By

Prologue

Arming sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his striped shirt, the prisoner looked about him as his fellow inmates toiled in the hot sun. A few of them had passed out and had been dragged to the relative shade of the high stone walls that surrounded the territorial penitentiary. He laid his pick ax down and raised his hand.

"Harper!" came the begrudging acknowledgment.

The shackles around his ankles chaffed in the blistering heat, weighing him down, keeping him from moving freely, but he needed a drink of water from the bucket. His head was aching unmercifully as he shambled over under the watchful eye of the armed guard.

"Hurry it up, Harper!" the guard snarled, caressing his rifle as though it were a willing woman.

The water was hot, but it was wet and as he lifted the dipper to his parched lips he saw buzzards flying above his head. He deliberately let some of the water fall down his chin to help cool him.

"That's enough. Get your sorry ass back to work!" the guard shouted and took a menacing step toward the prisoner.

Falling back into line, he stooped over to pick up the pick ax, the pain in his back like sharp talons dragging down his lacerated flesh. The heavy cotton of his striped prison garb had stuck to his back in just the length of time it took him to bend over and straightening up was hell. He grit his teeth and wearily raised the pick ax, stabbing it into the rocky soil, wishing he was driving it into the face of the bastard who put him in this ninth circle of damnation.

A Negro down the line started chanting a work song and others around him joined in. He's too tired, too angry to add his voice to the others though he'd been told the singing helped to blot out the tedious, backbreaking work.

He would never know who started the fight or why the bull guarding his section of workers turned away, hurrying toward the melee, leaving him and four other men unguarded. All he heard was one of the others hissing at him, waving an arm at him, telling him to run.

"Make tracks, boy!" someone said and hobbled though he was, he lit out along with two others, scrambling toward the river and the marshes beyond, the chain between the leg bands of his shackles biting into his ankles.

Shots were fired, but the bullets hadn't come their way. The three of them were hightailing it as fast as they could, ducking in among the tall rushes at the river's edge, wading into the murky waters of the river. It was tough walking in the silt and tougher still striving to swim with ankle shackles weighing down your feet, but the men were determined and were soon halfway across the water before the first rifle shot came from the guard tower, taking one of them down beneath the churning waves.

Swimming faster than he ever had before, ignoring the burning pain ripping across his back as his movement tore open lashes that had partially healed, the prisoner didn't have time to see if the other man plowing through the water was going to make it to the opposite bank. He was kicking furiously with his bound legs--flailing them in tandem with one another like the tail of a fish cutting through a stream. Dimly, he heard shouting, bullets streaking into the water near his head, heard the dogs barking, and knew the bulls would be after him as soon as they took to their horses. His only thought was to reach the other side, to run, to hide, to get away.

Freedom was a few strokes away and though his back was on fire and his strength was flagging, he made one last desperate heave toward the banks of the river.

If they caught him, he'd be sent to Leavenworth. There was no doubt in his mind about that. As bad as the prison was in Missouri, it might be worse in Kansas though he'd heard they didn't use the cat-'o-nine in there. After having spent more than his share of torturous nights in the frigidly cold dark cells in the winter and then baking in those same cells in the furnace of summer for infractions he could no longer remember having committed, he didn't want to think of what they might do to him in Kansas.

He would rather die than be taken back to the penitentiary.

Once on the other side, he collapsed for only a minute or two on the shore to gain his breath then he was stumbling to his feet, shuffling along as fast as his shackles would allow, making for the roadway and beyond to either freedom or an early grave.

Uppermost in his mind was the face of the man who had condemned him to the last five years of living death and he made a vow to himself—he would either die before he allowed them to drag him back to prison or he'd find Jonas Dalton and exact the revenge that had been building in his gut for those five, horrible years.

Chapter One

Sloan Harper watched the rolling cloud of dust thrown up by the stagecoach as it rumbled over the open plains. His gloved hands were crossed over the saddle horn as he flexed his thighs to hold in check the high-spirited roan stallion upon which he sat. He moved his right hand to the deadly six-shooter strapped to his thigh and caressed the pearl handle. A brutal smile tugged at his lightly whiskered cheeks then he pulled on the reins, turning his mount to maneuver it down the small rise and to the place he'd picked to waylay the stage.

He'd been waiting years for this, he thought. Endless nights of lying on a dirty, thin mattress filled with cornhusks tossed over a bed-rack of iron with his back torn apart and bleeding, his wrists shackle-bruised and oozing pus had given him plenty of time to plan his revenge on the man responsible for the hell into which Harper had been thrown. Nothing less than an exacting vengeance would do even if he forfeited his life in the process.

With his black Stetson shielding his steely eyes from the blistering sun, he gently kicked the horse into a slow gallop to gain the ambush point before the stagecoach. His black duster flapped in the wind behind his legs and his silver spurs flashed as he kept the heels of his dusty boots down. He rode easily, his mind on his objective, a muscle jumping in his sun-darkened jaw as he contemplated the terrible thing he planned to do. When he reached his destination, he reined in the stallion and threw a long leg over the horse's head and slid to the ground, his spurs jingling as he landed. Tying the horse to a piece of deadwood, he pulled his rifle from its leather scabbard, worked the lever and stepped out onto the roadway over which the coach would soon be traveling, knowing the vehicle would have to slow significantly to take the sharp turn that skirted the boulders of the rocky canyon. With the rifle up and pointed, legs spread wide in a deadly stance, he waited for the rumbling, jangling, squeaking stage to approach. As soon as the two men appeared sitting high on the wooden seats, he fired a warning shot and cocked the rifle again.

