The armed guard escorted them through a forest of tall pines, a ghostly landscape of deep shadows and slanting streaks of moonlight that seemed eerily busy in spite of the quiet, as if unseen beings lay watching, listening, marking their passing. Overhead the trees made soft swishing sounds in the breeze. The nighttime chill seeped through the sweatshirt Bronco had given her and into her bones, and deep inside she began to shiver.

The forest ended at a wide, upward-sloping stretch of bare ground that gleamed like a snowfield in the moonlight. At the far end of the clearing, tucked under the overhang of a looming escarpment and probably almost invisible from above, stood a house-just a cabin, really-made of logs. Incongruously charming, it had a wide porch that extended across the front, a stone chimney at one end and, opposite that, a long extension that looked as though it might once have been an open-sided shed, enclosed now with walls of rough-cut logs.

The cabin door stood open, and Lauren could see the man who waited silently on the porch outlined against the soft glow of light from inside. Gil McCullough. She knew him at once, even from a distance, by his faintly military stance-feet apart and firmly planted, arms confidently folded across his chest-and by the pewter shine of his crewcut hair.

The militia leader started down the steps as Bronco brought all three horses to a halt just below the porch and slid lightly from the saddle. Lauren noticed that only one of their armed escort was still with them; the others had melted soundlessly away. The remaining guard waited a short distance away, eyes watchful in his blackened face, automatic weapon cradled in his arms, while Bronco spoke briefly in an undertone to McCullough.

Then Bronco slipped past the gray mare’s head, clucking to her as he slid his hand along her neck. He gathered the reins from Lauren’s slack fingers and, with one arm resting on the pommel of her saddle, said in the same gentle tone he’d used with the horse, “Are you gonna get down offa there or not?”

But Lauren sat frozen in the saddle, glued to it by pride and the steadfast resolve that she would sooner die where she was than ever let him know-let any of them know-how stiff and saddle sore she was. She was accustomed to riding, but she’d never spent nearly eighteen solid hours in the saddle before.

“Need a hand?”

“No, I don’t need a hand.” Her voice matched the bone-chilling cold in her heart; if she’d never fully understood the term “cold-blooded murder” before, she did now. “If you would, please, get out of my way?”

Bronco instantly stepped back with a gesture of mocking gallantry. Summoning every ounce of willpower she had, Lauren gripped the saddlehorn, swung her leg around, disengaged her boot from the stirrup and eased herself to the ground.

When she did, it seemed as though every muscle from her waist on down screamed in agony. A groan pushed against her clenched jaws and a gasp lay locked inside her chest as she let go of the saddle and slowly turned.

“A little stiff?” Bronco inquired.

“A little.” She said it lightly, striving to keep her breathing inaudible.

She was also trying, under the guise of brushing herself off and setting her clothing to rights, to stretch the stiffness out of her legs. With three men watching her, she would not walk up that hill bow-legged and rump-sprung. She wouldn’t.

But the minute her clothing shifted and the air hit the four spots on her body-two on the insides of her knees and two more on her backside-that had been rubbed raw by the friction of the saddle, they began to burn like fire. Exhausted tears sprang to her eyes. She was sure she’d never been more miserable, or in more pain, in her life.

The next thing she knew, Bronco was taking her arm, guiding her up the slope to the foot of the steps with such gentleness, such subtle solicitude, that she felt bewildered, almost undone.

What was this? Compassion? Sympathy? Kindness? From her jailer? Perversely, instead of gratitude, now it was anger that made her eyes sting with helpless tears. To feel beholden to her kidnapper seemed the final insult-salt on her wounded pride.

Furious and seething, she jerked her arm from Bronco’s grip just as he was presenting her to Gil McCullough like the spoils of some great conquest.

McCullough chuckled; she could see the arrogant gleam of his teeth in the moonlight. “Well, Lauren. Welcome to Liberty. I guess you’re probably tired and hungry after your long ride. Come on inside-there’s a pot of stew keepin’ warm on the stove. After you’ve had something to eat, we’ll talk about living arrangements.” And as he spoke in warm cordial tones, he was taking her arm, moving her along beside him as if, Lauren thought, she was an honored guest being invited in for dinner.

It was an illusion that was shattered a moment later when the armed guard in his camouflage clothes and blackened face moved in on her other side.

