Her head rolled back on her shoulders. "I guess I don't," she said, weak, willing.

She forgot that the sun was shining and the birds were twittering. She forgot that traffic was cruising by on the road, and that people were going about their business in town.

It was so easy, so powerfully easy, to let it all happen again. It was so easy to enjoy the way his hands moved tenderly over her, the way his mouth coaxed hers to warm. He felt so good against her when she curled her arms around him, so solid, that she forgot to feel self-conscious because the sun was pouring through the windows.

He undressed her, completely, taking his time over it, drawing out each moment just to look at her. To look at what was finally his. The softness. The sweetness. He kissed her, soothing and arousing her, as he undressed himself. His hands were gentle, because he knew it was what she needed. His mouth was patient, allowing her to set the pace. And the pace was slow and dreamy.

He lowered her to the bed she'd made so neatly that morning, gave himself the quiet delight of brushing her hair with his fingers until it was all tangled golden curls over the plain white quilt. Her eyes were closed, and already her cheeks carried the faint flush of stirred passions.

Last night there had been only the light from a practical and unscented emergency candle, a narrow bunk and a room that smelled of old coffee.

Today there was sunlight, birdsong, and the perfume of the flowers by her window. And today, he thought, she knew there would be pleasure.

He gave her pleasure. Rivers of it. She floated on it, glided on it, immersed herself in it without reserve. All hesitancy, all shyness, vanished under a warm haze of gently lapping sensations.

The texture of his callused fingers, the friction of them as they moved over her skin caused little spark-ing shocks that speeded her pulse. The taste of his mouth as it moved to her flesh, then back to her lips, was drugging. She could hear his breathing quicken, or those little hums of pleasure in his throat, whenever he touched some new part of her. He was so beautiful to her—not just his incredibly stunning outward good looks. More, it was the beauty inside that drew and seduced her—the kindness, the strength, the patience.

It delighted her to be able to squeeze her hands over his biceps, feel the coil of strength in them, in the muscles of his back. She adored the shape and weight of his body, the way it pressed hers deep into the mattress. The light scrape of his teeth on her shoulder gave her a quick, jittery thrill. To answer it, she nipped at his while her hands grew bold enough to journey down.

He hissed out a breath, jolted. Her eyes flashed open when his head reared up. For an instant, for an eternity, she saw something dark and edgy and dangerous in those moss-green eyes. Something that had her blood leaping high and her pulse scrambling.

He yanked himself back into control, the way he would have yanked a wild dog on a thick leash. His muscles knotted. He could have sworn he felt the sweat burst out of his pores.

"Don't worry." His voice was raw, but he lowered his mouth gently to hers again. "Don't be afraid."

She wanted to tell him she wasn't, couldn't be afraid of him. That she would be afraid of nothing that happened between them. That she wanted to know what had come into his eyes. But he was kissing her into oblivion again, into that misty place where there was nothing but warm, quiet pleasures.

Her moan was long and deep when he eased her to a peak. Long and deep when he gave her more. She let the current take her, opening for him, letting him fill her. Nothing was more stunning than moving with him, feeling his body mesh and mate with hers.

Then his mouth was at her ear, and through her own gasping passion she heard him say her name. Just her name, before he pulled her with him.

"I love you." He still ached for her, even as he shifted his weight and drew her against his side. "I want you to get used to hearing that."

"Devin—"

"No, I don't expect it yet. I will, but I don't expect it yet." He turned his face into her hair and breathed in the scent of it and her, a scent that always reminded him of sunlight on a meadow. "You just get used to hearing it. You tell me when you're used to it, because then I'm going to ask you to marry me."

She went rigid. "I can't. How can I think about that? This is happening too fast."

"Not for me." He wouldn't be angry, he wouldn't even allow himself to be discouraged by the shock in her voice. Instead, he stroked a hand down her arm and spoke with quiet confidence. "I've gotten good at waiting, so I can wait a while longer. But I figured you should know where I'm heading here. I want you, I want the kids, I want a life, but I can wait until you're ready."

"I might never be ready. Devin, you have to understand, I don't know if I can ever make those promises again."

