“The FBI shot somebody again,” she said loudly. At nearly a hundred, Gwen wasn’t a bit deaf, but for some reason seemed to think everyone else was.

Busy arranging the tray and utensils so her aunt’s cramped and gnarled fingers could grasp them easily, Lucy murmured, “Oh, dear. Who was it?”

“They said some rancher’s wife. Out in Arizona. Said it was supposed to be one of those militia groups holed up in there, but then all it turned out to be was this fellow’s wife.” She hitched herself up a little so Lucy could slip a pillow behind her back.

“That’s a shame,” Lucy said. She made a mental note to ask her husband, Mike, for details when he got back from his weekly trip to his office at the Chicagoan, the daily newspaper from which his nationally syndicated column originated. “Is she dead?”

“I don’t think so-not yet.” Gwen was busy refocusing her still-sharp eyes on the TV screen, where a commercial break had just ended. Now the correspondent was talking about the presidential race, working up to the national convention, which was due to begin tomorrow in Dallas. “Anyway, they said she shot first. Hush-” she interrupted herself “-look, there’s Rhett.”

Silently the two women watched the familiar dark head-which was beginning to silver a bit, Lucy noticed- work its way through a crowd at a fund-raising rally somewhere in the South-Mississippi, was it?-while the correspondent gave the figures from the latest polls.

Gwen arched her eyebrows at Lucy. “What do you think about your brother being president?”

Lucy shrugged. There was an ache in her throat. “I just keep thinking…I wish Mama and Daddy could have lived to see it. Well, I wonder who that is,” she said as the phone rang. It was the wrong time of day to be Mike or any of the children.

“Salesman, probably,” said Gwen. Another commercial had come on, and she concentrated her efforts on the task of picking up her soup spoon while Lucy went to answer the telephone.

It didn’t take her long. And when she returned to the parlor her heart was pounding, though she couldn’t have explained exactly why. “Guess who that was?” she said to Gwen, and went on to answer herself. “Speak of the devil-that was Rhett.” She gave a small huff of bemused laughter. “He wants us-Mike and me-to join him and Dixie down at the Parish ranch.”

“That’s in Texas!” the old lady exclaimed in the same tone she might have used to respond to a proposed jaunt to Mars. “What does he want you down there for?”

Lucy shook her head. “I don’t know, but he says he’s called Earl, too. He has something important to tell us, it seems, and he wants us all there. Isn’t that just like Rhett,” she added with a touch of asperity. “He always was so darn bossy.”

Gwen gave her a look of amusement; if anybody had a reputation for being bossy, it was Lucy. “I guess you’d better go, then, hadn’t you?” Her cracked voice still carried a lilt of laughter. “Me, I’m staying here. Kathy Andersen can look after me. Is Eric going with you?”

Lucy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Her son was due home from his summer job at Burger Heaven any minute. “I guess so,” she breathed, half in exasperation, “assuming he can get away. Oh, Lord, what is Rhett thinking of? I can’t just up and leave a farm in the middle of summer!”

Still fuming and fussing, she went off to call her husband. Lucy fumed and fussed partly because that was her way, but also because she felt a need to distract herself from the hollow feeling in her insides. Gwen would call it a premonition.


Lulled by the sultry late-afternoon heat and a belly full of burritos and salsa, Lauren had drifted off to sleep. Because of the burritos-or perhaps the salsa-her slumber was restless, plagued with dreams of horses-wild horses-and one wild rider, naked to the waist with long black wind-whipped hair.

Suddenly she sat up, trembling. Her chest ached and her throat was dry. In the distance she could still hear the sound of hoofbeats.

No-not hoofbeats! Thunder.

Lightning danced and flickered across the tent walls like an old-fashioned silent movie. Something-raindrops? pine needles?-pattered against the sides of the tent as a gust of wind hit and moved on with a howl like a banshee. The tent shuddered and so did Lauren. Born and raised in Iowa, she was fairly accustomed to violent weather. But up till now there’d always been solid walls and a strong sturdy roof to serve as a buffer between her and the forces of nature. She’d never actually been out in a thunderstorm before. It seemed a lot bigger, louder and scarier when she was perched on the side of a mountain with nothing between her and the violence but a thin nylon tent!

A tremendous cra-a-ack of thunder had her crouched in the middle of her sleeping bag with her arms crossed over her head. She thought about lightning. True, it would probably strike a tree before the tent, but what if it struck one very nearby? People got killed standing under trees, didn’t they? And what if it caught fire?

As if in answer to that, the heavens opened up. Wind-driven rain began pounding the tent with the force of a fire hose, and the frail structure shook like a rag in the jaws of a playful dog. Now she thought about flash floods. And whether the tent had been anchored down.

The thunder and lightning were almost continuous, the noise of the rain and wind so loud she couldn’t think about anything at all except how frightened she was. And Bronco.

Where in the world was he? Why had he left her here to deal with this alone?

Ashamed of her fear, Lauren chose to cling, instead, to anger. He was supposed to be looking after her! Keeping her safe! Some guard he was-and it would serve him right, she thought, if he came back and found his valuable hostage had been washed or blown away or roasted to a crisp by lightning. Serve him right.

