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  He sat up slowly, straddling her, and gazed down at her. She wore a chemise beneath the shirt, a simple white cotton thing with a row of eyelet embroidery across the neckline. It laced up the front with a pink ribbon, tied at the top in a small bow. The swell of her breasts showed above the ruffle, soft and quivering. The circles of her nipples were dark beneath the thin cotton.

  “Amy.” His voice was almost reverent as he reached out and slowly pulled the bow loose. His fingers inched down the center of the garment, slipping the thin ribbon free from its eyelets. When he reached the bottom, he opened the chemise, exposing her to his view. She was slender and pale, her waist impossibly narrow. Her breasts were small, but perfectly formed, high and taut. The nipples rose up from them, rosy and pebbled. The touch of the air against her them made them tighten. He could imagine how they would look when his tongue teased them into hard points, the deep red of raspberries and glistening with moisture.

  Brody’s eyes were black and intense, glowing with the passion that thrummed through him. “You are so beautiful.”

  Amy stared back up at him, her eyes wide and wondering. She should feel embarrassed, she knew—and perhaps she did, a little. But far more than that, she felt a fierce pride in the way he looked at her. He thought she was beautiful; he enjoyed gazing at her naked body. It stirred her own desire to be naked before him. She could feel her nipples growing tight and pointy as he watched her, and that deepened the ache between her legs. She was growing moist there, too, and she knew that it was part of that pleasurable ache.

  Sam ran his tongue across his lips. He reached down and cupped her breasts in his hands. Amy drew in her breath sharply, but she didn’t flinch. He squeezed her breasts lightly, then ran his thumbs around her nipples. Amy caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  Brody was as hot as a furnace. He’d never wanted anything, never needed anything, as much as he wanted and needed to take Amy now. Everything inside him screamed to make love to her. He thought of taking her nipples into his mouth, of rolling them between his lips. He imagined opened her trousers and sliding his hand inside, finding her soft, damp heat. He thought of shoving himself deep inside her, of moving with her tight around him. He wanted to take her fast and hard. He yearned to possess her so completely that she would never be anyone’s but his.

  He bent and touched the tip of his tongue to her nipple. The air hissed through Amy’s teeth, and she jerked in surprise. He circled the nipple slowly with his tongue, then lazily flicked it until the small button was hard and engorged. Amy moved her hips beneath him restlessly, further inflaming his desire. Brody stretched out on her full length, pressing into her. His mouth went to her other nipple, laving it with the same slow care. He pulled her nipple into his mouth and sucked at it, and Amy arched up, almost whimpering at the unexpected delight. Her fingers dug into his hair.

  He caressed the bud with his lips and tongue, pulling and pressing. Amy moaned out his name, turning her head restlessly, and her legs struggled to unlock his and move apart.

  A tremendous heat burned between her legs, and she felt empty and aching. She didn’t know what she wanted, only that she was unfulfilled, unsatisfied, and that only Brody could give her what she wanted. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and pull him to her, and it frustrated her that he would not let her move. She bucked up against him, wriggling.

  Her unconscious movements aroused him almost past bearing. Brody was aware of little except the thick, pulsing ache of his desire. Only her body could bring him ease. His hand moved down to the buttons of her trousers. The buttons were metal and flat, difficult to undo, and the trembling of his fingers made the process even harder. Brody growled with frustration and sat up, grabbing the material with his other hand to rip it apart.

  Suddenly he saw himself as clearly as a picture, as someone who walked in upon the scene would see him—straddling Amy’s helpless body, his breath rasping, growling, about to tear her clothes from her body. He was an animal. She was a delicate, innocent lady, and he was about to rip off her clothes and thrust into her as though she were a whore. He was about to hurt and humiliate her, all because of his own savage, elemental desire.

  Brody swore and flung himself away from her. Desire clawed at his gut. He wanted her so much it was a physical pain. But he forced himself to walk away. He leaned against an outcropping of rock, crossing his arms tightly across his chest as though to imprison the raging beast inside him.

  Amy sat up, confused. She didn’t understand what had happened, why Sam had left her so abruptly. Had she made a mistake? She shivered, feeling suddenly cold, and pulled the sides of her shirt together. Her nakedness embarrassed her now, and she hastened to lace up her chemise and button the shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  “God, no,” he groaned. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I was the one who acted like an animal. I apologize.”

  The words were wrenched from him. But Amy didn’t know how rare a thing an apology from Sam Brody was, and she took no satisfaction in it. She knew only that he had stopped doing what she enjoyed so much, and she didn’t understand why.

  Brody breathed deeply, struggling for control over his rampaging lust. He had to go slowly, he reminded himself. He must not hurt her. Must not rush her. He had to be gentle with her, far gentler than he had ever been. He straightened. He forced his hands to return to his sides. But he didn’t look at her; he couldn’t do that, or he might throw himself on her again. “All right. Let’s set up camp.”

  He gathered up their gear and walked back toward the falls, still without looking at her. Amy frowned, her eyes troubled. She disliked the empty, dissatisfied way she felt. She wished Sam would come back and start kissing her again. She wished he would tell her what was wrong.

