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

swiftly.

Tears burned behind her eyelids. She must know that everyone was dead.

She wasn't going to shed those tears. Not in front of him. "My uncle and

I. We were heading home to Wiltshire."

He eased himself up a little. He saw her swallow as his thighs tightened

against her hip, then she lifted her chin, determined to ignore him,

determined to be as cool as if they were discussing the matter over tea

in a handsome parlor.

She had inestimable courage. No matter how she was beaten, she would

never surrender but would fight it out until the very end. It was there

in her eyes. All the silver-blue fire a man could imagine. She was

either a complete fool or one of the most extraordinary women he had

ever met.

Despite her warm honey spill of hair, her large, luminous eyes and her

perfect fragile features, she had a spine of steel.

Courage could kill out here in the West. That, he told himself, was why

he held to her so tightly. She needed to learn that she could be beaten.

"You're lucky as hell that the Indians didn't see you, you know," he

told her hoarsely.

She lifted her chin.

"I told you--they weren't Indians."

"Who were they?"

"Von Heusen's men."

"And who the hell is yon Heusen?" He was startled when he heard a

curious rumble in someone's throat behind him.

Still holding her, he whirled around. He looked at the faces of the

young men in his company.

"Well? Does someone want to answer me?"

It was Jon Red Feather who drawled out a reply. "Richard von Heusen.

Calls himself a rancher sometimes, an entrepreneur at others. You never

heard of him, Lieutenant?"

"No, I never heard of him."

"You spend all your time on Indian affairs, Lieutenant," Jon said.

"You've been missing out on the shape of things down here."

It was true, Jamie thought. He hadn't wanted to know a lot about the

ranchers. He didn't want to se~ the carpetbaggers, or talk to them.

"You're telling me a guy named von Heusen did this?" he said to Jon.

Jon shrugged.

"I can't tell you that."

"I can tell you that he owns a hell of a lot of Texas," Monaban said

softly.

"It's a good thing it's a big state, else he might own a good half of

it."

Jamie looked curiously at the girl. Tess. Her eyes were upon him as she

watched him in silence, scathingly. Then she hissed with all the venom

of a snake.

"He's a carpet- bag get Yank. You ever heard tell about the

carpetbaggers down here? They're vultures. They came down upon a

defeated and struggling South, and they just kicked the hell out of us.

Bought up land the Southern boys couldn't pay their taxes on 'cause the

Union didn't want any Confederate currency. Well, Lieutenant, von Heusen

bought up Wiltshire."

"You're trying to tell me that a Yankee named von Heusen came out here

and shot your wagon train full of arrows?

In broad daylight, just like that?"

" No, not just like that," she retorted.

"And I doubt that he came out here himself. He had his men all greased

down and painted up like Comanche, just in case someone didn't die."

"So you did see Comanche attack the wagon."

"No. That's not what I'm telling you at all. I'm no fool, Lieutenant.

I was born and bred out here and I know a Comanche when I see one. And I

know a fraud when I see it, too."

"You're saying a group of white men came out here and did this to theft

own kind?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, how wonderfully perceptive of you. Why, you must have

studied at West Point! That's exactly what I'm telling you." Her lashes

flicked again.

"Von Heusen masterminded this whole thing. You need to arrest him,