He wasn't a man to give up. That was the secret of his success and his survival. When an opponent thought he was beaten, he was merely preparing for the next round. And he always outlasted an opponent. "I hope they get a move on," he said. "I want those copies in my possession this afternoon. And I want to be on the night train to Wallis."

***

Price had only a block to cover on his own after Sunny and Zeb left him—too short a distance to account for the uneasiness he felt. Something was wrong, but he couldn't decide what. He looked around but saw nothing unusual on the street: A delivery wagon; a man with a satchel going into a bank. No one was between him and his destination; and there were no dark quarters, no shadowed alleyways, between him and the hotel. He couldn't account for the alarm that chilled the back of his neck. But he didn't feel much better when he gained the entrance of the Banner Hotel.

***

Billy had been haunting the window looking out over the front of the Banner. "He's coming!" he shouted to Delos, who sat at the small marble-topped writing desk. "He's alone, and he looks fine."

Delos crossed to the window, but Price had already entered the hotel. "I'll be glad to see the boy," he said solemnly. "I did not like leaving him in that Harlowe woman's hands. Not when we knew he was hurt and—"

"We did what he wanted." Billy didn't like being reminded that he'd been tossed out of Nickerson without getting Price. Frowning, he paced to the door and flung it open. "Hell! What's taking him so long?"

Delos, too, had been marking the time since Price had entered the hotel. He'd had only to cross the lobby and climb two flights of stairs. His eyes met Billy's and channeled his alarm to the rancher. Without another word, the two tore down the stairs.

They spotted Price's hat on the first-floor landing. Billy kept running, but Delos broke off to check the back stairs. Neither of them was in time to catch sight of the four men who had overpowered Price and dragged him back to Thaddeus Lord.

***

Billy shoved open the swinging doors of the Golden Ring so hard one of them wrenched off the hinges. "Where is she?" he growled.

The piano player hit a couple of dead notes, hesitated, then started up again, striking a few wrong keys before he found his tune. Most of the customers only looked up, didn't recognize Billy, and returned to their drinks. But Sunny, seated in the bird cage with Blanche, knew Billy had come for her.

"I'm here," she said calmly. She'd thought Billy Owens a better man than to hold a grudge now that everything was over. She'd never had anything against him. He'd just gotten in the way of a job she was doing. But, she supposed, like so many men, he couldn't live with being outdone by a woman.

Angrily, Billy pushed his way through the crowd, Blanche's brawny young bruisers in his wake.

"You set him up!" Billy shouted. "The whole damn thing was a setup to get him to sign over that sector. And now Lord's got him and you're going-"

Sunny stood, nearly upsetting the table. Her face went white. If Lord had Price and the papers, he had the rail sector he wanted and he could claim the other part of the bargain had never been made. But what Billy was saying was impossible. Price had left Lord's office with his copies.

"You're wrong," she contradicted. "Price had his money and his documents. He was heading for your hotel. I saw him."

"I saw him, too." Billy accused. "But he never made it up the stairs. Lord has him."

He blocked her exit from the bird cage. Sunny shoved him aside and strode past. Billy was right. She knew it. Her heart knew it. She had thought it odd that Thaddeus didn't rail at her about not fulfilling the contract. Now she knew why. It hadn't mattered.

All Price had said about Thaddeus Lord was true. He'd planned on hydro-mining from the beginning, and he'd never planned on rerouting the mine's run-off on his own. He'd sell that railroad land at premium prices and ruin the rest of the valley with the mine's overflow, just as Price had said. And now Price was in danger, and it was her fault. She and Zeb should have seen him to the door of his hotel room. But she'd been mad and—

An icy fear chilled her spine. She had refused to believe what Price had said about Lord. She'd even thought the fat swine was being magnanimous to bargain with Price. She'd given Price the benefit of the doubt, but she'd never completely believed him. And now Price could be killed. And she would have lost the man she loved. But she wouldn't let that happen. Not twice.

Billy, thinking she was walking out on him, grabbed her shoulder and jerked her around. "Where are you going?" he demanded.

"To get Price." She flung Billy's hand off.

He caught her again and was about to hurl more accusations at her, but then he saw something in her eyes that told him she cared as much about Price as he did. "You're not going without me," he said.

"Then come on." Sunny dismissed Blanche's boys and pulled Billy into the office at the rear of the saloon. "I know how to get to him," she said.

***

She wasn't expected. That was for sure. If Lord had even guessed she'd be coming back, he'd have warned his men not to let her in. But he hadn't, and they had seen her before and knew she worked for the boss. It gained her admittance to his study.

"Hello, Thaddeus."

"Sunny." His fat jowls jiggled as he looked up, and his eyes registered surprise. "You look different."

"Smarter, maybe." She closed the door behind her, glad she had found him alone.

He couldn't pinpoint the change in her. She still wore the same shapeless clothes, but she was definitely not the same. He was furious that his boys had let her in, but he didn't let her see that her presence upset him. He put aside the papers he'd been reading. He really didn't have time to worry about her looks. His heavy brows knitted. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes," she answered harshly. "You can pay me ten thousand dollars."

He laughed. This was almost worth having to sign those agreements with Ramsey when he'd rather have gotten the rail sector the way he'd first planned. But it wasn't _quite_ worth it. His deep-set eyes bored into her. "Not for a job that wasn't done and that cost me more than I offered you."