  She sighed and stood up. She didn’t know how to make those things happen. Normally she would have been content to wait and let the matter work out as it would. Amy wasn’t one to try to change life. But not this time.

  She didn’t want to wait. She wanted to be in Sam’s arms again. She strolled back to the falls, resolve hardening within her. Somehow, she vowed to herself, some way she would get Sam to kiss her again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Victoria and Slater were eager to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the evil in the Mileses’ house. They simply followed the creek downstream because Victoria couldn’t retrace their path to the camp where Dennis Miles had found them. They said little. Neither of them wanted to talk. Slater felt embarrassingly weak, and there seemed to be a hundred hammers banging in his head. Victoria was still numb with shock.

  After an hour or so, they stopped and camped for the night. Slater fell asleep instantly, but Victoria could not. She lay awake, hearing every noise. At least there was some comfort in being able to look over and see Slater sleeping only a few feet from her. When she finally did fall asleep, her slumber was shallow, and she woke often.

  The next morning Slater was better. The night’s rest had returned some of his strength, and his head no longer throbbed. He was still in poor condition to ride, but at least Victoria no longer had to worry about whether he could stay in the saddle.

  They saddled up, and crossed the creek, following it until it emptied into a larger river. “This must be the Guadalupe,” Slater said and looked up and down the river, thinking. “If we’re where I think we are, there’s a ford not far downriver. That’s where they’re likely to head.” He dismounted and walked, leading his horse, searching the ground for hoofprints. Twice he found prints in the muddy ground at the water’s edge, but there weren’t enough for the number of men they were seeking, so they continued searching.

  “Here.” Slater’s voice rose a little as he squatted down to examine a set of hoofprints. He straightened and turned to her, the bright glitter of triumph in his eyes.

  “What?” she asked eagerly, hope rising in her chest. “What is it?”

  “At least
four horses came through here together, maybe five. The tracks are too jumbled to be certain.”

  “It’s Brody?”

  He nodded. “Unless another group that size rode through in the last few days. It’s our best chance.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  They followed the tracks, riding faster now. Their pace still seemed exasperatingly slow to Victoria, whose desire was to race after Amy as fast as she could. At the ford, they crossed the river, and Slater searched in a wide semi-circle until he found the same tracks. But the trail was old, and difficult to follow on the hard, dry ground away from the river. Often the tracks vanished altogether, and then they rode in the most likely direction, constantly sweeping the ground for another clue to the gang’s passing.

  In order to make up time, they kept their stops to a minimum, usually pausing only to give their horses a chance to rest or drink. Victoria watched Slater, wondering when he would finally give up and stop for the day. With every passing mile he looked more exhausted and his face lost a little more color. But he continued to ride.

  He didn’t stop until it grew dark. When Victoria finished unsaddling her horse and turned around, she saw that Slater was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a rock, already asleep. She shook her head, torn between admiration and sympathy. He was a tough one all right—but if he wasn’t careful, he just might push himself into a relapse.

  She took care of his horse, knowing that it was an indication of how bone-weary Slater was that he had left the animal still burdened with a saddle. Then she laid a fire and lit it. There were coffee beans in Slater’s supplies, and Victoria decided to make some coffee; she needed something to spark her up after this day. She ground up the beans in a battered tin cup that was Texas Ranger issue, using the butt of her revolver as a pestle, and boiled the coffee in a shallow tin pan, also part of Slater’s gear. She drank it for dessert after her meal of beef jerky and water. It was hot and fragrant, if a little too strong, and she drank it slowly, sitting cross-legged on the ground and watching Slater sleep.

  He looked vulnerable and peaceful. There was something about him; she didn’t know what it was. But it warmed her to watch him sleep. She thought about him lying on the blanket in his fever, his shirt open, sweat glistening on his brown skin, and suddenly she felt an entirely different kind of heat.

  Victoria set down the cup and pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. She had kept her eyes on Slater most of the day today. At the time, she had thought she was watching him to judge whether he was too tired to ride. But now, when she thought about it, all she could remember was the way his legs had gripped the horse, muscles taut and smooth beneath the material of his trousers, the way his body had moved with the animal. She’d noticed the muscles of his back beneath his shirt and his hands on the reins. His hands were big, the palms wide and the fingers long and big-jointed. The backs were lightly sprinkled with brown hairs that gleamed golden in the sun.

  She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms against her legs. She suspected that Aunt Margaret would classify her thoughts as lustful, especially if she knew that Victoria kept imagining Slater’s hands sliding down her arms, curving over her bottom, covering her breasts. Victoria pulled her legs up tighter, dropping her head onto her knees. She was crazy to think about Slater like this. He was the last man who would ever want her. Maybe he now admitted she was tough, but that quality wasn’t the sort of thing that would make him desire her.

  She wondered if that was why she thought about him. Perhaps only a man who didn’t pursue her could arouse her interest. Or maybe only a man tough enough to go after Sam Brody even with a bullet wound in his arm, a man with the grit to get out of his sickbed and ride all day. Victoria thought of his wide shoulders and his lean, powerful body. She remembered the feel of it against hers, hard and strong. She remembered his hand cupping her breast when he was crazy with fever. What was it like to lie with a man like that?

