She glared back at him in stony silence. He shook his head and gave his bedroll a hitch; he was starting to think maybe those handcuffs weren’t such a bad idea, after all.

“Look,” he said, keeping his voice low so the two men in the cabin doorway couldn’t hear it, “since you don’t know where we’re going, you can’t very well lead. And I’m sure as hell not going to let you at my back. Now, you can walk along beside me like we’re out for a nice stroll in the moonlight and I can take your arm as a common courtesy, or I can tow you along on a lead rope like a balky mule. Which is it gonna be?”

Lauren, who had fixed her gaze on a spot about a foot to the left of his shoulder, didn’t reply. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, didn’t trust herself to speak; she felt too fragile, too frightened, too confused. Every reasoning part of her had rebelled against her heart’s appalling response to Bronco’s just-in-the-nick-of-time return-that surge of hope and joy, the trembling, weak-kneed relief. What was that all about?

Oh, this was dangerous-dangerous and wrong. He was one of them, her captor, the enemy! She’d read about such things-hostages becoming dependent on, even forming emotional attachments to their captors. She’d only been a captive for a day! Was her character so weak, her courage so lacking? She felt profoundly disappointed in herself.

A sound from the cabin jerked her glance upward. Adrenaline surged through her like an electrical charge. Reason be damned; survival instincts took over, forcing a breath from her body along with a whispered “Okay.”

Bronco’s fingers wrapped around her arm. He jerked her out of the way as Ron Masters brushed past them, so close Lauren could feel his body heat…smell his scent, something feral and indefinably menacing.

“Smart choice,” Bronco muttered dryly. He gestured with the saddlebags toward the side of the cabin. “It’s this way.”

A stroll in the moonlight. The moon was in the west, just beginning its downward arc, so brilliant it cast their fore-shortened shadows before them as they climbed. Beyond the cabin the ground rose sharply to skirt the rock formation, alternately bare rock and a thick spongy carpet of pine needles. The air was cool and smelled of pine and damp earth. Overhead a breeze was a constant sound in the treetops. It was a sound Lauren had read about, but never actually heard before. She found it indescribably lonely.

She tried focusing on the sound as a way to mask the discomfort of her sore legs. But she was too tired, and the pain was too intense. And in the end the pain created its own kind of anesthesia, blocking out everything else-the fear, the anger, the bewilderment and humiliation, the powerlessness and frustration. She plodded numbly along, conscious only of pain.

And of Bronco’s fingers on her arm. Yes, maybe that most of all.

Once she slipped on some loose gravel, and his fingers tightened as he held her upright. “Almost there,” he murmured. She pressed her lips together and nodded; she’d heard him use the same tone when soothing horses.

But his words brought her back to full awareness, and she saw that they were following a pipe, wrapped with insulation and laid across the surface of a granite slope. From somewhere up ahead she could hear the happy sound of water trickling over stone. A few steps more and the pipe ended in a natural spring, and below it the overflow made a glimmering trail across rock made spongy with moss and lichen. Bronco muttered, “Watch your step,” as he steadied her across the treacherous slope, which ended in a level grassy area, a tiny meadow ringed with pines.

She could almost have touched the tent before she saw it, since it was made of camouflage material and tucked in the deep shadows just at the edge of the trees. She waited, numb and silent, while Bronco dumped the saddlebags and bedroll on the ground and unzipped the flap, then ducked his head and shoulders into the tent. A moment later the cool light of a battery lantern spilled through the opening. He picked up her saddlebags and tossed them into the tent, gestured with his hand and said, “In you go.”

Enfolded in numbness, a curious calm that seemed to have no connection to her rapidly beating heart, Lauren moved through the opening. Inside, she straightened and drew a deep breath.

Okay, it wasn’t so bad-big enough to sleep four comfortably, she imagined. And it appeared that efforts had been made in consideration of her needs. A puffy sleeping bag had been spread out at the far end. Next to it was a plastic storage bin with a lid-she supposed that was for whatever belongings she’d brought with her.

