Still she hesitated, looking mulish and somehow childlike in her resistance, but now he felt a surprising impulse to laugh. He resisted it and, instead, looked at her from under his lashes and said mildly, “You think I’ve never seen a woman’s legs before? What, one look and I’m suddenly gonna turn into a sex maniac? I’ll tell you something, Laurie Brown. I’ve seen a whole lot of legs, and trust me, it’d take some a lot more spectacular than yours to make me lose control. Come on-out.”

He was watching her closely, so he knew he didn’t imagine it when he saw the corners of her mouth twitch.

With a deliberation that bordered on insolence, she peeled back the sleeping bag. Even more slowly unfolded her legs, biting her lip, breathing suspended. Then at last, rolling her eyes, looking anywhere but at him, she leaned back on her hands in grudging surrender.

“Thanks,” Bronco said dryly. It had been such a subtle striptease that he couldn’t quite decide whether it was intentional or not. And if it was, whether that was as dangerous a notion as he suspected it might be.

He noted that she’d worn his sweatshirt to sleep in, along with, it appeared, underpants and socks. Since he’d watched her pack pretty much everything she’d brought with her from Texas into those saddlebags and knew it hadn’t included any sort of nightgown, he had to wonder what she normally wore to bed. Just underwear? Nothing? Another dangerous thought. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated on his examination.

He’d told her the truth, as far as it went; there wasn’t a pair of legs in this or any other world that was going to make Johnny Bronco lose control. Though he had to admit, when it came to fantastic legs, hers were right up there. But oddly enough it wasn’t the legs that intrigued him so much as her embarrassment about showing them. He found her awareness of him intensely erotic. He could feel his heart begin to thump.

A moment later, though his heart still banged against his rib cage, every erotic thought had fled. Instead, as he stared at the oozing silver-dollar-size patches on the insides of her knees where the skin had literally been rubbed away, he felt chilled and sick. My God, he thought. What she must have suffered. In silence. An unaccustomed emotion filled his chest-more than admiration, more than respect, almost…awe.

“Those are gonna have to be doctored,” he said flatly, confident that his voice, like his features, would give away nothing. He sat back on his heel again, his forearm once more draped across his knee, and met her eyes. He found them bright as stars, blazing defiance. “You got ’em on your butt, too?”

She responded in a valiant whisper, “You are not looking at those.”

After a long electric moment, it was he who looked away and let out an audible breath. Damn. Now what was he going to do? The medical supplies were in the cabin. To get her taken care of, he was either going to have to make her get dressed and go down there with him, or he was going to have to leave her while he went to fetch what he needed. He didn’t care for either option. The thought of her walking all the way down that hill with her jeans rubbing against those sores made him feel light-headed. On the other hand, to leave her alone in a tent, unguarded, seemed, at the very least, risky.

Then he remembered the handcuffs.

He’d put them on the floor of the tent beside his bedroll along with his boots and the flashlight, things he liked close at hand in case he needed them in a hurry. He reached for the cuffs now, laid them across his lap while he pulled on his boots. Fully dressed, he rolled his bed, pushed it away from the entrance and stood up. From there he regarded his prisoner, keeping his face devoid of all expression as he told her, “I’m going to have to go get something to put on those sores. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if you stay here.”

She nodded, but her eyes were fixed on the stainless-steel bracelets dangling from his left hand. She’d dragged the top half of the sleeping bag back over her knees, covering her legs but leaving her feet and ankles peeking out. They looked vulnerable and delicate as a child’s. He fastened his gaze on them so he wouldn’t have to watch her face. “I won’t be gone long, but just to be on the safe side…”

She caught her breath and blurted out in a rush, “It’s not really necessary to handcuff me, is it? I mean, my God, where am I going to go? You saw-I can barely even move. I won’t try to run away, I swear.” Please, her eyes begged him; her pride wouldn’t let her say the words. Please don’t.

Bronco stared at her in a crackling hissing silence. Dammit, what was he supposed to do? He knew she wasn’t going to run-all logic told him she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But in his gut…what if she did? He’d been wrong about women before. What if? If anything happened to her, not only would his ass be grass and his career toast twice over, but what was infinitely worse, he’d never forgive himself.