  Victoria had never thought much about sex before. But now she did. What would it feel like to have Slater make love to her? What would he do? Would she enjoy it?

  She’d never know. A man like Slater wasn’t for her, even if he had the slightest interest in her. Which he didn’t. When she gave herself to a man, he would be the marrying kind, the sort who’d settle down and work the ranch with her. He’d be a man who wanted to build something and leave his mark on the land, just as she did. He wouldn’t be a roving lawman who’d probably die young and leave behind nothing but a pair of Colt .45 Peacemakers.

  And maybe that was what made him so intriguing—knowing that he wasn’t for her. He was forbidden.

  Victoria smiled to herself at her fancifulness. She was making Slater sound exotic and wild. Alluring. But he was only a trail-roughened man who could shoot better than most and was too stubborn to give up. She stood up and spread out her blanket near the fire.

  The movement woke Slater up. He blinked at her hazily for a moment; then his eyes cleared, and he gave her a wry smile. “Sorry to give out on you like that.”

  “You’re exhausted. You did too much today.”

  He shrugged. “The strength’ll come back eventually. It always does.”

  “Would you like something to eat?” He nodded and took the beef jerky she offered him.

  He ate slowly, watching Victoria smooth out the blanket. Her movements were graceful and efficient, and he liked the way the narrow riding skirt outlined her hips and legs. Slater wasn’t sure where he stood with her. The last clear memory he had before the fever was of arguing with Victoria and stomping off, leaving her at her own campsite. Practically every word they had spoken to each other had been a disagreement.

  But something had happened during his fever; they had become allies. There was something softer about Victoria now when she spoke to him. He no longer even considered sending her back. He’d had to depend on her, and she had stood up to the task. He trusted her. And that was a rare thing.

  He wished he could remember better what had happened while he was sick. His mind was full of hazy memories, and he couldn’t distinguish between what had been real and what had been only feverish imagining. He’d seen a girl he knew when he was stationed at a Ranger camp near Waco. What had her name been? Opal? Obviously that couldn’t have been real, but he was talking to her, touching her, and she had caressed his naked body. Those caresses were all mixed up with the coolness of a wet cloth on his skin—had that been Victoria?

  And there was the memory of riding his horse with a woman up behind him. He had been sweating, on fire. Her breasts had pressed against his back, and her legs curved erotically around him, cradling him against her. His body stirred at the thought. It must have been a fever dream, and yet he sensed that the woman was Victoria, just as somehow Opal had been Victoria, too.

  Then there had been that damned cat. He had opened his eyes to see a cougar leaping at him from a rock. It had crumpled to the ground in mid-leap, spurting blood, and Victoria had walked up with a rifle in her hands. Surely that couldn’t have been a vision. It had been so vivid, so heart-stoppingly real.

  “Did I dream the cougar, or did that happen?” he asked abruptly, startling Victoria.

  “What?” She twisted back to look at him. “The cougar? He was as real as they come. I’d say seven feet from the tip of his tail to his nose.”

  “He was springing at me?” Slater asked and Victoria nodded. “And you shot him?” She nodded again. “That’s my life saved three times over, then.” Slater said, half to himself.

  “I’m sorry?” Victoria raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “Don’t be sorry.” Slater grinned. “Unless you’re regretting saving my hide—you’d have this jerky all to yourself if you hadn’t.”

  “If it was better jerky I might regret it more,” she teased back.

  “My compliments to the mediocre cook, then.” Slater held her gaze a moment longer before glancing down and clearing his throat. “You weren’t lying
when you said you could shoot.”

  “My father taught me how when I was a little girl. I’d have to rest the barrel of the rifle on a fence or a rock. He wanted me to be able to protect myself.”

  Slater smiled faintly. “Well, I’m glad.” So that much had been real. Did it mean the rest of it was, too? “I—I don’t remember much about the past couple of days.”

  “You were out of your head with fever most of the time.”

  “Did we ride somewhere? It’s all hazy.”

  “You rode a little way over to a shade tree when you first had the fever. Then, when Dennis Miles led us back to his house, we had to ride again. But you were weaving, so I had to hold you in the saddle.”

  So she had ridden behind him. The arms around his chest, the soft body against his, had been Victoria’s. Desire stirred in him. That in itself was surprising. He didn’t know where he got the energy to feel anything but exhaustion. “You’re something, you know that?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Last time I remember, you and I were fighting like cats and dogs. But you took care of me when I was sick.”

  Victoria looked at him quizzically. “What did you expect me to do? Leave you out here to die by yourself?”

  He shrugged. “I guess what I’m trying to say is thank you.”

  “Anybody would have done the same.”

  “Not anybody could have. You’re one tough lady.”

  Victoria had seen the look before that he was wearing now, a mingling of respect and amazement. She preferred it to other men’s looks of lust or lovesick awe, which she’d also seen. But this time it bothered her. Usually when a man started looking at her like that, he stopped seeing her as a woman.

  That was crazy, she told herself. What did she want, to be a silly, simpering girl just so Slater would think she was pretty and feminine? It didn’t matter what Slater thought of her. All that mattered was that he could help her save Amy.