As it was, he was terrified she was going to touch him, and yet he needed her tenderness, needed it desper-ately.

"Don't… cry…"

"No, no, I won't," she assured him as the tears continued to pour down her cheeks. "But don't try to talk, okay? I'll take care of everything. I'll even kill Callan for you."

Was she trying to make him laugh? He'd made the same offer to her once, only the man he would have killed for her was now the husband she loved with all her heart.

"Don't… kill… anyone."

"Shhh, all right, all right, anything you say, but don't talk anymore." And then, "Dammit, Chase, hurry up with those ropes! We've got to stop the bleeding."

Colt didn't move his arms when they were freed. Chase stood in front of him now. His voice was gentle as he explained, "Jessie, honey, that whip was trailed through the dirt time and again. His back is going to have to be cleaned first if infection isn't to kill him."

There was a heavy silence. Colt would have tensed if he wasn't already holding himself so rigid.

"Do it, Chase," Jessie said quietly.

"Christ, Jessie—"

"You have to," she insisted.

The three knew each other well enough that both men understood she wasn't talking about cleaning wounds or even moving him yet. Colt's body almost sighed with relief. It was about time she had thought of something sensible.

"We'll need a mattress first, and a couple men to hold him so he doesn't fall."

Jessie was in her element, issuing orders, but when she sent two men into the house for a mattress, Walter Callan recollected whose property they were on and stepped in front of the door to block their way.

"You ain't wastin' one of my mattresses on that dirty. "

He didn't finish. Jessie had whirled around at the sound of his objection, and he now had her full attention, and every bit of the fury she had felt earlier. She mounted the porch steps, and before anyone re-alized her intent, she had hefted the gun from one of the men Callan was blocking. Chase wasn't there to take it away this time. No one else would dare try.

"You ever been shot before, Callan?" she said conversationally as she motioned the two men into the house and casually caressed the barrel of the old Colt.44 Dragoon. "There are parts on the body that can be shot off that won't bleed too seriously, but will sure hurt like hell. A toe, for instance, or a finger… or what makes a man a man. How many bullets do you think it would take to shoot off an inch at a time?

Three, maybe? Not even that many? Would that equal your own savagery, do you think?"

"You're crazy," Walter said in a horrified whisper.

His hand had gone to his gun in a protective ges-ture. Jessie did nothing to stop him, just stared at his hand, hoping he would draw the gun. He saw that hope in her eyes and slowly took his hand away.

"Coward," she hissed, done playing with him. "Pack your gear and be gone by sundown, Callan, you and your men. Ignore my warning and I'll make your life a living hell. There won't be anywhere in the territory you can hide from my vengeance."

He wasn't expecting that. "You got no call—"

"The hell I don't!"

He looked beseechingly to her husband. "Sum-mers, can't you control your wife?"

"I already did you one favor, you son of a bitch," Chase shouted up at him. "I kept her from blowing your head off. Whatever else she has a mind to do is the least of what you deserve, so don't press it. It's lucky for you one of your men who overheard what you were planning is a drinking buddy of my fore-man. And it's damn lucky for you he didn't have to ride all the way to the Rocky Valley, but found us out on the range. But that's where your luck runs out. What you did i.ere is the lowest kind of savagery, fit only for animals."

"I had every right," Walter protested. "He defiled my daughter."


"That cold bitch you got for a daughter encour-aged him," Jessie spat, moving to the side as the mattress was pushed out the door. A wagon had already been confiscated from the barn. "All I got left to say to you is, if he dies, you die, Callan. You better do some powerful praying on your way out of the territory."

"The sheriff will hear about this."

"Oh, I hope you're that stupid, I really do. If I didn't suspect you'd get no more than a slap on the wrist, I'd turn you in myself. Go against me and I'll take the law into my own hands, I swear to God I will. I ought to anyway," Jessie ended with a measure of self-disgust as she turned away.

"Shit," Walter grumbled behind her. "He's only a damn half-breed."

Jessie swung around, her turquoise eyes blazing. "You bastard! You lowlife, worthless bastard! That's my brother you nearly killed! Say one more word to me and I'll put a bullet between your eyes!"

She gave him two seconds to see if he would call her on this last warning, then turned away to return to Colt. His eyes were open. They stared at each other a long moment.

