with a bullet, right in the heart."

He could feel Jon standing behind him. Jamie adjusted his plumed hat and

twisted his jaw.

"Don't try to tell me the Comanche don't have rifles."

"Hell, I'm not going to tell you that. They get them from the

Comancberos--the Comancheros will sell rifles to anyone.

Of course, you've got to bear in mind that the Comancheros do buy them

from your people."

Jamie didn't say anything. He stepped past Jon and stared at the one

wagon that seemed to have had little damage done to it. He thought he

heard something.

He had to be imagining things. The job here had been very thorough.

Still, he watched the wagon as he straightened his back, trying to get

out all the little cricks and pains. He felt queasy about this thing.

And he hadn't felt queasy about anything in quite some time.

He'd grown up on bloodshed. Before he had been twenty, his sister-in-law

had been slain by Kansas jay hawkers Then war had been declared, and

though he had fought in a decent regiment under the command of John Hunt

Morgan, he had never been able to escape the horror of the border war.

From his brother Cole he had learned that the Missouri bushwhackers

could behave every bit as monstrously as the jay hawkers

And a Southern boy called Little Archie Clements had gone around doing a

fair bit of scalping in his day. He and his men had stripped down men in

blue and shot them without thought, and when they'd finished with the

killing they'd gone on to scalping.

He had no right to think that the Indians were any more vicious than the

white men. No right at all.

He exhaled slowly. Knowing that the Southern bushwhackers had been every

bit as bad as the Northern jay hawkers was one of the reasons he was

able to wear this uniform now. A blue cavalry uniform, decorated in blue

trim, with a cavalry officer's sword at his side. He didn't carry a

military-issue rifle, though. Through four years of civil conflict he

had worn his Colts, and he wore them to this day.

His eyes narrowed suddenly. He could have sworn that something in the

wagon had moved.

He glanced over his shoulder. Jon was behind him. Jon nodded, aware

instantly of Jamie's suspicions. He circled around while Jamie headed

straight for the opening at the rear.

He looked in. For a second he could see only shadows in the dim light.

Then things took form. There were two bunks in the wagon. Ironically,

they were neat and all made up-- with the sheets tucked in, the blankets

folded back at an inviting angle and the pillows plumped up. Beyond the

bunks were trunks and boxes. ~Everything seemed to be in perfect order.

But it wasn't. He felt just a flicker of movement again. He didn't know

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.