And in his sweeping way, he was a cavalier.

She loved his courage, and his daring, just as she was coming to love the bronzed power of his arms, holding her close now. Just as she was coming to love the breadth of his golden-matted chest, and the hard, muscled length of his thighs…

And his impossible, immoral intimacy. She could not believe the way that he had touched and caressed her, and neither could she believe the sweet, unbearable ecstasy that he brought her with his sheer decadent purpose and determination. She was coming to care for him too much…

"Malachi," she whispered softly.

"What?" He moved his hand gently against her, beneath her breasts, idly, tenderly upon them.

"Have you ever been in love?"

He went still, then he moved away from her, his arm over his forehead as he rolled to his back, staring at the ceiling. "Yes. Once. Why?"

"I just… wondered.''

He grunted, giving her no further answer.

"Malachi?"

"Yes?"

"Who was she?"

"A girl." It was a short, terse answer. He sighed. "It was a long, long time ago."

"What happened?"

"She died."

"The war—"

"A fever."

"I'm so sorry."

"I told you, it was a long, long time ago."

"It hurt you, though. Badly."

"Shannon, go to sleep."

"Malachi—"

"Shannon, go to sleep. It's night, and I'm tired." He started to rise. In the darkness, she saw the glitter in his eyes.

"Unless you plan on entertaining me again, I suggest you go to sleep."

She closed her eyes quickly, turning from him and hugging her pillow. She couldn't…do it again. Not that night. She had to hug what had happened to herself, and she had to try to understand it, and live with it.

She felt him as he eased back down.

And later, when she was drifting off to sleep, she felt his arm come around her again, strong and sure, bringing her body close against his. It was warm, and it felt better than she ever might have imagined.

It felt…peaceful.

She opened her eyes and looked down at his hand, brown against the whiteness of her flesh in the moonlight.

It felt right, and though it might not be, she was tired. She was tired of the war, and tired of righting. She didn't want to worry anymore. She wanted to take moments like these, and cling to them.

Her pa would be twisting and turning in his grave if he knew anything about her behavior in bed with this man, she thought ruefully. Gabriel McCahy had been a strong man— in his beliefs, in his ideals, in his morality. He'd liked his Irish whiskey, and he'd always been able to spin a fine tale, but he'd loved their mother, and when she had died, he'd been determined that his daughters would be ladies.

Of course, he'd never reckoned on the war.

And then, she reflected wistfully, maybe he wouldn't be so upset after all. He'd had an ability to judge men, and he might have understood that she had stumbled upon a good one, albeit, he came clothed in gray.

She closed her eyes and slept, her fingers falling lightly over Malachi's where they lay across her midriff.


"It is him! I told you it was him, Martha!"

Malachi woke abruptly, his eyes flashing open.

The bore of a sawed-off shotgun was stuck right beneath his nose. He jerked up. Shannon, curled against his chest, moaned in protest and went silent again. Instinctively, Malachi pulled the sheets high over her naked form as he stared respectfully into the face of the man carrying the shotgun.

"You're Malachi Slater," Mr. Haywood said. He barely dared glance at his wife, plump and pink in her nightgown and cap behind him. "Martha, you look now. It is him."

"Do you make a habit of bursting into your guests' bedrooms in the middle of the night?" Malachi demanded icily.

Beside him, Shannon stirred. Her eyes flew open and she saw the shotgun. "Oh!" she gasped, grasping the covers. She stared from Malachi to Haywood, and past him to his wife. She stiffened, raising her chin, and her voice came out as imperiously as a queen's. "What is the meaning of this?"

"There's wanted posters out on him all over the countryside," Haywood said. "You're a dangerous man, Captain Slater. Captain! Hell! Bushwhackers shouldn't get no titles or rank!"

Shannon leaped from the bed, dragging the covers with her, and heedlessly leaving Malachi bare. "He isn't a bushwhacker!" she swore. "It's all a lie! You want to shoot somebody, you ought to go out and shoot Fitz!"

Malachi grimaced at her sudden, passionate loyalty and pulled his pillow around to his lap. "Mr. Haywood, what she's saying is true. I was never a bushwhacker. I was a captain under John Hood Morgan until he died. I signed surrender forms with my men, and we were all allowed to keep our horses, and I was even allowed to keep my arms. I didn't know anything about this until some Union sentries shot at me." He indicated the wound on his leg. The bandage had been lost during his impromptu swim in the stream, but the evidence of Shannon's quick surgery was still there, a jagged red scab.

"Well, I don't know, young man. You're worth an awful lot of money, you know. If this is the truth, you can tell it to Mr. Fitz," Haywood said.

"Fitz will hang him and ask questions later," Shannon said.

Both the Haywoods looked at Malachi again. Malachi barely saw Shannon move, but suddenly she was behind the chair and she was aiming her Colt at the two of them.

"Drop the shotgun," she said.

Mr. Haywood frowned. "Now, come on, little girl. You put that thing down. Those Colts can be mighty dangerous."

"You ever seen close hand what a shotgun does to a man?" she inquired sweetly.

Malachi was afraid of the outcome.

"Can she shoot that thing?" Haywood asked him.

"Better'n General Grant himself, I'm willing to bet," Malachi replied sagely.

He still didn't think it wise to wait. He leaped from the bed.

Shannon watched in amazement as he swooped down on Mr. Haywood, bare as birth, and procured the shotgun. Mrs. Haywood gasped in astonishment, but didn't look away from the swaggering male body. Malachi bowed in response to her gasp. "Ma'am, excuse me." He tossed the shotgun to Shannon, reached for his pants and quickly limped into them.

"Oh, my goodness!" Mrs. Haywood gasped again. Her eyes closed and she promptly passed out.