"You. knew?"

"Not always. Did you know?"

"When I. left."

She put a finger to his lips very gently. "I'm sur-prised she told you at all. I had always wondered about the affinity I felt for you, but not for your sister or brothers. I finally asked your mother right out. She wouldn't answer. It couldn't have been something she would have wanted to admit, that her oldest daughter wasn't the only one to bear my father a child. But that she wouldn't deny it was answer enough for me, es-pecially since I so wanted it to be true."

"Jessie, don't you think this conversation ought to wait for a better time?" Chase said.

She nodded and let her finger trail away in a loving caress across Colt's cheek. It was the signal for the two men standing behind him to step forward and grasp his arms. Colt closed his eyes again when Chase moved directly in front of him.

"Sorry, my friend."

"Don't be an ass, Chase," Jessie said matter-of-factly, earning an I'U-get-you-later-for-that-crack glance from her husband, which she typically ignored. "It's the only thing he'll have to be grateful for on this hellish day. Get it over with."

Chase did, drawing back his fist and letting fly with it toward Colt's jaw.

Chapter Two

Cheshire, England, 1878


Vanessa Britten ignored the embroidery in her lap aid watched the duchess complete another circle of the room. She wouldn't exactly call it pacing the floorboards. She doubted the girl was even aware that she was wearing a path in the fine Eastern carpet.

Who would have thought the duchess would even care about the little tragedy taking place upstairs.

Vanessa certainly hadn't thought it was possible when she had accepted the position as companion to the nineteen-year-old duchess just last month. It was such a common thing, young girls wedding older lords for their wealth and titles. And Jocelyn Fleming had latched onto one of the best catches, Edward Flem-ing, sixth Duke of Eaton, in his late middle years and already ailing when they wed last year.

But it didn't take long for Vanessa to change her opinion of the young Duchess of Eaton. Oh, she had certainly been destitute when the duke had proposed to her. Her father had owned a stud farm in Devon-shire, one of the finest in England, if Jocelyn could be believed. But like a great many of his contemporaries, he was a man who had a detrimental fondness for gambling, and when he died, he was so in debt that Jocelyn was left without a farthing. Edward Fleming had literally saved the poor girl from what was considered the worst of the worst for a gently reared lady — seeking employment.

Vanessa could only have said "Good show" to such a feat. She loved success stories, wasn't the type to begrudge another a little good fortune or a lot, as in the duchess's case. But Jocelyn Fleming wasn't the fortune huntress she had first assumed her to be.

Vanessa had lived too many years in London, where her peers were a cold-blooded lot, out for anything and everything they could get. Jocelyn wouldn't know how to be cold-blooded if she tried. She was too na-ive by half, too open and trusting, too innocent to be believed. And yet she really was exactly what she seemed. The most amazing thing about her was that she really loved the man who was at this moment upstairs dying.

Vanessa had been hired for this very contingency. The duke had taken many unusual precautions over the past months, selling unentailed properties, trans-ferring money out of the country, buying the essen-tials needed for traveling. He had taken care of all the necessary details. The only thing Jocelyn and her rather large entourage needed to do was leave. Even the packing was already done.

Vanessa had been quite skeptical of the reasons for this foresight on the duke's part until she met his dis-tant relations, the "vultures," as he called them, who were waiting to descend on his estate and pick it apart.

If ever a fellow could be termed avaricious and on the hard side of ruthless, it was Maurice Fleming, present heir to the dukedom. Edward had no immediate family. Maurice was a mere cousin, once re-moved, whom the duke could not tolerate to be even in the same room with. But Maurice had a large family of in-laws to support, as well as a mother and four sisters, and to say he had been avidly awaiting Edward's demise would be putting it mildly. He also had spies in Fleming Hall keeping him apprised of Edward's condition, and the moment the duke was pro-nounced dead, the knocker would undoubtedly sound at the front door.

Poor Jocelyn was in the middle of what could only be termed a family feud of long standing. Edward's relations had done their best to convince him not to wed her. Failing that, they had made certain threats, not in Edward's hearing, but he had nonetheless learned of them. He was not just being overprotective in all the preparations he had made for his young wife's future.