She nodded, thinking that this was what Cole had heard earlier. He had quite possibly left already. But in a second, she was going to go back to the house to check. She would at least have to tell Kristin that the world of peace and happiness that she had just discovered was being blown to bits by the thunder of revenge.

"Why—why were they shooting at you? You weren't in Kansas with Cole,'' Shannon said.

Malachi grinned, a lopsided, caustic grin. "Why, darlin', I'm the man's brother. A Slater. According to the powers that be, I ran with Quantrill, and I butchered half the population of Kansas."

"But you were never with Quantrill. You were always regular cavalry," Shannon said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I didn't think that you would rush to my defense."

"I wouldn't," Shannon said coolly. "Facts are facts."

Malachi shrugged, leaning wearily back again. "Well, it doesn't matter much anyway. You go on up to the house and get Cole. We'll ride out tonight. You seen Jamie?"

Shannon was sorry to have to shake her head. She liked Jamie. He was always calm and quiet. The peacemaker of the three brothers, she thought. The Slaters were close; she could understand that. She and Kristin were close. Too many times, Kristin had been all that she had had left.

Too many times…

In the days after Robert had died, she had wanted to die herself. She had lain there without eating, without speaking, without the will to move. Kristin had been there. Kristin had given her the desire to survive again.

She lowered her head, almost smiling. Malachi had even helped her then. It had been unwitting, of course. He had never allowed her the peace of silence, or the chance to dwell in self-pity. Since she'd met him he'd been demanding, a true thorn in her side. But his very arrogance and his endless determination to treat her like a wayward child had brought out her fury, and with that her passion to live.

"I'm sorry. I haven't seen Jamie," she told him softly.

"Well," Malachi said softly to the lamp. "Jamie is no fool. He'll lay low. He'll find us."

His words were a lie, Shannon thought. He was worried sick. She didn't say so, though, for there was nothing that either of them could do.

"You were in the same company," she said. "Why aren't you together?"

"Jamie set out a day or two before I did. He wanted to stop by to see some old friends who had lost a son." He gritted his teeth. "We've got to run. He'll know how to lie low."

"You're not running anywhere, not the way that you are," Shannon told him. She couldn't bear seeing the blood on his leg. She didn't know why. Most of the time she thought that not even the Comanches could think up a cruel enough death for Malachi. But tonight the sight of his blood disturbed her.

"What do you mean?" he asked her warily.

"Your leg."

"I can find a doc south of here to take out the ball—"

"The ball is still in it?" Shannon said.

He stiffened as he held his breath for several seconds, watching her. "Yeah, the ball is still in it."

Shannon whirled around and headed for the tack room. They kept some rudimentary surgical supplies there; it was a necessary precaution on a cattle ranch.

"Shannon!" he called to her. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I'll be right back."

She found the surgical box in the lower left hand drawer of the desk. She paused. They had no morphine; nothing for pain. Nobody did, not in Missouri. Not in most of the South.

She pulled open the next drawer and found a bottle of Kentucky whiskey. It would have to do.

Then, as she came out of the tack room, she paused, wondering why she was thinking of doing this for Malachi Slater.

Maybe she didn't hate him so much.

No…she hated him. He was Cole's brother, and if his leg wasn't fixed up, he might slow Cole down. That was it, surely.

She swept back to his side and kneeled down. She opened up the box and found a pair of scissors. She needed to slit his pants and find the extent of the wound.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked her harshly.

"I'm going to cut your pants."

"If you think that I'm going to let you anywhere close—"

"The wound is in your thigh, you fool. Here.'' She handed him the whiskey. "Drink some of this."

He didn't hesitate to swallow a good shot of the whiskey. He closed his eyes, wincing when he was done. "That was good. It was an inestimable piece of kindness from a Yank to a Reb. Now forget it, I'll find—"

"Sit still, Malachi, and quit whining."

"I'll be damned if I'm whining. Shannon! Shannon, stop!"

He clenched his teeth, but when he went to grip her wrists, he was too late. He hesitated. She already had the shears snipping at his pants, and to make a move might have been dangerous. He inhaled sharply.

