The latrine was a three-sided enclosure consisting of blankets hung on ropes strung at head-height between small trees. Bronco pulled back the blanket and looked everything over thoroughly before he stepped back and waved her in.

“Checking for rattlers?” she asked tartly. He merely grunted and handed her the flashlight.

Inside the enclosure she was surprised-and relieved-to discover a portable chemical toilet similar to those found in boats and RVs. Compared to what she’d been expecting, it seemed a luxury, right up there among the comforts of home.

It occurred to her to wonder what Bronco would do when he felt the need to answer nature’s call. With bitter irony she wondered, since she was supposed to stay with him at all times, if she would accompany him to the latrine? Would he leave her tethered to a tree like a dog in front of a supermarket?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but since it seemed bad form to test the goodwill of the one person charged with her health and safety, she limited herself to a muttered, “This has got to be a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

From somewhere on the other side of the blanket she heard something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.


“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rhett Brown’s voice had gone quiet and deadly. He felt his wife’s hand on his arm, stroking it gently. She knew he hadn’t slept for two days and nights, and that, strong as he was, his control was wearing thin. He listened to the voice on the telephone, then snapped, “Well, get a warrant, get in there and find out if she’s there, dammit!” Again he listened to the voice telling him things he didn’t want to hear. “I don’t care how many weapons they’ve got stashed away down there. Just find my daughter!”

He slammed the receiver down and turned just slightly. Dixie came into his arms and he held on to her as if she were the only thing keeping him from blowing apart into a million pieces.

“They don’t even know where she is,” he whispered raggedly. “ATF hasn’t heard from their agent since she was taken. They don’t know if he has her or not, and they don’t want to go in on their warrant until they know for sure she’s safe. The whole thing could blow up in their faces any minute.”

“Rhett, the convention opens day after tomorrow in Dallas. What if they don’t find her? What if-”

“Hell, I don’t care about the convention! You think the nomination means anything to me if it costs me my…if anything happens to…oh, God.”

“We’re gonna get her back,” Dixie whispered in her soft Texas accent, holding him as tightly as he held her. “I know we will.” After a moment she sighed, and he felt her head beneath his chin. “I just wish we could tell the others-Wood, Lucy. You need them, Rhett. They should be with you right now.”

“I have you. Thank God I have you.”

“We’re gonna get through this. We’ll get through it somehow. And Lauren’s gonna be okay. She’s strong and she’s smart,” Dixie said. “She’s gonna be okay, I just know it.”


John Bracco lay awake in the thinning gray light that precedes dawn, listening to the sounds his prisoner made as she slept. He knew she had to have been both physically and emotionally exhausted, but in spite of that she’d spent a restless night, whimpering intermittently like a child with bad dreams. As a consequence, his own slumber had been fitful, but he didn’t let that trouble him. He’d been trained to go for several days at a stretch without sleep, if need be.

It came to him that it had been a long time since he’d shared sleeping quarters with a woman. Since his return to the Arizona mountains of his troubled youth, he’d kept his sexual encounters brief and businesslike, with a minimum of emotional involvement-at least on his side. Intimacy was too risky for a man undercover; he accepted that as just another part of the job and didn’t waste time and energy on regrets. It wasn’t his way.

He had to admit, though, there were times when he’d thought about the simple pleasure of holding a woman in his arms while she slept, of waking with her warmth in his sheets and her scent on his pillow, even if long-term relationships weren’t in his cards.

With the coming of daylight, he allowed himself the luxury of studying the woman without her knowledge-an invasion of her privacy that he acknowledged with only a twinge of guilt. Even in this, the first light, he could see that she was lying on her side. He let his eyes follow the outline of her body from shoulder to waist to hip, a trail more gentle than voluptuous. But why was that so exhilarating a journey nonetheless?

And now…yes, he could see that she was facing him, the shadowed oval of her face only hinted at, nested in the slightly darker tumble of her hair as she rested her head on her folded arm in lieu of a pillow.

And why was it, though he’d never been particularly drawn to blondes, that he found himself remembering again the wild-grass color of it, the way it reflected back the sunlight in rippling waves when the wind caught it?