A terrible thought came to her. What if something had happened to him? What if he’d been injured? There’s a lot going on right now. I’ve got things to do. What sort of things? The camp was crawling with men, dangerous men with guns. And Bronco didn’t carry one. And the horses! An animal terrified by the storm could easily kill or injure a man. Oh, God-if something were to happen to Bronco, who would protect her then?

The thunder seemed a little more distant now, the sound and fury of the rain and wind not quite as deafening. The storm was passing. But strangely, Lauren’s fear only intensified. Where was Bronco? Her heart hammered and her breath whimpered in her throat. Her jaws screamed with tension. Bronco, please come back.

It didn’t seem at all strange or unseemly to her then that she could wish so passionately for the man who should by rights have been her enemy.

She was pacing the sultry confines of the tent like a caged cat, thunder was rumbling away in the distance, and the rain had been reduced to fitful flurries when she heard at last the sound her ears had been straining for: the squishy crunch of boots on wet pine needles.

She gave a little whimper of relief and gladness that pride instantly turned into a humph of vexation. Over her dead body would that man ever learn how desperately she’d longed for his return! The words About time you showed up! were on her lips as the flap’s zipper whined along its grooves.

The flap was thrown back. But the man who stood in the tent opening wasn’t Bronco. Lauren felt the blood freeze in her veins as she stared into the cold blue eyes of Ron Masters.

Chapter 9

He was dressed in his usual combat fatigues. Even in the deep shadows of premature dark Lauren could see that his face was painted in green-and-brown blotches, a dark and sinister mask from which his eyes glittered like chips of cold steel.

Chills coursed through her; her heart raced with a primitive fear.

But his body filled the opening; there was nowhere for her to go. Even so, she took a step back and held her head high as she demanded, in a much steadier voice than she’d thought herself capable of. “What are you doing here? Where’s Bronco?”

Masters didn’t bother to reply. He stepped through the tent opening, and as she retreated farther, snaked out a hand and caught her wrist. She pulled against his crushing grip, resisting instinctively, with all her strength, oblivious both to pain and to the reality that resistance was hopeless-a reality that was driven home to her a moment later when she was jerked forward with a force that made her bite her tongue, then spun into the embrace of an arm that felt like iron, rather than human flesh and bone.

She gave a little grunt of pain. The shock of her bitten tongue brought tears to her eyes.

Ron Masters grunted softly, too, as he held her even more tightly. His voice was a hard rasp in her ear. “The commander said to bring you and he didn’t specify what condition. Keep that in mind in case you feel like puttin’ up a fight.”

Lauren said nothing; her whole being was focused on fighting the fear and the pain. Don’t let him know how afraid you are, her instincts whispered. This man’s cruelty feeds on fear. She concentrated on making her breathing slow and steady. She concentrated on the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and on keeping her knees from buckling. She concentrated on the sweet cool kiss of rain on her face when they stepped outside, and on the smell of the man-a mixture of gun oil and sweat.

She would not let herself think of Bronco. You’re on your own, she thought. It’s up to you to survive.

There were others waiting outside the tent. At least three that Lauren could see, all dressed and painted in camouflage, all carrying automatic weapons. This is it, this is real, she thought. The meadow, the horses, Bronco-that had been some strange sort of fantasy interlude, like being in a movie about a kidnapping. But these men-she had no doubt whatsoever that these men were killers. And she was their hostage.

Stay alive. For as long as you can, any way you can.

For Lauren time seemed to telescope. The journey from her sanctuary by the spring to the camp’s main compound seemed to take only minutes, but in that time so many things passed through her mind. She thought again of her family, of the life she’d had and of Benjamin, the nice respectable lawyer she was supposed to have married next spring-a White House wedding, in all probability. She thought again of the choices she’d made that had changed all that and brought her to where she was now. And was astonished to find that she felt no regret.

Even if I die tonight, leaving was the right decision.

Yes. Because to have stayed, to have taken the firm’s offer, to have married Benjamin, that would have been worse than dying. What could be worse than dying at the age of twenty-six? To have never really lived-that would be worse.

But I haven’t lived! Not yet. I haven’t loved-really loved-a man. Loved him enough to want to spend my life with him, bear his children…die for him. There’s so much I haven’t done!

Yes, came the gentle reply. But you gave yourself the chance. You made the right choice, Lauren. Have no regrets.

The cleared slope before the cabin, all but deserted when she’d come through it with Bronco the night before, now seemed filled with the dark ominous shapes of heavily armed men. There were no lights. The cabin, so hospitably lit for her arrival last evening, was dark except for the last of the sunlight that had leaked through clouds on the western horizon to splash across the porch and down the steps.

It was oddly quiet, especially after the thunderstorm’s fury. There were no comments or mutterings from the men gathered before the cabin, just a rustle of movement as they made way for Lauren and her escort to move through. As he had the night before, Gil McCullough was waiting for them on the porch, and again as they approached he moved down the steps to meet them. Tonight, though, there was no welcoming smile, however false. No body language that spoke of confidence and authority. He looked oddly shrunken, Lauren thought, but at the same time seemed finely balanced as a hair trigger, taut as a trap about to be sprung.

Her escort halted at the base of the steps. Ron Masters’s fingers dug viciously into the flesh of her arms as he jerked her around to face his commander.

Her only thought was, My God, my God, what’s happened?

Dread made her queasy and weak in the knees. Even in the fading light, she could see that McCullough’s face was a mask of pain, as if he’d been terribly ill. He’d aged twenty years overnight.