"The job was done," she returned, taking her battered hat off and slinging it down on the table beside him. "The way you wanted. You got Ramsey's signature and you got witnesses saying it was done legally."

"That's true, but—"

She held up a hand, silencing him. "Don't bother. I saw your boys nab him after he left here. Now you've got the sector you need and you've got both copies of the three documents. You can alter the ones you want and destroy the others. And since I'm the one who made all this possible for you, I figure I'm entitled to the ten thousand dollars we agreed on."

Joshua Keegan eased through a hidden door in the wall panels behind Lord, a gun in his hand. "And I think you'd be happier sharing space in the barn with the man you're trying to collect on. You can talk about honor," he told her.

Sunny went for her gun, but it was too late. The four men who had taken Price rushed in and found her even less a challenge than he had been. Soon she was bound and gagged for the trip to the barn.

"Get her out of here," Lord said, never having left his chair during the fracas. "I've got a train to catch."

Sunny was roughly hoisted on a shoulder and hauled out of the house, through the beautifully kept gardens, and down a carriage lane to Lord's stable.

Price was in a closed stall, and they threw her in on the straw beside him. She moaned as she hit the ground but was glad they had thrown her close to Price. She felt him before she saw him in the scant light that filtered through the cracks in the wall. He was tied and gagged as she was, so they weren't going to talk about honor or anything else until something was done about that.

She scooted closer to him until she was near his head. Her hands were tied behind her back, but her fingers were free enough to work on the knot binding his gag. The task was slow and tedious and her fingers cramped, but at last she loosened the ties.

He spat the cloth out of his mouth and demanded an explanation. She could only groan and cajole him with her eyes until he calmed down enough to act. He used his teeth, catching the bandanna and pulling it out of her mouth and over her chin.

She sputtered and dampened the edges of her mouth with her tongue. Then she leaned forward, straining the ropes that bound her ankles and wrists. She kissed him. "My shirt," she whispered hoarsely. "Pull open my shirt."

He was glad to see her and her kiss had sent a jolt of electricity through him. But he still thought she was crazy. "Damn, Sunny! What are you thinking about? We've got to get out of here. Lord will have us both killed tomorrow once the ceremony in Wallis is over."

Sunny squirmed against him until her breasts brushed his face. "Just do it!" she hissed. He shook his head, but then he noticed that her figure was more voluptuous than normal. His eyes widened, and his jaw fell open. "What have you got in there? A bale of cotton."

"Yes," she hissed. "And a gun and a knife which won't do us any good if you don't do what I say."

"My pleasure, ma'am," he said and ripped the buttons from her shirt. He tore through the corset cover and the layers of cotton Blanche had arranged for her.

"The knife's on this side." She jiggled her right shoulder and Price, biting through irksome gauze, uncovered the weapon—a small dagger.

"Didn't they search you?" He brought the dagger from her breast in his mouth.

"Yes," Sunny admitted. "And they think there's a lot more of me than there is."

Price did his best to manipulate the knife with his teeth, but the arrangement didn't work. He wound up passing it to Sunny. Giving him only a few nicks about the wrist, she managed to cut him free. Quickly, they sliced through the rest of the bonds.

Sunny dug Blanche's Derringer out of the remaining cotton and gave it to Price. "Two shots," she told him. "There's one man in the barn, another in the house. The rest left with Lord."

Price took Sunny in his arms and gave her a kiss that left her gasping for breath.

"Not now!" she admonished.

He grinned and crept over to the stall door to peer through the widest crack. The guard, his back to the stall, rested his heels on a sack of grain.

Price wedged the Derringer's short barrel through the peephole. He glanced at Sunny. "I hate to shoot a man in the back."

"That won't kill him."

He shook his head and wondered if he would ever make a lady of her again—or if he would want to. Then he remembered how she'd captured his heart the first time he'd seen her in the red gown.

"I'm aiming for his gun hand," he said. "That ought to hold him. The second shot's for the lock or we won't be any better off than we are now even with the guard down."

Price's aim was good. With the pop of the Derringer, blood spattered from the guard's hand. The man dropped to the floor, howling and clutching his wrist, too absorbed with his own well-being to care about his prisoners.

As soon as the man was down, Price fired the second shot into the lock that held the stall door. The metal shattered, and he shoved the wood, breaking them out. They left the guard in another stall, bound and gagged, his wound bandaged. The man in the house never heard the commotion. But Price couldn't take the chance of his discovering they were gone and wiring the news to Lord. Taken by surprise, the second guard found himself sharing a stall with the wounded man.

Price and Sunny met Delos and Billy on the street outside Lord's mansion. "We were coming in," Billy said.

"Glad we saved you the trouble." Price hustled them out of sight. "We've got a train to catch."

"The nine o'clock is long gone," lamented Delos, leading them around the corner to a waiting buggy. "But there is another at six in the morning. It'll get us to Wallis an hour before the ceremony."

Price hugged Sunny against him as they crowded into the conveyance.

"We'll be on it," he vowed.

## Chapter 19

Rumor flooded the town of Wallis. Rumor that had started when the afternoon train chugged into the station at three and four weary passengers holed up in the Louisa's largest suite with Thaddeus Lord and his assistant Joshua Keegan. The roars and shouts that blasted from the suite filtered down the stairwells. Abner Thomas, on duty at the registration desk, found it necessary to leave his post and climb the stairs in an attempt to calm the raucous occupants.

