What could she say? There was no way to answer words so ugly and hurtful. Lauren held herself still and listened to their echoes inside her head, and finally focused on the one phrase he’d spoken that she could replay without pain. “Are you going to return me?” she asked in a small air-starved voice. When he didn’t immediately respond, she sat up slowly and, reclaiming her hand, used it to shield her breasts from his glittering gaze. “Am I ever going to see my family again?”

“You’ll see them.” He sat up, too, and in almost the same motion rose to his feet.

“When?” she cried, twisting around in order to follow him with her eyes, her heart stumbling even then at the savage beauty of his naked body. “When it’s too late?”

He was gathering up, putting on his clothes, and didn’t reply.


Bearing a platter of sandwiches, Lucy marched into the living room where the Brown family had gathered to await the latest news. Right behind her came her sister-in-law, Chris, with an enormous bowl filled with melon wedges and grapes. She was followed by Carmen, the housekeeper, carrying a pitcher of iced tea and wearing a look of patient suffering.

Though Lucy had only arrived at the Tipsy Pee that morning, it wasn’t in her to be idle. With Dixie fully occupied with seeing Rhett through this crisis, it seemed only natural that she should take over the supervision of the household. No one had tried to dissuade her; her own family was pretty much used to her bossiness, and the housekeeper seemed, if not thrilled by the invasion, at least resigned. Carmen had lived through a good many of life’s storms, large and small; she’d survive Lucy.

Setting the platter on a hastily cleared coffee table, Lucy gave the arrangement a quick inspection and nod of approval, then went to join her husband, who was over by the big front window keeping an eye on the media encampment that had sprung up near the main gate. So far, she was glad to note, it looked like just the usual candidate’s entourage. And the local law-enforcement people, augmented by a dozen or so FBI and ATF agents masquerading as ranch hands, seemed to be doing an adequate job of keeping the invasion out of the house and yard. So far. If the media ever got wind of what was really going on behind the fieldstone walls of the sprawling ranch house, Lucy thought, it would take the National Guard to keep them out.

As if he’d been thinking along the same lines, Mike slipped his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. At almost the same moment, the study door opened and Rhett came into the room, with Dixie right behind him.

My God, he’s aged ten years, Lucy thought as she and Mike, her brother, Earl, and his wife, Chris, all gathered instinctively closer to one another. Closing ranks, she thought. Circling the wagons, as families do in troubled times.

For some reason that gathering, that closeness, made Lucy think of those who weren’t there. Mom and Dad, of course; she’d never missed them more. Mama, Daddy, your children sure do need you. Gwen, with her droll wisdom and lilting laugh.

And the children-how diminished and small their family group seemed without them. No wonder, Lucy thought wryly; young people seemed to take up such an inordinate amount of space. But, oh, what she wouldn’t give to have them all here right now, laughing and boisterous, arguing and eating-always eating-music thumping, long legs draped over furniture and clothing strewn across the floor. Eric was here, but he and his cousin, Caitlin-Earl, or rather, Wood’s and Chris’s daughter-had gone out riding with Carmen and her husband’s youngest granddaughter, Sara. They’d both be here when it counted, no matter what happened-at fifteen and sixteen they were old enough to share both the family’s triumphs and tragedies-but for now, let them enjoy the illusion of a carefree summer vacation a little while longer.

As for the others, they hadn’t even been able to reach Ellie, who was somewhere on a Mexican beach protecting sea turtles. Ethan wouldn’t be arriving until tomorrow. And Lauren-precious Lolly. What a lovely person she’d turned out to be-hard to believe, thought Lucy, that she’d once been such a god-awful brat. Losing her was unthinkable. Unthinkable.

“News?” Mike prompted softly.

Rhett scraped a hand back over his hair, and his arm found its way around Dixie. “The camp has been secured,” he said tonelessly. “There were casualties-they won’t say how many. But none among our people-that we do know. They found a considerable number of weapons, plus files and records that should lead to a whole lot more-maybe even the source. So ATF is happy.” He paused to take a breath while everybody else in the room held theirs. Then he plunged on. “They didn’t find Lauren or ATF’s undercover man, but they did find evidence she’d been held there, and by all indications, she’s being treated well. They even rigged up a private latrine for her, with a portable toilet.” A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes flickered like a faulty lightbulb.

“So,” Mike said, “it looks like the ATF man got her away before your people got there.”

There was a fraction of a second’s pause before Rhett said heavily, “That’s one scenario.”

“What aren’t you telling us?” That was Earl, the ex-marine. Lucy could almost see him chomping at the bit, wanting to be doing something, wanting to be where the action was.

For a moment Rhett’s face darkened. Then he drew a shaky breath and his eyes looked lost and desperate. “Their leader, McCullough-they didn’t find him, either. It looks like he got away. The man that took Lauren…he’s still out there somewhere.”


Thunder was rolling around and bouncing off the mountain peaks by the time they’d left the last of the tall timber behind. Bronco knew by his watch there ought to have been at least a couple of hours left before sundown, but the thick overcast had brought a premature twilight-heavy, purple and oppressive. His moments of temporary insanity this afternoon had put them behind schedule; he knew there was no way in hell they were going to make it to his grandmother Rose’s before nightfall, or a cloudburst, caught up with them. And from the looks of those clouds and the sound of that thunder, it was even money which one was going to get there first.

One way or another, he was going to have to find them some kind of shelter. He had a place in mind, but it was still some distance away. The question was could they get to it in time. He thought about it, looking around to judge the terrain, which had flattened out considerably and was forested now mostly with juniper and sagebrush. Then he turned his head and said to Lauren, “Feel like a run?”