"Oh, no!" Shannon wailed. Wrapping the sheet around herself, she hurried over to the fallen woman. Malachi stopped her, grabbing the Colt from her fingers. Shannon dropped down by Mrs. Haywood. "Malachi, Mr. Haywood, I need some water."

Mr. Haywood moved suddenly, as if rousing himself from shock. "Water. Water." He hurried to the washstand and brought over the pitcher. Nervous and disoriented, he poured the water over his wife's face. She came to, sputtering and coughing. She looked up at her husband. "Mr. Haywood!" she said reproachfully.

"Are you all right?" Shannon murmured.

"We've got to get out of here, Shannon!" Malachi warned her gruffly.

She ignored him. "Mrs. Haywood, I swear to you, I was telling you the truth. You've got to understand the whole story. Mr. Fitz had a brother who led a unit of jayhawkers, Mrs. Haywood—"

"I never could abide jayhawkers," Mr. Haywood said. "Never could abide them! Why, they were just as bad as the bushwhackers themselves."

Shannon nodded. "They killed Cole Slater's wife, Mrs. Haywood. She was expecting a child. She was innocent, and they came and they killed her, and they burned down the ranch… And, well, Cole ran into Henry Fitz toward the end of the war. It was a fair fight—even the Yanks there knew it. Cole killed him."

"So now Hayden Fitz wants the whole lot of you Slaters, is that it?" Mr. Haywood asked Malachi.

Malachi nodded. "But that doesn't matter. I want Hayden Fitz. He has Shannon's sister, Cole's new wife, in his jail. He's going to use her, another innocent woman, to lure my brother out of hiding. I'm sorry, Mr. Haywood, but I ain't going to be hunted down and murdered by the likes of Fitz. And I'm mighty sorry, 'cause you and your wife are fine people, but I'm going to have to tie you up so that Shannon and I can get out of here."

"Shannon?" Mr. Haywood looked her way, then sank down on the bed. He looked to his wife. "What do you say, mother?"

"I never could abide those jayhawkers. Killing women and innocent children. And that poor dear girl, locked in a jail cell. It ain't decent!"

"Ain't decent at all."

Malachi looked uneasily from Shannon, kneeling by Mrs. Haywood, to Mr. Haywood, calmly sitting on the bed.

"What—"

"You don't need to tie us up, Captain Slater."

"I'm sorry, but—"

"You're going to need us, I think. We're not going to turn you in. If what you tell us is true, we'll try to help you."

"Why?"

"Why?" Mrs. Haywood stood up, strangely noble despite the water that dripped from her nightcap over her bosom. "Why? 'Cause somewhere, Captain Slater, the healing has to start. Somewhere, it has to quit being North and South, and somewhere, we have to stand against the men going against the very rules of God!"

"Malachi!" Shannon urged him. "We need them, if they will help us. We need this base. We need…we need the information that we're supposed to get in the next few days."

Malachi thought furiously. Iris said that these were good folks. And Iris said that she could get to Fitz, and she could probably help him with information that he could never get on his own.

"Malachi! We have to trust them."

Slowly, he lowered the Colt. Then he tossed it onto the bed.

"Shannon, I pray you aren't going to get us both killed," he said savagely.

"Hmph." Mr. Haywood stood, as stout and proud as his wife. He went over and picked up his shotgun. He didn't wave it at Malachi, but he held it in his hand, shaking it.

"So you ain't a bushwhacker and you don't deserve to hang for that! But you aren't this young lady's husband, either, and you should be strung up for seducing an innocent, and that's a fact."

Shannon was surprised to see the flush that touched Malachi's cheeks. "That's none of your business, Mr. Haywood," he said.

"It is our business, captain," Martha Haywood warned him severely. "You were living in sin, right beneath our roof. What do you say, Papa?" she asked her husband.

"I say that he hangs."

"What?" Malachi exploded. He made a dive for the Colt. Mrs. Haywood moved faster. She grabbed the gun and aimed his way. "Now, captain, where are your manners? I never did meet a more gallant boy than a cavalry officer, and a Southern gentleman at that. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Ashamed! Where have the values gone?" Mr. Haywood said fiercely. "Pride and gallantry and good Christian ethics. The war is over now, son."

"Sir—" Malachi took a step forward. A shot exploded in the room, and he stood dead still. Mrs. Haywood knew what she was doing with a Colt, too, so it seemed. The ball went straight by Malachi's head, nearly grazing his ear.

"Shannon," he said through his teeth, keeping his eyes warily upon Mrs. Haywood. "Shannon, I am going to wring your neck!"

"No, captain, you're not. You're going to marry that girl, that's what you're going to do."

"I'm not going to be coerced into any marriage!" Malachi swore.

"Well, son, you can marry her or hang," Mr. Haywood guaranteed him. "Mrs. Haywood, would you like to go for the preacher? A Saturday morning wedding seems just right to me."

"No!" Shannon called out.

Malachi looked at her, startled. She was wrapped in the sheet, her hair a wild tangle around her delicate features and beautiful sloping shoulders.

Her eyes were filled with flashing blue anger. "Don't bother, Mrs. Haywood. I won't marry him."

"Well, well, dear, I'm afraid that you'll have to marry him," Mrs. Haywood insisted. "Right is right."

"That's right, young lady. You marry him, or we'll hang him."

Shannon smiled very sweetly, glaring straight at him. "I will not marry him. Mr. Haywood, you'll have to go right ahead. Hang him."

"Shannon!" Malachi swore. He swung around to stare at her in a fury. He was unaware of Mr. Haywood moving around behind him. He really did want to throttle her. His fingers were just itching to get around her neck.

His fury did him in.

He didn't see Mr. Haywood, and he certainly didn't see the water pitcher.