if he really saw it or if he felt it, but all his senses were on edge.

He hadn't worked in Indian country and spent all this time with Jon Red

Feather not to have learned something of his senses. There was someone

near. He could feel it in his gut, and he could feel it at the nape of

his neck, and he could feel it all the way down his spine. Someone was

very near.

"Come on out of there," he said softly.

"Come on, now. We don't want to hurt anyone here, we just want you to

come on ont."

The movement had ceased.

Jon was moving up toward the front of the wagon. The horses, still

smelling smoke, whinnied and nickered nervously.

Jamie leaped to the floor of the wagon.

His eyes flickered to the left bunk. There was a long, soft white gown

lain out by the side. It was sleeveless, lowbodiced and lacy, a woman's

nightgown, he thought. And a pretty piece for the dustiness of the road.

It did belong with the perfectly made and inviting beds, but it didn't

really belong on a wagon train. Was she alive? Had she been some young

man's bride? He hadn't seen a woman's corpse, not yet, but then his men

were still moving among the bodies.

"Is anyone in here?" he said, moving past the bunks. There were boxes

and trunks everywhere. There was a coffeepot, cast down as if someone

had been about to use it. There was a frying pan in the middle of the

floor, too. He paused, crouching on the balls of his feet, looking at

the floor.

Coffee was spilled everywhere.

"Come on out now," he said softly.

"It's all right, come on out."

He kept moving inward. The shadows in the wagon made it difficult to

see.

There seemed to be a swirl of soft mauve taffeta, fringed in black lace,

set in a heap before him. He reached down carefully, hoping he hadn't

come upon another corpse.

He touched a body. He touched warmth. He moved his hand, and it was

filled with fullness and living warmth.

Instinctively his fingers curled over the full, firm ripeness of a

woman's breast. He could feel the shape and weight and the tautness of

the nipple with his palm right through the taffeta.

She was warm, but very still. Sweet Jesus, let her be alive, he thought,

still stunned by the contact his fingers had made.

She was alive. Beyond a doubt, she was alive. She burst from her hiding

place with a wicked scream of terror and fury. Startled, he moved back.

He had been prepared for danger, for a wounded Comanche, but when he had

touched the softness and striking femininity of her form, he had relaxed

his guard.

Foolish move.

He backed away, but she screamed again, high and shrill and desperate, a

sound like that of a wounded animal. He started to reach for his Colt,

but his hand fell quickly as he reminded himself that it was just a

woman. A small, delicate woman.

"Ma'am" -- She cast herself upon him with a vengeance, pitting her body

against his with a startling ferocity and strength.

"Hey" -- he began, but she didn't heed him. She slammed her foot against

his leg and brought a fist flailing down upon his shoulder, trying to

throw him off balance. He braced himself as she slammed against him, but

still she brought them both down~ upon the floor.

"Hey! Damn, stop!" he yelled, aware of her fragile size, her wild mane

of honey-colored hair. Nor could he forget the full feel of her breast

within his hand. She was exquisite. He had to be gentle.

Her foot slammed against his shin again. She thrashed with the fury of

ten Comanche. Her flailing fist caught his jaw so hard that his teeth

rattled.

Gentle. hell!

She was a monster. There was no way in hell a man could possibly be

gentle and survive. Gritting his teeth harshly he caught her wrists,

trying not to hold them in a painful vise. She screamed again

incoherently, freeing her hands to grope on the bunk. He should have

held her in a vise! There was just no being nice here. She was like

wildfire atop him, raging out of control. He saw a smile of triumph

light her features as her fingers curved around something, and she

lifted it high.

"Whoa, wait a minute, ma'am" -- he began, seeing that she held a

long-bladed and lethally sharp bowie knife.

Damn! She was going from fists to steel.

"Lady, I'm warning you, stop?"

She didn't pay the least bit of attention to him. Rather, she fought on

with desperation, drawing up her arm again, preparing to slash the blade

across his throat. Jamie swung out, catching her by the middle, his

hands resting beneath the swell of her breasts. He cast her far away

from him and struggled to his feet.

"I'm the cavalry!" he snapped out.

"Damn it, I'm the good guy."

She didn't seem to hear him, or really even see him. Her huge,

violet-blue eyes were glazed, he saw, and she barely blinked at his

words. She certainly didn't seem to understand them.

She screamed again and flew at him. The blade slashed the air

uncomfortably close to his windpipe. He clamped down grimly on his jaw

and caught her arm with a stunning blow, sending the blade flying out of

the wagon. She gasped, but when he lunged for her, she was ready to

fight again, her nails gouging for his eyes. He swore again, capturing

her wrists and falling down hard with her upon the floor of the wagon.

Struggling to hold her still, he looked up to see that Jon Red Feather

was looking in from the driver's seat of the wagon.

"I could have used some help here, you know!" he thundered.

Red Feather grinned.

"You--against one little honey- haired girl?

Honestly, Lieutenant."

She was no little girl. Lying atop her, Jamie was very aware of that.