From there it was only the space of a single thought to a reprise of her green-apple scent, the softness of her hair against his cheek as they danced to a slow song at Smoky Joe’s, a memory still so vivid that he could feel her body’s shape in his arms and the thump of her heartbeat against his chest. Odd, when he could seldom recall even the color of a woman’s eyes the morning after he’d made love to her.

Don’t even go there, he cautioned himself. She was off-limits for all sorts of reasons, both personal and professional.

Ah, he told himself, but he was merely curious about her, this daughter of the man who, unless Agent Bracco failed in his duty, was likely to become the most powerful human being on the planet. He wondered what sort of person she was, this daughter for whom a father would give up unimaginable power and fame. And what it must be like to grow up so privileged, so valued, so cherished.

Shadows of childhood demons hovered on the edges of his consciousness as he checked the illuminated dial of his wristwatch. They fled completely, though, when the woman suddenly stirred, as if she’d sensed even that slight movement. He lay absolutely still and watched her come awake in the space of a few heartbeats, sensed the changes in her breathing, the infinitesimal differences in the atmosphere of the tent-the electricity of tension, awareness…alarm.

“Good morning.” He spoke softly, in the same tone he might have used to introduce himself to an unbroken mustang, but wasn’t surprised when, in spite of his caution, she jerked her head and shoulders upward and gave a small gasp of fear. He said nothing else, giving her a chance to sort it out, remember where she was, who he was and what had happened to her.

He knew the moment it all came back to her, the moment when her shoulders relaxed into lines of…not defeat so much as acceptance. She shifted her legs, keeping them bent at the knees in order to remain under the sleeping bag as she sat up.

He was not prepared for the next sound she made-a sharp involuntary cry of pain. At the same time she froze, her body cramped, as if she was afraid to move in any direction.

Bronco didn’t have to ask what was wrong; they’d spent a long day in the saddle yesterday, probably eighteen hours straight. “Little sore?” he asked in a casual tone, mentally kicking himself for not having thought of it before. However, figuring it wouldn’t be in character for her abductor to be too free with sympathy, he went briskly on, “Best thing to do is walk it off. You’ll feel better after you start moving around.”

At first she didn’t seem to have heard him. She was rocking herself slightly, eyes glazed, all her concentration turned inward on herself and her pain. Then, in a voice so low he could barely hear it, she confessed, “I don’t think I can.”

“Sure you can. Might be a little uncomfortable at first-”

And then he stopped. Because suddenly he really did understand. Lord help her, she wasn’t just muscle-sore from being so long in the saddle, she had saddle sores. And from the way she was acting, they were third degree. In rapid sequence his mind replayed images of the previous night, their arrival at the camp, the way she’d hung on to the saddle sort of hunched up and breathing hard, the way he’d goaded her. It brought him no joy, remembering every move she’d made, every step she’d taken, up and down the cabin steps, climbing the hill to her tent. He knew from personal experience what a bad case of saddle sores was like. When he thought what it must have cost her to keep him from knowing…

Empathy flooded him. Distilled through his guilt, it emerged as anger.

Quicker than thought, he left his bedroll and was across the tent and down on one knee beside hers. “Let me see ’em,” he commanded. He swore when she shook her head. “I said let me-”

“No.” And she ground out the word between clenched teeth. “I’m fine. Damn you, leave me alone.”

Bronco rocked back on his heel and looked at her for a long moment. She stared past him, jaw set like concrete. He said dangerously, “Lady, I will haul you out of there if I have to. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard, but I am going to have a look at those sores. What’s it gonna be?” Her eyes flicked at him; he thought of the sting of a rawhide whip. “I’m going to count to three. One…”

At that she let out a breath in an infuriated gust and muttered under her breath, “You sound like my mother.” She moved back slightly and looked away, but not before he saw her cheeks ripen to a dusky pink. She cleared her throat. “I’m not…wearing pants.”

Bronco’s heart gave an unexpected lurch, but he only grunted. “Good thing, or else how am I gonna see your legs? Come on, haul ’em outta there.” As encouragement he snagged the sleeping bag’s zipper and pulled it down with a prolonged metallic growl.