There was a small folding table and a folding canvas stool, a large plastic bucket and a plastic jug-for water, she assumed. The lantern hung from something overhead. Perhaps it was because she was so tired, weary in every muscle and bone, but the tent seemed a welcoming comforting place to her, almost cozy. She was conscious of a treacherous sense of safety, almost of relief.

Until she realized that behind her, Bronco had come into the tent and brought his saddlebags and bedroll with him.

“You…” Her voice was gravelly from prolonged disuse. And now also from shock. She cleared it and began again. “What’re you doing? You’re not sleeping in here, are you? With me.”

He paused to give her a long silent look. Then he dropped the saddlebags to the floor and reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the handcuffs. He faced her, casually balancing his bedroll on one hip, the cuffs dangling from one finger of the other hand as he jerked his head, indicating each in turn, and said softly, “Which is it gonna be?”

Lauren closed her eyes. Of all the things that had happened to her in the past couple of days, this seemed the most unbelievable. The most untenable. That she could be sharing sleeping quarters-a tent-with this man. Johnny Bronco.

“Let’s get something straight, Laurie Brown.” His voice was quiet, but not the soothing one she’d heard before. Now it had sharp edges and uneven facets, like hand-hewn obsidian.

Opening her eyes, she saw that he’d knelt and was spreading his bedroll on the floor in front of the tent’s opening. When he paused to look at her, one forearm resting on his knee, the same hardness, the same multitude of facets were in his eyes.

He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a misbehaving child. “You are safe with me. And that is the only place you are safe. While you are here in this camp, you will stay with me at all times. You do not step one foot outside this tent unless I am with you. Do I make myself clear?” When she didn’t answer he repeated it slowly, with emphasis. “Do you understand?”

She heard the note of urgency in his voice, but pride made her ignore it. She even, in some remote part of her consciousness, recognized that the concern was for her, but fatigue kept her from wondering about why that should be. Instead, though it took all the strength she had left, she held herself straight and steadied her voice with a crusting of frost. “Perfectly. And if I should wake in the night and need to use the latrine?”

“Wake me.” The words were sharp and unequivocal as gunshots. His task completed, he rose, flashlight in hand, and held back the tent flap. “And speaking of which, I expect you want to make use of it before you turn in. If you’re ready, I’ll take you now.” He stared at her, stone-faced, waiting.

To be taken to the toilet like a child. Lauren no longer knew whether it was exhaustion or anger that was making her tremble so. Layer upon layer of humiliation, and each new layer sapped her strength a little more, eroded a little further her will to resist. Tomorrow, she thought as she muttered a stiff thank-you and took a step toward him. When I’m not so tired…

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She halted in weary confusion. What now? It seemed a peculiar thing to constitute a last straw, but suddenly tears long postponed seemed only one quick breath away.

Bronco nodded toward the covered plastic bin. “You’ll probably find paper in there. Might want to take it with you.” His voice was gentle again, with an edge of gruffness that might have been embarassment, or sympathy. But if any such emotion had softened his hard unyielding features and black obsidian eyes, she would never know, because on the last words he stepped through the opening and left her alone.

Alone. It occurred to her that was the first time she’d been alone since she’d awoken before dawn in the saddle house on McCullough’s ranch. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted to be alone-really alone, with the privacy to give in to overwhelming emotions, to react to incredible events, to cry if she felt like it. It seemed privacy, like freedom, was a commodity not fully appreciated until it was taken away.

Sniffling, feeling incredibly sorry for herself, she located several rolls of utilitarian-looking toilet paper in the plastic bin. She selected one and joined Bronco outside.

It was quite dark there in the shadows of the pines. He used the flashlight’s beam as a pointer, jabbing it into the grove behind the tent. “It’s over there. Watch your step.”

“I see it.” Impatiently she struck out for the spotlighted swath of camouflage without waiting for him to take her arm. She drew comfort from that small defiance.

And although walking brought renewed discomfort from the raw places on her legs and buttocks, oddly enough she found in the pain a restorative to her battered spirit. It seemed to act as a stimulant, like a slap or a dash of cold water in the face, helping to clear her mind and sharpen her focus.