Refused admittance to the rooms, the ever-curious Abner used his passkey to let himself into the adjoining suite. With an ear pressed to the wall, he overheard snatches of the heated conversation, some which chilled his blood and others which warmed his heart.

"He's your man, isn't he, Thaddeus?"

"No!" Lord shouted. "If he's killed somebody, he acted on his own."

"Why, you back-stabbing bastard!" Keegan sprang to his feet and would have been at his boss's throat if Billy Owen's gun hadn't changed his mind. Face beet-red, Keegan narrowed his eyes at Lord. "You ordered me to get rid of him. You said I was to take care of it myself."

Nervously lighting his cigar, Lord shook his head. He was getting himself under control again, though not easily when he'd just been told he might face a hanging for murder. Zeb Baker, the Harlowe woman's hireling who had witnessed the transaction between Lord Mining and Price Ramsey, was dead. "What I told you, Joshua, was to buy him off." The end of the cigar glowed as he took a needed puff. "Any of the men will vouch for my word on that."

Keegan's red face turned white. He had no doubt Lord's men would lie for him. He was being sacrificed. Lord was throwing him to the wolves to save his own hide. Sure, he had killed Zeb Baker. He'd done it because Lord wanted him dead. A dead man couldn't testify about papers he'd witnessed.

Not forgetting Owen's gun, Keegan pushed a step closer to Lord. "He's lying!" he shouted, hatred burning in his eyes. "You all know he's lying. He wanted the man killed. He would have killed you, too, Ramsey. And you." He pointed angrily at Sunny. "Just as soon as he was done here."

"I know that," Price acknowledged flatly. "Unfortunately, before Zeb died, he could only identify the man who actually shot him." He looked coldly at Keegan. "That was you."

Lord exhaled a small cloud of smoke. "You were always too ambitious for your own good, Joshua," he said, his voice having regained its usual calm.

Keegan felt as if ice rushed through his veins. The chill brought with it a sudden clarity of thought. He had been Lord's scapegoat all along. All the time he'd thought he was being groomed for bigger things, he was being set up. A man like Lord always needed someone around to take the blame if things went wrong. "You pig-faced bastard! You used me!" He shook a fist at Lord who nonchalantly puffed his cigar. "You used me like an ace up your sleeve." He trembled in his fury. "I'll see you dead for it, Thaddeus. You can count on that."

Lord shrugged. "I guess that leaves you short-handed again, Ramsey," he said. "A murder charge against me won't hold up in court. Fact is, I can't see that you can charge me with anything worse than what I have on you." He smiled. "You destroyed a lot of my property."

Price stood wide-legged, peering down at Lord. "You seem to be overlooking the fact that you had me kidnapped twice. Men go to jail for that," Price reminded him.

"Women, too. Are you ready to implicate Sunny for kidnapping?" He watched Price's face, and his smirk grew wider. "I thought not."

"That doesn't let you off," Price pressed. "Your men dragged me out of the Banner Hotel and stuffed me into the back of a wagon."

"My men?" Lord's heavy brows rose. "Did anybody see them?"

"I did." Sunny spoke up. "When they grabbed me in your office. And it was you, not Keegan, who told them to tie me up and throw me in your stable."

"You'll have a hard time proving that," Lord said.

"I think not." Sunny crossed the room and confronted him. "There's a fellow back in San Francisco with a bullet hole in his wrist. I'm betting he's smart enough to know you won't have much use for a man who can't handle a gun anymore."

"I'll make sure he knows how you take care of your people," Keegan offered. "Real sure."

Eyes clouded, Lord crushed out his cigar. He'd lined the pockets of a few lawmen, even a couple of judges. But he wasn't eager to face his accusers in court. Not when there was an alternative. He'd lost a round or two here, but he still had a few cards up his sleeve. Keegan hadn't been the only one he could play in a pinch. Ramsey and his friends wanted something or they wouldn't have spent so much time talking. He sighed deeply, blowing out the last puff of smoke from his lungs. He thought he knew what was coming. "What's your deal?"

"I have everything in these documents." Delos stepped forward and dropped a stack of papers into Lord's hands. "You sign them."

Lord scowled as he looked the papers over; but when he was done, he took the pen offered him and signed. "Is that it?" he demanded.

"No." Delos took the time to carefully check the signatures before handing Lord another document. "This is the speech you'll be giving to the people of Wallis in a few minutes," he explained.

***

Before the party left the suite, Abner, burning with curiosity about the papers Lord signed, abandoned his eavesdropping and rushed out to the street. He had a short time to fan the flames of rumor in a town swollen with Claret Valley residents. He made the most of it among those who had come to hear what Thaddeus Lord had to say about their valley and their future. He was aided by the appearance of Sheriff Appling leading a cuffed Joshua Keegan to the jail.

The excited rumbling of the crowd increased when the heavy-set Thaddeus Lord walked out of the Louisa a few minutes later. Lord mounted the specially-constructed platform, joined by the mayor and Sheriff Appling, who stumbled as he tangled his boot in the bunting decorating the platform.

