“Her eyes-”

“We’re not the only family with light eyes in the territory.”

“No.” But there had been moments when Malvina had thought she had seen flashes of Shamus’s power in those pale gray eyes of Silver’s. Imagination, she assured herself quickly. If Shamus said Silver was not their kin, then it must be true. Relief surged through her and she relaxed against him. “You’re probably right. Turn out the lamp, it’s time we were sleeping.”

Shamus reached across her and turned down the wick of the lamp. “Sleeping?” Tender amusement threaded his words in the darkness. “And it was you who were telling me how lucky you were I could still pleasure you? Now, you can’t expect to challenge a man of my temperament like that, and then roll over and go to sleep.” He moved over her. “Love me, Malvina.”

Her arms went around him, holding him with more tenderness than passion. Passion would come, it always did, but she wanted the tenderness first. Her hands slid over his shoulders, enjoying the play of muscles beneath her palms. He was almost as strong now as when she had first taken him into her body those many, many years ago. God in heaven, she was lucky to have a man like Shamus. “I do love you, Shamus,” she whispered. “I always will.”

The light in the old man’s room blinked out.

Ramon Torres leaned back against the corral post and drew in deeply on the thin brown cigarette between his lips and then exhaled slowly, thoughtfully. He had watched the lights go out one by one, and now the big house was entirely dark and silent.

In an hour everyone would be asleep and he would find a way to get in. He had already inveigled the information from Rosa as to which room Dominic Delaney had been given. He could take off his boots and creep barefoot through the halls. No one would hear him, for he had taught himself to move with the stealth of his Navajo mother. Would he be able to surprise Delaney was the question. The old man’s son was a very dangerous man; his instincts had been sharpened by many years of living as a hunted man.

Torres smiled in the darkness. Ah, he knew all about the hunt. He had been a hunter all his life. He had hunted for money, lust, revenge, and many other things, and he knew the ways of game. The secret was never to attack the prey on foreign ground, where he would be uneasy and on guard. If the hunter staked out and waited until the victim came back to his home watering hole, he had a much better chance of putting him down. This method took patience and perseverence, but then, Torres was a very patient man.

He drew again on the cigarette. Now Dominic had returned to his home watering hole. Should he take him tonight? If he did, he’d probably have to kill everyone in the house to be safe from pursuit. Five women and old Shamus, besides Dominic Delaney. The women would be easy. A knife, silent and quick between their ribs as they slept. It was a pity he would have to kill Rosa too. Besides information, the plump widow had furnished him with many enjoyable romps in the past three months.

Shamus and his son would not be so simple to dispatch. They both had the warrior instinct and might be more difficult to catch off guard. Torres was sure Durbin would not object to the additional deaths, but he doubted if he would pay any more for them. He might do better to wait until his prey was alone. It would be the wise and cautious way to proceed.

Torres felt a sharp pang of disappointment as he took the cigarette from his lips and flipped it away. He stood still, looking broodingly at the orange tip glowing in the dirt of the stableyard. He was tempted to forget about caution and go after Dominic now. The blood hunger was upon him, as it always was when the kill was at hand. It was a sign he recognized and was usually able to subdue, but it was more difficult this time. He had waited too long for his prey to come into view and the hunger had sharpened to an unbearable intensity. When that happened, he, the hunter, was almost as much a prisoner as the prey.

He took a step forward, extinguishing the cigarette with the toe of his boot, grinding the tobacco thoroughly into the dirt until there was not a spark left. He did everything with great thoroughness; it was a quality in which he took pride. If something was worth doing, it was worth doing well.

He mustn’t be impatient, he told himself. According to Rosa, he had three days to accomplish his kill. Then he would be five thousand dollars richer and able to ride down to Mexico and have a fine spree. The money would not last long, but perhaps that was good. The end of the money meant the start of a new hunt and the dark excitement of the hunger it brought with it. Lately he had begun to realize that he looked forward more to the hunt than the weeks of debauchery it paid for. He laughed softly to himself as he turned and began to stroll toward his horse tethered a few yards away.

It wasn’t every man who was lucky enough to enjoy his chosen labor as much as he did. Yes, he was one very fortunate man.

13

Patrick strode out of the smoking room and headed for the front door. His expression was stormy and the sharp click of his boots on the tiled foyer reflected the rebellion he had not allowed himself to express in the presence of his grandfather.

“Wait, Patrick!”

He stopped and glanced at the woman coming down the steps. “Elspeth.” His frown disappeared as his gaze ran over her slim figure dressed in a dark blue riding skirt, brown calf-high boots, and a white cotton blouse. He grinned. “Where’s our little blackbird? You look a lot like Brianne in that outfit.”

Elspeth pulled a face. “I should. These are her clothes. Rising Star, Brianne, and Silver got together last night, and suddenly I had a new wardrobe.” A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “I don’t know if I should have taken advantage of their kindness, but they insisted. Perhaps I can find a way of repaying them.” The frown faded and she smiled at him. “It’s good to see you, Patrick. Are you well?”