Suddenly irrationally frightened, she looked for Bronco and just caught a glimpse of him as he was leading the three horses across the cleared slope and into the trees. Of course, she told herself, he’d see to the horses before his own needs-any good wrangler would. She had no idea why she suddenly felt so bereft without him when a moment ago she’d bitterly resented so much as the man’s helping hand on her arm.

“We’re primitive here, as you can see,” Gil was saying in an apologetic tone. “This is a wilderness survival training camp, so we’re a little bit lacking in the amenities, but we’ll do our best to see you’re comfortable. Since you’re apt to be with us for a while, we’d like for you to feel at home.”

Speechless, Lauren could only stare at him. He gazed blandly back at her and motioned for her to precede him.

She entered the cabin cautiously, walking as if the floor under her feet might vanish; nothing seemed real to her. The cabin and its contents were so incongruous that for a moment she felt as though she was dreaming in weird double exposure, or had somehow fallen into overlapping worlds. Modern military juxtaposed against a backdrop of the Old West-steel folding tables and chairs, a laptop computer, ham radio outfit, battery packs, charts and maps and miscellaneous equipment, the purposes of which Lauren could only guess, occupied most of the space in a room constructed of rough wood planks, old and weathered to a silvery gray. A modern stainless-steel kettle shared space on a cast-iron wood-burning cookstove with an old-fashioned enameled coffeepot. The light in the room was the cold blue of modern Coleman lanterns, but the smells that permeated the cabin were the pungent down-home aromas of grass-fed beef and simmering coffee.

“I expect you’d like to wash up before you eat.” Gil motioned toward the back wall of the cabin opposite the door, where an enameled pot and basin sat atop a wooden dry sink in front of the room’s only window. As he spoke he was moving among the steel tables and chairs, his attention already returning to whatever it was he’d been involved in when interrupted by her arrival. He seemed completely relaxed and unconcerned by her presence.

And why not? He’d know she posed no danger or flight risk. What could she do, where could she go, one woman in the middle of a camp filled with men, in the middle of a wilderness, in the middle of the night? And that was even assuming she could somehow get past the armed guard planted like a medium-size tree in front of the doorway.

Burning with resentment and trembling with fatigue and helpless fury, Lauren crossed the plank floor on legs she feared might buckle at any minute. The water in the pot was warm. She dipped some into the basin with a large ladle that was hanging on the side of the pot and lowered her hands into it, trying not to weep with the sudden longing for a whole tubful in which to immerse her aching body. In spite of her efforts a few tears mingled with the water in her cupped hands as she leaned over the basin to wash her face. And what a blessed relief it was-both the lovely warm water and the tears. Safe tears, camouflaged by the process of washing.

Feeling somewhat restored, she dried her hands and face on a towel she found hanging on a nail beside the window. A glance at Gil told her he was engrossed in his laptop, so she wandered over to the cookstove and lifted the lid from the stew pot. She’d already decided, childishly perhaps, that she would not speak to her captors unless asked a direct question. A small defiance, but it seemed important to her to retain even the tiniest measure of self-determination and control.

A rough wooden cupboard beside the stove yielded stainless-steel bowls, mugs and eating utensils. Lauren ladled a hefty helping of stew, thick and rich with chunks of beef, potatoes, onions and green peppers, into a bowl, filled a mug with coffee that looked almost as thick as the stew and went back to the sink. Leaning her backside against it, she took a sip of the coffee and thought wistfully of cream and sugar, then set the mug on the sink behind her and dug her spoon into the stew.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Gil said, glancing up from his computer and pulling out a folding chair next to him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Lauren thought of the places on her body that were burning like fire, two of which were located exactly where that metal chair would meet her bottom. “I’m fine,” she said distantly.

Gil aimed a glance at her over the tops of rimless glasses, then shrugged and muttered, “Suit yourself,” as he went back to his laptop. A moment later, though, he looked up again. This time he took off the glasses and placed them on the table, then sat and regarded her thoughtfully.

Lauren did her best to ignore the silent scrutiny, forcing herself to think, instead, about how unexpectedly good the stew was, trying to identify the seasonings, wondering who’d made it. But in spite of her efforts, her heartbeat quickened when Gil got up from his chair, picked up a lantern and went down two steps into the long shed that was attached to the cabin.