The mayor, a tall thin man with a voice like a bellows, walked up to the podium. With no preliminary remarks, he introduced Thaddeus Lord. The rumbling in the multitude quieted but didn't stop. But when Lord rose and started to speak, a mouse's footfalls could have been heard above the crowd. His usually florid face was white, his eyes pinched. His voice was harsh and strained and he stopped and started twice, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the streams of sweat from his neck and brow.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Lord began his third attempt. "I know you have heard that I am the new owner of the Claret Spur Line. I am not." A surprised murmur rippled through the crowd like the breeze through a field of wheat. It ended when the mayor held up his hand and asked for quiet. Lord continued. "You have heard that I am about to begin full ore-mining operations above Wallis. I am not." The murmur increased, harder, like a strong wind through the grain. The mayor didn't try to stop it this time; but when Lord lifted his voice, the sound of the crowd lowered to a drone. "I know," he said, his voice grim, "that you have heard the railroad grant land will be sold at a fair price. It will not."

The rumble became a roar, a full-fledged gale. The crowd, angered and frightened, coalesced into a mob. Bodies pressed closer to the platform, and the mayor waved his arms and pleaded for attention. "Hear Mr. Lord out!" he shouted. "Be quiet and hear Mr. Lord out!"

Thaddeus Lord needed the support of a post to complete his message. "As of today—" he said, "—and the papers are already signed, the Claret Spur Line and the Lord Mine in Wallis belong collectively to the people of Claret Valley." His voice echoed between Wallis's one tall building and the clock tower. "The grant land," he went on, "belongs free of charge to those people who have worked and improved it in the years the Claret Spur Line was idle."

Thaddeus Lord received thunderous applause and heard himself declared a hero and a saint. But as he pushed through the grateful crowd toward the rail station, he could only think charity was better than jail.

He was broke, but he was free. He knew he'd rise to the top again; and when he did, he'd square off against Price Ramsey once more. They weren't done yet.

***

"He's a broken man," Delos said of Thaddeus Lord. "He had his entire fortune tied up in this operation."

"He's experiencing some of the agony he's caused so many others," Price said. "I just wish he were the one in Keegan's place."

"Keegan's where he belongs," Sunny asserted. "Zeb shouldn't have died for being loyal to the truth—and me."

"A man like Keegan doesn't understand loyalty," Billy added.

"Or honor," Price said, putting his arm around Sunny.

She blushed. "You heard that?"

"I heard." He pulled her close to him. He could feel her heart beating, feel a shiver streak through her. "It made me think of love, honor, and obey."

"Not obey," Sunny objected.

"But you _will_ marry me?"

"You don't already have a fiancée?" she asked, arching a brow.

"Not unless it's you."

Price smiled at her. He couldn't wait to get her out of that oversized shirt and those baggy pants.

And when he did, she was never putting them on again.

She flung her arms around him. The battered hat fell off her head and blew down the street. She let it go.

"It is," she said softly.

"I love you, Sunny-Augusta Harlowe."

He hugged her, lifted her until her feet were off the ground and her lips were on a level with his. And she didn't hold back. She felt light and free and unafraid of anything, least of all loving the man who had lifted her up out of the darkness and pain that had colored her life for so long. He was strong and hard and tender and good; and he loved her, and she loved him.

He kissed her so soundly she went limp in his arms and the world spun and the wind caught them and swept them away.

## Epilogue

The bride wore red at the groom's request, a gown of ruby silk. The low, square-cut neckline and long, tapered sleeves accented what Sunny claimed was enough fabric to make a tent in the draped skirt, feminine bustle, and luxurious train. Her veil, a misty crimson, was a long sweep of tulle illusion. A gift from Delos Hixley and Billy Owens, it had been presented with a great deal of teasing and fanfare. The wedding was not ordinary in any sense, with a saloon-keeper and madam as maid of honor and _two_ best men.

The chapel in the newly prosperous town of Wallis was packed to the fern-lined walls with friends and acquaintances. The bridal couple had become a popular pair in the two months since Thaddeus Lord had been persuaded to turn his holdings over to the residents of Claret Valley.

Sunny really had no reason to be nervous before she took her place beside Price in front of the parson. But her knees felt weak and the pulse in her throat beat rapidly. She was trembling; even the bouquet of wildflowers she carried shook. Sunny blamed her attire for her lack of composure.

"I don't know why I ever promised Price I would wear dresses all the time," she complained to Blanche as they waited to enter the chapel. They're damned aggravating."

Blanche adjusted the veil pinned with a grosgrain ribbon to Sunny's upswept hair. "Dressing like a lady isn't all you promised," Blanche reminded her. "You said you wouldn't carry a gun and that you'd give up cussing."

"Well..." Sunny remembered the moment those promises had been exacted of her. Price hadn't played fair. She shouldn't be held accountable for anything she agreed to while he was making love to her.

"Well, what?" Blanche asked.

Sunny's lips went decidedly down. "Well, I'm trying," she said.

"Try harder. And stop frowning. It's your wedding day." Blanche waxed maternal though she had been feeling anything but. She had been seeing a lot of Delos Hixley. Quite a lot.

The music started and Sunny's scowl evaporated. She could see Price waiting for her at the altar, handsome in a coat of gunmetal gray and tight black trousers. She only had to look at him as she walked behind Blanche down the central aisle of the chapel to know he was worth all the trouble. He was worth living up to all the promises. And when she stood beside him, she knew she wanted to be a lady... _his_ lady.

Price took Sunny's hand and squeezed it with a tenderness that thrilled her heart. But it was no more than the one he felt, having his 'lady in red' beside him and on the threshold of being his forever. He was gratified to know he had been right about her the first time he'd seen her. She was a lady of mystery, of surprises. She was the woman who had brought him back to the dreams of his youth. There was not another female like Sunny Augusta Harlowe in the entire world.