"You've never made them to me. That's all that counts." He rose up on his elbow so that he could study her face. He'd frightened her, he noted. But it couldn't be helped. "I love you. You let that settle in, and we'll see what happens next."

"Don't you see that—"

"I only see you, Cassie." Persuasively, he kissed her, until the hand she'd lifted to push against his shoulder went lax. "Only you."

A few miles away, Joe Dolin was policing a picnic area on the battlefield for litter. As he worked, his eyes scanned the fields, the hills, the road below. There were large, shady trees, stone walls. He was going to pick his time, and his spot. This wasn't it.

Eventually the crew would work their way down toward the bridge where General Burnside had screwed up during the Battle of Antietam. There the ground was uneven, rocky and thick with brush. There was a creek to hide his scent, trees to cover him.

He'd often poached in those woods, jacklighting deer illegally with some of his drinking buddies. He had plenty of time now to calculate how long it would take him to travel through them, where he could hide, who he could go to for a little help.

In the meantime, he was making himself a busy little bee, picking up the soft drink cans and wrappers tossed aside by lousy tourists or kids hooking school. His supervisor wasn't a fool, but Joe never gave him any lip, any trouble, and made sure he was first in line to volunteer for any of the harder or messier jobs.

He was building himself a damn good rep in prison, something he'd never had on the outside. Something, he thought as he wiped sweat from his brow, that was going to help him get out of the cage.

And get back to Cassie. Get to Cassie.

The little bitch was going to pay for every day he'd spent behind bars. Every hour he'd had to go without a drink or a woman.

When he was finished with her, he was going after MacKade. Maybe all four of the stinking MacKades. He'd had plenty of time to plan it out, to work out the mistakes, to dream about it.

He hoped he had to kill one of them. He hoped it would be Devin. And when he was finished, he was going to Mexico, taking whatever was left of his wife with him.

All he needed was money, a car and a gun. He knew exactly where he was going to get all three.

Chapter 9

Connor tried to take in everything at once. He knew Bryan was getting restless, wandering around the sheriff's office, trying to get a look at the cells in the back. But for himself, he thought nothing was more fascinating than watching the sheriff handle calls and type up reports.

He was going to write a story about it, and he had to get everything just right. The way the office looked, with the dust dancing in the sunlight through the windows, the scars on the desk from feet or cigarettes, the way the ceiling fan squeaked overhead.

He took a deep sniff and filed away in his mind the scent of coffee—really strong, and a little harsh—and the smell of the dust that sort of tickled the nose.

He tried to remember just how the phone sounded when it shrilled on the sheriff's desk, how the sheriff s chair scraped against the floor, how the deputy scratched his head, then his cheek, as he put papers away in the file cabinet.

He already had the sound of the sheriff's voice. It was deep and slow, and there was a hint of something in it. Humor, Connor thought, when he answered some of the calls. Other times it was brisk, kind of official. Once or twice he'd seen lines form between the sheriff's brows.

He sure did drink a lot of coffee, Connor thought, and he wrote a lot of things down. Connor had a million questions, but he held them in because he knew the sheriff was working.

Devin glanced up and saw the boy watching him. Like an owl, he thought. Wise and patient. A look at his watch told him he'd kept the kids hemmed in for most of their Saturday morning. He imagined Connor could sit there, quiet as a mouse, for hours yet. But he recognized the signs of trouble brewing in Bryan.

It was time to give them all a break.

"Donnie, you take over here. We're going to get some lunch at Ed's."

"Yo."

"The state boys call about the Messner case, you tell them I'll have the report to them by Monday."

"Yo," Donnie said again, and crushed his brows together over the filing.

"I'll pick up lunch for Curtis. Tell him, if he starts to make noises back there."

"You got a prisoner?" Suddenly all of Bryan's boredom was washed away in the thrill of it. "You didn't tell us."

"Just somebody sleeping off a night on the town." He was almost sorry he couldn't tell them it was a mad psychopath. "I could use a burger."

"All right!" Bryan darted out of the door. "I'm starving. Extra fries, right, Con?"

"I guess." Connor could hardly think about food with all the questions in his head. "Ah, Sheriff, how come you have that police radio on all the time? I mean, it has fire department stuff, and things from out of your jurisdiction."