She paused and met his eyes. She smiled sweetly. "Sit back now, Captain Slater. Relax."

"You move carefully there, Miss McCahy, or I swear, I'll make you sorry this very night!"

"Why, Captain Slater, I would take great care with those silly threats of yours at this particular moment."

He caught her arm and her eyes once again. "Shannon, I don't make silly threats. Just promises."

"You aren't in any position to make… promises, not at this moment, captain."

"Shannon—"

"Trust me, Malachi."

"The way I would a black widow, Shannon."

She smiled and stared at his fingers, which were still locked around her arm. She looked at him again. His eyes


remained clear and deep and blue upon hers. Slowly, he eased his fingers, releasing her.

She felt him inhale as she carefully snipped at the bloodstained wool. Seconds later, she pulled the material away from the wound. She could see the ball. It was sunk in just far enough that a man wouldn't be able to remove it himself. One swift slice with a scalpel and a quick foray with the forceps and it would be gone. Then she could douse it with some of the liquor and bind it, and his chances of a clean recovery would be very good indeed.

"Take another swig of the whiskey," she told him, staring at the wound because she didn't dare look into his eyes. "I'll just get the scalpel—"

His hand landed hard upon her wrist, and her eyes were drawn to his. "I don't trust you with a scalpel, Shannon."

She smiled sweetly. "You have to trust me. You have no choice."

"You bring it too close to any part of my anatomy that I consider near and dear, and you will regret it until your dying day."

"Alas, the ladies would be heartbroken!" she taunted in turn. "I will take the gravest care."

He released her wrist, but continued to watch her. There was a warning sizzle in his eyes that brought tremors to her heart. She had to steady her hands. "What the hell," she muttered. "Mr. Ego Reb. Were I to wound anything near and dear there's a likelihood that nobody would even notice."

It was a good thing that the knife had yet to touch his flesh. He caught her wrist again, pinning it, drawing her eyes to his once more. "Sometime, darlin', I just might let you find out."

She jerked away. "Darlin', don't even dream of it. Not in your wildest thoughts."

"Couldn't handle it, huh?"

"I'll handle it right now, if you're not careful, Captain Slater."

"Is that a promise, Miss McCahy?"

"No, a threat."

"Your hands better move with the skill of an angel, got that, Miss McCahy?"

His grip on her wrist was tight. But it wasn't the pain that gave her pause. It was his agony, for all that he concealed it so well.

She nodded. "Give me the bottle."

"What for?"

"To clean the scalpel." She doused the small sharp knife with the alcohol, and then he took the bottle back from her. He swallowed heartily. "Ready?" Shannon asked him.

"You are eager to take a blade against me," he said.

"Right."

"I can't wait to take one against you." His speech was slurred just a bit. When she glanced his way, she saw his grin, lopsided, heartstopping. She closed her eyes tightly against it, against the searing cobalt of his eyes, and the charisma of that smile. He was making her tremble tonight, and she couldn't falter.

She brought the scalpel against his flesh, holding his thigh to keep it steady. He didn't start or move at the swift penetration of the knife, but she felt his muscles jump and contract, and the power was startling.

He didn't make a sound. He just closed his eyes and clamped down on his jaw, and for a moment she wondered if he was conscious, and then she hoped that he was not. She quickly finished her cut, and brought the small forceps out. She had cut well. She quickly secured the ball and dug it from his flesh, then liberally poured whiskey over the wound and began to bind it with linen bandages. There weren't enough to finish the job. She glanced at his face, then lifted her skirt and tore her petticoat.

One of his eyes opened and he looked at her. "Thanks, darlin'." He wasn't unconscious.

"I don't want you getting Cole killed," she said flatly. She came up on her knees, and wrapped the linen around his thigh, moving higher and higher. Both his eyes were open now. She wished that her elegant bodice weren't cut quite so low. He was staring straight at her cleavage, and he was making no gentlemanly move to look away.

"Quit that," she ordered him.

"Why?"

"You're supposed to be a Southern gentleman," she reminded him.

He smiled, but the smile held pain. "The South is dead, haven't you heard? And so are Southern gentlemen. And you be careful right now, Miss McCahy. You're moving real, real close."