He did have one small regret—that he'd asked her to give up her rambunctious ways. She was having a difficult time of it. On the other hand, she was far too beautiful to be covered up in men's clothes, even after today's ceremony when he planned to tell her about the detective agency the two of them would be starting. She could work—he didn't think he could stop her—but he liked her in pretty dresses...or nothing at all.

"Sunny, do you take this man as your lawfully wedded husband..."

Sunny wasn't nervous anymore. She was calm, serene, overflowing with happiness as she answered, "I do."

Price, replying in kind, was anxious, anxious to get the marrying over and get to the better part. But first there was celebrating to be done—all evening, according to Billy's plans.

"If any man knows cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in holy matrimony, let him now speak..."

Price smiled at Sunny and put the parson in distress when he pulled her close to his side before the man could finish. And then he wondered why the parson would get so undone by a preliminary show of affection that he completely stopped the ceremony. But he had. He stood stock-still, mouth agape, Bible wavering in his hand.

And then Price heard screams and shouts and knew why.

"Turn around slow!"

"Beckler," Sunny whispered as her hand clenched Price's.

Beckler stood with his back pressed against the chapel's doors, a Colt in each hand. His nose was flattened and one cheekbone rested an inch lower than the other. He looked worse when he laughed and fired a shot over their heads to be sure they knew he meant what he said. "Hellfire! I know cause!" he shouted. "Cause they're gonna be dead and there ain't no need to waste the words, parson. Save 'em for the funerals."

Price dropped Sunny's hand. Beckler stood a good chance of having his way. Guns were not worn in the chapel, so there was no one to rise against him unless there were some bent on suicide.

"Stand back, parson!" Beckler yelled. "And the rest of you folks stay quiet and stay put. I got no quarrel with you. These two are all I want. They owe me, and it's time to pay!"

Price whispered for the parson to back away and for Sunny to get ready to duck.

Beckler took aim, one gun pointed at Sunny, one at Price. "How about I let you two go together," he asked, and then he squeezed the triggers.

One shot went high. The other gun never discharged, because the finger squeezing it let go as a bullet slammed Beckler in the chest. He pitched back, toppling out the chapel's double doors. Blanche's bruisers, seated near the back, grabbed the guns he'd dropped and ran out to make sure he was dead.

Price holstered his smoking Colt and flipped the tail of his coat over the weapon. Sunny stared at him, wide-eyed. "I'm not a real religious man, Sunny. I meant to tell you that."

The men returned, leaving Beckler's body outside. "He's dead," one announced excitedly. "And it's no wonder he went clean out the doors. He's got two bullet holes in him. Some shooting, Price."

Stone-faced, Price spun around slowly. "Where's the gun, Sunny?"

"I didn't—" She saw him staring at her skirt and cautiously looked down herself. At thigh-height a round, black-rimmed hole marred the red silk.

"You fired through your wedding dress!" he said, astonished. Then his tone turned dark. "Give me that gun."

Sunny turned her back on the congregation and hoisted her skirt to remove the strap that held a revolver. Grumbling, she gave Price the weapon. "I didn't know you were wearing a gun," she said apologetically.

"Did you think I had forgotten about Beckler?" he growled. He could have wrung her neck; but if he'd done that all the times he'd wanted to, she wouldn't be here almost-married to him. And there were enjoyable ways she could make this up to him.

"Did you think _I_ had?" she hissed.

"Please." The ashen-faced parson stopped them. "Could we finish this ceremony? Please. Quickly."

Price handed Sunny's gun to Billy, then linked his arm with hers and turned her toward the altar. Sunny held her bouquet over the bullet hole in her skirt; and the parson, in an unsteady voice, pronounced them man and wife.

## About the Author

Andrea Parnell is the award-winning author of eleven novels, short fiction and numerous articles. Her stories of love and intrigue include Gothic, Colonial and Western historical romances as well as contemporary romances. Several of her books are set in her home state of Georgia.

Andrea has received both the Maggie and Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice awards for her writing. She is a member of Novelists, Inc. (NINC) and past president of the Georgia Authors Network. She is fond of cats, travel, overgrown gardens, and old houses with lots of nooks, crannies and interesting shadows.

Please visit her online at AndreaParnell.com to share your thoughts about this book and to learn what she's working on next.

You can also sign up to receive an email notice of new books by Andrea: Click to sign up for Andrea's newsletter.

**Follow on Twitter:** @andreahparnell

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And now please turn the page for a preview of Devil Moon, a Guns & Garters Western Romance...

## Devil Moon

A preview of the sizzling Guns & Garters Western Romance by Andrea Parnell

The driver's blood-curdling yell produced one of equal volume from an ordinarily imperturbable Lucien Bourget.

"On the floor!" the shotgun messenger shouted to the passengers. The deafening report of his rifle, the sound of bullets whizzing past the uncovered windows of the coach, the unmistakable whump, whump of slugs lodging in wood made the order unnecessary.

Rhys shoved Justine Blalock, the pretty young lady who shared the Concord coach's spartan interior, to semi-safety in the lower part of the compartment, with Lucien. The cramped space would not accommodate another. The best Rhys could do to remove himself as a target was to attempt to flatten himself on the short stretch of the leather-covered bench above the crouching pair. The driver had whipped the team to a bone-juggling pace. Rhys could not hope to stay put long. By bracing his feet solidly against one side wall of the bouncing coach, and firmly gripping the swaying loop of cord that held back the hide curtains, he managed to avoid tumbling onto the heads of Lucien and Justine until the brakes locked and the coach skittered to a rocking halt.