He gave a soft sarcastic snort. “What, am I supposed to take your word for that? Just…leave you here on your honor?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes luminous and pleading. “I promise, on my word of honor. I won’t go anywhere. Not even to the latrine. Swear to God. Please-can’t you just trust me?”

It was the word trust that got him. He let go a laugh that was like the sound of a whip striking leather. “Lady, I haven’t trusted a woman since I was seven.” He knelt and with a deft twist of cold steel, snapped the cuffs on her ankles.

Then he was outside the tent and moving fast, leaving it and the woman behind him as quickly as he could. He felt cold through and through. And unbelievably shaken-by the words he’d spoken even more than by what he’d done.

…since I was seven. Ah, God…how could it be? It was as if no time at all had passed. He was that seven-year-old boy, running across the summer-scorched earth while the desert wind dried the tears on his cheeks to a salty crust. Inside he’d felt so cold-cold and small and unworthy. Just like he did now.

He could hear his voice, asking through shameful childish tears, “Why, Mama? Why are you leaving me? Why do you have to go away?” But in his heart he’d known the answer.

It was because she didn’t love him. Because he wasn’t good enough, brave enough, strong and handsome and smart enough to deserve her love. He knew it must be so. Because if she loved him, how could she leave him?

That was the day he’d started running. And he’d gone on running, chased by a demon of his own making: a steadfast belief in his own unworthiness. He’d run and run-eventually with a football in his hands, often as not with a bottle of booze, sometimes the steering wheel of a fast car-until one day, with his back against the wall and nowhere left to run, he’d been forced to confront the demon face-to-face.

There’d been only two possible outcomes of that battle. If the demon had won, it would have destroyed him completely. Instead, he’d stood the test and exposed it for the lie it was.

It had been a battle hard fought and hard won, and the man he’d become, John Bracco, knew he owed many debts to many people who’d believed in him even when he’d lost all belief in himself. He knew that one of those people was Gil McCullough, and that he was about to repay the debt with betrayal.

Bronco paused for a few moments where the trees ended, to recover both his breath and his senses. To remind himself that the boy with salt tears on his cheeks was only a memory, as was the woman with soft brown hair and sad blue eyes he’d once called Mama. He listened to the voices of the wind whispering in the pines, of the hawk circling overhead, of the stallion, Cochise Red, calling to his mares in the log corral on the edge of the meadow. When his spirit and his breathing felt quiet and strong again, he continued down the cleared slope to the cabin.

He knew the second he stepped inside that something was wrong. It was in the air, just barely discernible to the senses, like an odor, a puff of smoke, a breath of wind, though at first glance everything seemed as it should be. McCullough was in the corner hunched over the radio, while Ron Masters stood behind him looking on, one hand braced on the back of his chair, the other on the tabletop. Gil didn’t look up when Bronco came in, but Ron shot him a dark glance that sent a little frisson of warning down Bronco’s spine.

The two men on KP duty nodded unsmiling greetings as they went about preparing the first meal of the day for fifty or so hungry men-stirring oats into the pot of water simmering on the wood-burning cookstove, setting stacks of tortillas to warm on racks above, heaping pans full of crumbly sausage and scrambled eggs and putting them in the oven to keep hot, pouring coffee from the enameled pot into insulated containers. The smells of sage and fresh coffee made Bronco’s stomach growl, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early the day before.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and strolled across the cabin to join Ron and Gil at the radio. “Trouble?” he asked, sipping the black brew while his stomach protested audibly.

This time Gil glanced at him while Ron straightened and planted himself at his commander’s elbow, with feet apart, arms folded across his chest. The macho body language amused Bronco. Even so, he would never make the mistake of underestimating Ron Masters.

Gil’s eyes were glittering with anger, but instead of answering Bronco’s question, he made a jerking movement with his head toward the back of the cabin and raised his eyebrows, asking a question of his own.

“She’s secure.” Without looking in that direction Bronco was aware of the hungry gleam in Masters’s eyes, the cold little smile that was almost…anticipation.