He felt her start, as if she’d jerked herself awake. He knew she’d been quiet back there, but brooding, he’d have thought, rather than dozing. “Sure,” she said, her voice slurred and thick.

“Hang on.” And he felt an undeniable pang of regret when she grabbed hold of the back of the saddle, instead of wrapping her arms around his waist.

She’d been careful to keep her distance from him after they’d left the spring, maintaining those torturing inches between them as if she thought he had thorns. Not surprising, he supposed, after the way it had ended. What did surprise him was how much he missed her now, how much he longed for the feel of her body against his. Somewhere along the line, his body had developed a craving for her, a need he felt in his muscles and bones, in his skin and pores. He was already wondering what he was going to do for the rest of his life without her.

The rain hit as they were climbing the last of the gently sloping foothills that undulated away from the base of the huge pile of boulders he and his friends had always called, without much imagination, the Rocky Hill. It hit hard, with great stinging drops that almost instantly became a suffocating curtain that left little room for air.

Bronco heard Lauren give a shocked little cry. “Hang on!” he yelled, and grabbed her hand and yanked it around him as he urged Cochise Red into a flat-out gallop that carried them the rest of the way to the foot of the hill.

Drenched and half-blinded by the water streaming into his eyes, he led the stallion with Lauren now in the saddle, up the zigzagging path that wound between the rocks. His destination was a single wedge-shaped boulder that stood out from the side of the mountain like an airplane wing-or, according to Grandmother Rose, an ironing board. Clucking and cajoling, he managed to coax the lathered-up horse in under the overhang. Lauren slid out of the saddle and dove for deeper shelter while he got Red calmed down and tethered to a boulder. Then he, too, headed for cover.

Then, for a few minutes all they could seem to do was gasp and swear and brush the water out of their eyes, while the rain poured all around them with a roar like a freight train, and lightning flickered and flashed and the thunder boomed so loudly and so near they could feel its vibrations in the ground beneath their feet.

“God!” Lauren gasped when she was able to speak. “What is this? I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”

“Indians call this a male rain,” said Bronco with a half smile. “All sound and fury and not much use to anybody.”

She smiled her appreciation. “What’s a female rain?”

“Gentle,” he said. “Nurturing. It feeds the earth and makes things grow.”

“Ah.” For a long lingering moment her eyes rested on his face, and then she pulled them abruptly away. Even without touching her he felt her begin to shiver.

“Better get out of those wet clothes before you catch pneumonia.” He untied the poncho from the back of the saddle and gave it a shake. “Put this on. We’ll lay your clothes out on the rocks. Back in here where it’s dry there’s enough heat left in ’em-they’ll probably be dry by morning.”

She nodded, and he started to drop the poncho over her head-then stopped when they both realized her T-shirt was going to have to come off first. She hesitated for one awkward moment, then swiftly yanked the sodden thing up and off. “Okay.” It was a breathless whisper, felt rather than heard.

Proud of his stoicism, Bronco gazed silently at the hard tips of her breasts as he lifted the poncho and let it fall onto her bare shoulders.

“But,” she said in a jerky voice he could barely hear above the noise of the slackening rain, “you’re wet, too.”

“I’m fine,” he said, as gruff and macho as he could make it, valiantly suppressing his own shivers.

Apparently not well enough. Because the next thing he heard was, “You’re freezing.” And then, with shivers bumping the words, “I’m…c-cold.” He turned slowly to look at her. In the waning light beneath the overhang her face looked small and drowned, her eyes huge. “There’s room for both of us,” she said.

He held his breath as she tossed the T-shirt toward the nearest rock, then slowly bent and pulled off one of her boots. After a moment, almost in imitation, he pulled one off, too.

Then suddenly it seemed as if they couldn’t get their clothes off fast enough-either of them. Her breath came in desperate whimpers, his in soft grunts, and their shivers seemed to intensify even as the storm around them slackened. When they were both naked, she lifted the poncho and he ducked under it and came up with his mouth hard on hers, his arms wrapped around her chilled body and her breasts firm and cold against his chest.

What happened then he didn’t expect-could never have even imagined, much less prepared for. He felt something inside him, some fragile vessel of sanity and self-control, break, shatter, burst or simply disintegrate. And suddenly set free were all the feelings, all the passion, all the emotions he’d been keeping there, locked safe inside, set free to pour through him in a raging, devastating, terrifying flood. What was he to do with such feelings? He couldn’t possibly contain such emotions, control such passion. Not since he was a child had he been called upon to try.

Fear and longing tore through him and erupted in a gut- wrenching groan. Her body was so strong and vibrant, so soft and fragile in his arms. He couldn’t hold her tightly enough, touch her completely enough. Oh, how he wanted her. Wanted to be inside her, wanted her inside him, wanted her with a wild and desperate hunger. But how could he bear it if he hurt her now?

Her breath gushed in helpless whimpers as he reached for her, cupped her with his hand, felt with his fingers for her wet yielding softness. He drank in her whimpers with a growl of masculine triumph as he pushed deep, deep inside her, aching inside himself, needing to be inside her, needing…needing…

Her whimpers became a high continuous keening, and he felt her body come apart in his hands. He would have used those same hands, then, to hold her together and comfort her while she collapsed against him with soul-stirring sobs. That’s what he would have done. But the next thing he knew her arms were twined around his neck and her legs clasped around his hips, and her warm and still-pulsating feminine softness was pressed against his hot and throbbing shaft, and he desperately feared, was utterly certain, that he was lost.