"Ruby's hit!" the driver shouted.

Upside down in the laps of Justine and Lucien, Rhys apologized to the lady as he hurriedly righted himself, and courteously helped Justine get her crushed straw bonnet out of her face. A moment later, with a protesting Justine clutching his sleeve, he flung open the coach door, almost hitting the snorting nose of a skittish horse prancing alongside the waylaid Gamble Line stage.

"Hold it! Don't git out 'til I tell you," shouted the rider. He held a cocked pistol in his outstretched arm, and wore a bandana mask. He reined his nervous horse to a standstill. Dark, anxious eyes assayed Rhys Delmar, noting his expensive clothes. "Be a shame to mess up that purty suit."

The bandit confronting Rhys had two partners. Their faces were also obscured by colored kerchiefs tied tight across the jaws. One spurred his horse nearer the driver's box and aimed his gun at the man's head. The shotgun man, one Strong Bill Ash because of his size, had felt the stock of his rifle explode in his grip when it was hit by a bullet. Strong Bill held his bloody, useless hands in the air.

"Throw down that Wells Fargo box," demanded the man taking aim, unquestionably the one in charge.

"Git it yourself," the driver bellowed at him. "Lemme down to see about Ruby." Tom Cribbet's worried eyes went to one of the lead horses as he tied down the reins. The animal, a sturdy roan mare, stood trembling in the traces as she bled heavily from a gunshot wound to the shoulder.

"Don't trouble yourself," the bandit growled, slowly redirecting his weapon. While the driver sat, mouth wide open, momentarily frozen in disbelief, the man leveled his gun at the mare's head and fired. The animal wheezed once, stumbled, then fell to the ground dead.

The act was too much for the driver. With a whoop of rage he recklessly launched himself from the seat. Before the bandit could aim and fire, the driver's shoulder hit, knocking him from the saddle and carrying both men to the ground. Knotted together they landed in the hardscrabble beneath the thrashing legs of the saddle horse. For a minute or two the pair struggled, but the driver was at a disadvantage having landed hard beneath the weight of his adversary. The bandit, barely scathed, had not lost his gun in the fall. He got an elbow free, then the whole of his arm. Using his weapon like a club, he struck the brave driver in the center of his sun-browned forehead, splitting the toughened skin, knocking Tom Cribbet unconscious.

Justine Blalock had held on when she saw the horse shot, but the sight of the unconscious driver was unbearable. She screamed, a long piercing wail of terror. It ended only when the bandit who had been unseated lurched to his feet and ordered Rhys to step down from the coach. With the mounted bandit's gun trained on him, Rhys had no sensible choice but to comply. With his back against the coach, and the steel barrel of one gun almost at his skull, he stood as still as he was told.

The man on foot grabbed Justine's arm and snatched her out of the coach. She screamed again, louder and longer and shriller than before.

"Shut up!" the man told her. "Shut up or I'll—"

He didn't need to continue. Justine choked off her scream and found her voice. "My daddy will hang you for this," she cried, attempting to jerk her arm free of the bandit's clamplike hold.

The man jerked her against his chest. "Your daddy and what army, little girl?"

"He won't need an army!" Justine spat back. "He's sheriff in Wishbone. He'll hunt you—"

The man slung her arm free and pushed her with such force that her back struck the wheel rim painfully hard. Justine cried out.

Cursing, the bandit kept his gun pointed at her. "Who is he?"

"My daddy is Sheriff Len Blalock," she said proudly, righting her misshapen bonnet.

"Shit!" The bandit backed away, grappling for his horse's reins. Finding them, he led the animal close and mounted. "Git going," he said to his partners.

"The strong box—" the third man began uncertainly, his voice and eyes years younger than either of the other's.

"Forget it." Tugging on the reins he backed his horse a dozen paces then whirled the animal around and galloped off into the cover of scrub and rock near the road.

One bandit spurred his horse and followed immediately. The third, the one who had held his gun to Rhys's head, was slow to follow. He was slow enough that when he urged his mount to a gallop, Rhys had already scooped a fist-sized rock from the ground and hurled it at the man. The hollow sound of it striking the base of the bandit's neck brought a gasp from Justine. The stunned rider hit the ground hard. His horse whinnied and loped off without him.

"I will be damned!" said Strong Bill as he tied strips of his handkerchief around his injured hands. He wouldn't have given two bits' worth of credence to his French passenger if he hadn't seen what he did. Usually his kind, those overly refined gents who came West in their high-class clothes, dropped in a dead faint the first time they faced a threat.

"Boyhood games." Rhys shrugged. "I regret it was not the other one I hit."

Justine, breathing hard, laid a hand on Rhys's arm and felt the powerful muscle beneath his sleeve. "You are remarkably brave," she said softly.

"No, _mademoiselle_ , if anyone is brave it is you." Rhys took her hand and held it a moment. "Lucien," he said. "See what aid you can give that man."

"I'll help," Justine offered as Lucien retrieved a canteen from the driver's box.

With Justine's assistance Lucien worked to revive the downed driver while Rhys bound the prostrate bandit. When the driver was clearheaded enough to stand and walk, Rhys helped unharness Ruby from the traces. He saw a tear streak the driver's stoic face, and a sob shake the rangy torso. All the while Rhys Delmar wondered what refuge he was likely to find in this brutal, spare land that seemed made of nothing but cactus and sand and trouble.