She was small and slight, but the sweet, provocative fullness of her

breasts was now crushed lushly against his cavalry jacket, reminding him

that it had been some time since he'd last been to Maybelle's House of

Gentlemanly Leisure Pursuits. She fought him still, writhing like a

wildcat, and with every twist and turn of her body, he realized more

fully just how grown up the woman was, how evocatively mature. She

stared at him with death- defying hatred, and as he gazed at her, she

lunged against him again, trying to bite his shoulder.

"For the love of God!" he snapped, rolling with her to retain his hold

without bringing bodily injury to her or losing a hunk of flesh himself.

She freed one wrist from his grasp and began tearing at him again. Their

momentum was taking them closer and closer to the rear of the wagon, and

then suddenly they were outside it, plunging down to the dirt together.

She shrieked, and he realized then that she was fighting to free herself

from his hold rather than fighting to harm him. But he wasn't about to

let her go. She was too unpredictable.

Their limbs entangled, and her petticoats rode around them. He could

feel the slender length of her legs, warm and alive, scantily clad in

pantalets, against his own.

She reached up to strike him again, and he caught her hand with a

serious fury as his patience snapped.

"Enough!"

He drew her hands high over her head and straddled her hips, pinning her

down at last. Her hair lay spread out over the dirt in a majestic fan

while the Texas sand smudged her beautiful features. She gasped

desperately for breath, her breasts rising and falling with her effort.

She was down, subdued at last. He released her wrists, remaining

straddled upon her, careful to maintain his own weight. "It's all right"

-- he tried to tell her, but to no avail. She tried to twist, lashing

out, clawing for his face.

She caught his chin and drew blood.

"Woman, no morel" he shouted. His hand raised high and with

determination, and he caught himself fight before he could slap her in

return. He saw her eyes close tightly in expectation of the blow, but it

did not fall. He held her tight, trying to check his temper, staring at

her hard. Then he caught her arms and dragged them high above her head,

leaning close and hard against her. His anger faded at. last as he saw

her eyes go damp with tears she fought to control.

She was hysterical, he realized, and yet she had really come at him with

an attempt to kill.

She shuddered and gasped, and a trembling rippled through the entire

length of her body. Still, he could not trust her to release her.

"We're the damned cavalry!" he repeated.

"Listen to me! No one is going to hurt you. The Indians are gone. We're

the cavalry. We want to help you. You do speak English, don't you?"

"Yes!" she snapped furiously, and the trembling ceased. "Yes, yes, I

understand you!" Her eyes beheld him, then glazed over again.

"Bastard!" she hissed to him, "Murdering, despicable bastard."

"Murdering bastard? I'm trying to help you."

"I don't believe you!"

Startled by her words, Jamie fell silent. Her eyes remained locked with

his, the tears she would not shed highlighting the deep blue color. Her

hair fell in tangled streams around them both, like a pool of sunlight

just before twilight fell. Watching her, he nearly forgot why he

straddled her.

She didn't believe him. He had come to rescue her from the Comanche, and

she didn't believe him.

"Listen, now, lady, I am with the cavalry--these men, all of us, we're

with the United States Cavalry" -- "Your uniform doesn't mean anything!"

"Lady, you are crazy!" That was it, she had lost her mind. She had

watched the savage attack and she had retreated into some fantasy world

of fear.

"You're all right now, or you will be if you quit trying to hurt me."

"Hurt you! Oh!"

"The Indians are gone" -- "There never were any Indians!"

"No Indians?"

"They dressed like Indians, but they weren't Indians. And you were

probably in on it! The law is corrupt, why not the cavalry?"

"Lady, I don't know what you're talking about. I'm Lieutenant Slater out

of Fort Vickers, and we've just stumbled upon your present difficulty."

She blinked, and her gaze went guarded. He still held her locked beneath

him. His men were coming near, alerted by the commotion.

She gazed around her, past his head, and it seemed that she slowly

realized that they really were a cavalry company.

Everyone was staring at her with silence, with sympathy. She looked at

Jamie, and a slow flush spread into her features. They were now both

painfully aware of the way their bodies came together. Her legs and hips

burned against his, bare beneath the thin cotton shield of her

pantalets.

She wore no corset, he knew that very well, and her breasts seemed to

swell, as if with realization of their intimate contact against his

chest. She touched her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, and even

that seemed an intimate gesture. She squirmed beneath him, but he wasn't

about to give her any quarter. He had tried to be as gentle as possible

and he was bleeding as if he had been gouged by a mountain cat because

of it. A drop of blood from his chin fell upon her bodice even as he

thought that he should show her some mercy.

"Lieutenant, let me" -- "What's your name?"

"If you would just" -- "What's your name?"

Her eyes flashed with a silver-blue annoyance as she realized that he

was going to hold her until he chose to let her go.

"Tess," she snapped.

"It's Tess."

"Tess what?"

Her eyes narrowed.

"Tess Stuart."

"Where were you going and where were you headed f~om?"

"Wiltshire. We were bringing some cattle and a printing press. We were

heading home from a small town called Dunedin, nearly a ghost town now.

That's why we bought the printing press. They didn't need it anymore."

"You said we. Who were you riding with?"

"My" -- She hesitated just a moment, her lashes rising and falling