He was in an advanced state of indignation when the coach rolled into Wishbone with an injured driver and messenger, short one horse and carrying a complaining bandit strapped to the luggage rack. The harrowing experience on the poorly protected stage capped the impossibility of convincing the Gamble Line's agent in Phoenix that Rhys Delmar owned almost half the company.

"Take it up with Teddy," the burly, short-tempered agent had told him. "But right here, right now, if you want passage on the Gamble Line stage to Wishbone you'll pay for a ticket and so will your 'manservant.'"

Rhys had been forced to borrow the cost of the two passages from Lucien, in addition to the money for transportation from the port of Boston across the American continent.

Teddy. Zachary Gamble's brother, he supposed, returning his thoughts to the present. Teddy. Some vulgar corruption of Theodor. Teddy Gamble, who ran the stage line badly if Rhys's trip had been typical. Passengers had to furnish their own refreshments and provisions or eat the plain fare dished out by the poor cooks at the way stations. From Strong Bill's words he learned this was not the first attack the line had suffered. Why had Theodor not hired more guards, hired mounted riders to accompany the stage? Teddy. Probably no brighter than his brother Zack Gamble.

Rhys climbed out of the coach. As his feet hit the powder-dry street of Wishbone he noticed that his best shoes were caked with dust. His good silk cravat was now a bandage around Cribbet's head. His finest bowler hat was no longer in the coach—it had been lost in the confusion of the holdup. And somewhere along the line his most expensive custom-tailored suit had sustained an irreparable rip in the sleeve.

"Look at this ruin, Lucien." Rhys brushed a cloud of dust from his shoulders, then gave up when he saw he was only rearranging the embedded dirt. He stomped his feet to clean his shoes but found the dust there stubborn as dried flour dough. "I am undone by this Gamble Stage Line," he grumbled to the servant. "I tell you, Lucien, this damnable land and this company need civilizing."

"I could not agree more, monsieur," Lucien said as he helped Justine Blalock out of the coach. The attack had nearly been his undoing. All along the route from Missouri he had expected an attack of Indians, vicious savages with scalping knives and deadly arrows. That of the bandits came close to fulfilling his dire expectations.

Justine, almost as shaken as Lucien, spoke softly to Rhys. "I'll tell my father what you did," she said. "Once he's gotten over being furious that I decided not to stay another term at school he'll want to thank you."

Rhys put aside his bad temper long enough to recall the charm that came so easily when he was with a woman. "He could not be furious with you more than a moment, Mademoiselle Justine," he told her as he took her small hand in his and lifted it to his lips.

Her face flushed, her hand hanging in midair for a few seconds after Rhys released it, Justine smiled adoringly at him, said a quick good-bye to both men, then fled across the street and into the office of Wishbone's law officer. On her heels, Strong Bill none-too-gently nudged the stunned prisoner in the same direction.

Cribbet threw down Rhys's valise then climbed down to attend the horses. Rhys saw, to his dismay, that the fine leather casing of his valise was singed by powder burns and shot through, along with its contents, by no less than three bullet holes.

His mood changed swiftly. He gave the bag a vicious kick. "This Gamble Stage Line is evidently run by a half-wit," he grumbled. "Where is this Teddy Gamble?" he begged of a youngster who was scrambling up the coach to unload the remaining cargo. "I need to tell the man he'll be required to replace my entire wardrobe. As part owner of the Gamble Stage Line, I—"

The lad nudged his arm. "Right there," he whispered. "That's Teddy Gamble."

Teddy's back was turned to the passengers, as she listened to Cribbet's account of the holdup and checked the condition of the worn-out coach team. Teddy also listened, with forced reserve, to the Frenchman's entire tirade. Her daddy's policy had been that the customer was right. Teddy followed the same philosophy and she was prepared to soothe and reassure the whimsical, overwrought traveler as soon as he calmed down. But his unfinished last statement sent a shocking jolt through her whole body. Her head snapped up and her spine went rigidly straight.

Teddy Gamble, attired in fringed buckskin trousers and shirt, and with tightly laced leggings that rose to her knees, had her back to him. Rhys looked at the slight form with the masculine clothes and feminine curves and assumed he had discovered the reason for the Gamble Line's shortcomings. No man with that build was much of a man. He stood and stared. Before he could voice his observations Lucien put them into words.

" _N'est-ce pas_ _?_ " the manservant whispered. "This Monsieur Gamble has the look of an effete, a sissy."

"At best," Rhys said moderating his voice too late.

On top of her morning's experience with Adams and Cabe Northrop and another attack on a stage it was too much. Teddy spun around like a hot desert whirlwind. She had a short staff in her hand that she had been using to unfasten the hard-to-reach harness from the traces.

"At worst," she said eyes blazing, voice crackling. "I'm a gal who's got as much use for a pair of tinhorn, foreign, starched-shirts as I have for a pair of buzzards."

Lucien fell back as the staff she wielded thumped his master's chest.

Rhys's gaze went to the swell of her breasts. "You are a woman!" he stammered.

He could not have invited more trouble if he had lit the fuse on a stick of dynamite and tucked it in his pocket.

"Well, thank you for clearing that up."

The swinging staff telegraphed her anger as the hook on the end of it again thumped Rhys's chest. Before it gouged his midnight-blue brocade vest he caught hold of it. Aside from the countess, Rhys had never confronted a woman ready to do him harm. A man with his good looks and charm might go a lifetime without such an experience.

Chagrined, anxious to make amends, he gave a cavalier bow to Teddy Gamble. As his eyes swept over her, he saw a glint of silver at her throat, a necklace set with pretty blue-green stones. On her wrist she wore a bracelet of similar design. A belt of black leather and stamped silver medallions cinched her waist. Rhys gave her his best smile and decided all was not lost. The jewelry she wore with her strange garments was his clue. Teddy Gamble might wear the trousers of a man but she was not without a woman's vanity. "Madam... _moiselle_ Gamble," he said, with the smooth, deep voice that had weakened many feminine knees. "My apologies. It seems we have gotten off to a bad start."

Teddy gave him a look so hot he felt it singe his skin. Snatching the staff out of his grasp she stretched herself up to a tall five feet four inches. "You bet your ass we have!"

The story heats up in Devil Moon—get it now from Trove Books!

## Also by Andrea Parnell

### from Trove Books

Guns & Garters

A flame-haired siren with a secret takes the stage in the Broken Spur Saloon. When the gunsmoke clears, nothing will be the same for those who came to see Delilah's show. Fate brings them together: Tabor Stanton, a rancher with a troubled past...Teddy Gamble, a stagecoach driving spitfire ... Price Ramsey, a sharpshooter at loose ends...Tabitha Wylde, an adventurous Englishwoman ... and Cane Bowman, the man who wants nothing more than to protect her from a danger she refuses to see. Meet the heroes and heroines of Andrea Parnell's sizzling Western romances in this novella-length introduction to the Guns & Garters collection.

Delilah's Flame

A Guns & Garters Western Romance

She had the perfect plan for revenge. The perfect secret identity. The perfect way to bring justice to the men who harmed her father. Until she targeted the wrong man and got caught in her own dangerous trap of seduction and desire.

Delilah is a notorious saloon singer with fire red hair who inflames men's passions with her sultry stage show while pursing a personal mission of vengeance. Tabor Stanton is a cowboy fleeing his own troubled past who finds himself unwillingly swept up in the mysterious Delilah's web of deceit.

Determined to get his own revenge on the seductress, Tabor learns too late that no man can escape being burned by the passion and desire of Delilah's Flame.

Devil Moon

A Guns & Garters Western Romance

Lovely as a mountain sunset, prickly as a cactus, Teddy Gamble runs her freight company with all the sass and spirit she has. She doesn't need a partner...especially not the handsome Frenchman who just won half her business in a card game!

On the run from his past, a future in the Gamble Stage Line looks a lot like destiny to Rhys Delmar...especially once he arrives in Wishbone, Arizona and meets the stunning pistol-toting hellion.

From the first instant, Rhys and Teddy are like gunpowder and flint, igniting sparks fated to set the West on fire. But first they must stop a cunning rival trying to strong-arm them out of business – then find their way through the lies and secrets to a loving future together – beneath the wild, wicked, and wonderful...Devil Moon!

Dark Prelude

Lovely young Silvia Bradstreet must escape her dismal life ruled by a drunken uncle who has squandered her inheritance. A chance encounter in the London streets leads to the opportunity for a fresh start in the New World. To claim her destiny Sylvia must summon her courage and her wits. Sylvia's dark fate begins here ... a novella-length prologue to the Gothic romance _Dark Splendor_.

Dark Splendor

Silvia Bradstreet comes to an isolated estate off the coast of colonial Georgia to be an indentured servant. But a far different fate awaits her. Clothed in finery and pampered like a queen, she finds herself a pawn in the devious schemes of Wilhelm Schlange, master of Serpent Tree Hall, as he manipulates the family members who hope to inherit his vast fortune. Haunted by ghostly dreams and threatened by the island's deadly secrets, Silvia cannot trust her own senses, much less anyone around her. Most of all, she dare not trust her growing passion for Schlange's nephew, handsome sea captain Roman Toller. His lips move like a hot flame over her flesh and draw the very breath from her body. Can Roman offer Silvia an escape from her dark fate—or is he leading her closer to destruction?

"This is an entertaining blend of eerie shadows and romantic interludes. An excellent gothic romance."

— _Publishers Weekly_

"A beautifully written, lyrical—almost poetic in the narrative—book! . . . If you appreciate a great story and the true beauty of words that are put together the way they should be, you will love DARK SPLENDOR.

— _Rendezvous_

"The grand Gothic Romance could never be better represented than in DARK SPLENDOR."

— _Affaire de Coeur_

"A tantalizing blend of suspense and sensuality, with all the thrills and chills that lovers of the Gothic enjoy."

— _Romantic Times Rave Reviews_

Whispers At Midnight

_If only his kiss had been hard, brief and demanding, but it was not._ _It was gentle and probing, possessing, and took her breath away. . ._ Amanda Fairfax met Ryne Sullivan when she came to take possession of the colonial Virginia plantation that was her legacy. She could see resentment burning in his dark blue eyes, yet once in his arms she could feel how fiercely he hungered for her, and how little she could resist his desires or her own. In a place where terror ruled the night and mystery cloaked each move, Amanda could not fully trust her lover or her love, for she sensed every moment of ecstasy might be her last.

"The perfect blend of anticipation and apprehension. . .seductive tale by a superb writer of romantic suspense."

— _Romantic Times_

"Takes romance, mystery and intrigue and weaves them into a good story."

— _Rendezvous_