"Whoa!" he heard the driver shout as he began sawing on the reins to stop the coach's horse, saw the man riding shotgun start to lift his weapon. Harper fired again and the shotgun went flying out of the other man's hands which then immediately went up in the air in surrender.

"Don't shoot!" the man beside the driver yelled. "We ain't carrying no gold!"

"It isn't gold I'm after. Throw down your side arms!" Harper ordered, his rifle trained on the driver and the two men promptly obeyed. "Now, climb down."

Getting to the ground, the two men held their hands above their head as they stepped away from the coach at Harper's command. "On the ground," he told them and with alacrity the driver and his companion dropped to the dirt.

Keeping an eye on the driver and the other man, Harper walked to the stage's door and flung the door open. "Out!" he barked, stepping back, rifle pointed at the door.

The first one out of the stage was a peddler in a loud plaid suit topped off by a ridiculous bow tie, his jowls wobbling as he hurried off to one side, his hands up. "I'm not armed," the peddler assured him with a slippery smile.

Harper ignored the man. His eyes were thin slits of malice beneath the brim of his Stetson. "Don't make me have to come in there after you," he told the other person in the coach. "Get the hell out. Now!"

The other occupant was an older woman who came down the dusty steps, her reticule clutched tightly in her trembling hand. Her face was deathly pale, her lips quivering. "I'm not carrying any valuables, sir," she told him. "I've no jewelry, but I do have a few dollars. If ...."

"Shut the hell up. I've no need of your fucking money," Harper snarled at her and had the satisfaction of seeing her blush furiously at his vulgar words. He swung the rifle toward the peddler a couple of times, letting her know he wanted her to move away from the coach.

The woman gave Harper a worried look then joined the peddler, her knuckles white on the reticule.

"Are you Jacob Dalton's daughter?" Harper demanded, sweeping an insulting glance down her portly frame.

The woman flinched. "Y--yes. Why? Did my father send you to ...?"

"You," Harper snapped, switching his gaze to the peddler. “Come here.”

The peddler looked as though he was about to piss on himself, but he hurried over, his lips trembling.

Harper snaked a hand into the inside pocket of his duster and withdrew an envelope. “Give this to the driver.”

“Y…yes, sir!” the peddler said and caught the envelope flicked his way.

"Now back inside," Harper ordered.

The overweight man hesitated with the envelope clutched against his chest. "What of the lady?" he asked.

"You didn't help her out," Harper replied. "You aren't helping her back in." The rifle lifted a bit. "Now, get your fat ass back in the stage!"

Scrambling back to the coach, the peddler spared his traveling companion an apologetic look before handing the driver the envelope and climbing back into the stage. Settling down on the seat, he looked out the window, staring hopelessly at the woman. "I'm sorry, Miss Dalton," he said.

"You two," Harper called out to the driver and his assistant. "Back on the stage and see that letter gets to the man it’s addressed to."

The two men pushed up from the ground. The driver cast the woman a worried look. "What about the lady? We can't just leave her here."

"You can and you will," Harper told them.

"W--what are you gonna do with her?" the driver asked.

Harper didn't answer. His eyes narrowed dangerously, his finger tensed on the rifle's trigger, and the driver made haste to climb back up to his seat, his companion scurrying up the other side. He stood where he was until the stage was set into motion and the horses were picking up speed before he shifted his stony glower to the woman.

"Come here," he ordered. When she remained where she was, his lip and nose crinkled with annoyance. "I know you're not hard of hearing. You'd best do as I tell you."

She lifted her chin, finding a bit of backbone as she stood there shaking from head to toe. "What are your intentions, sir?" she asked, her voice trembling almost as violently as her body.

A cold, hateful smile pulled Harper's taut lips. He was staring at her with such hatred, such venom the air around them was snapping with tension.

"Don't make me tell you twice, woman," he said in that lethally low voice that bore just a trace of an accent. "I can be a real mean son of a bitch when I'm pissed."

Her ample bosom heaving with fright, she shuffled toward him, the hem of her expensive gown dragging in the sand. Knuckles whiter still as she gripped her reticule, she couldn't take her eyes from his shadowed face beneath the brim of the Stetson for she'd seen the ravage of a wavering scar that bisected his lean right jaw. When she was within striking range, he shot out a hand and gripped her pudgy arm, yanking her with him as he started behind the boulder from which he'd appeared.

"You're hurting me," she protested as he tugged her along.

"Good," he snapped.

She spied his horse, but saw no other means of travel. She knew she'd be riding with him and horses frightened her. Her stomach did a funny little plummet and she dug in her heels, making him stagger.

Harper twisted around, his lips skinned back from his teeth. "Woman, I told you that you don't want to piss me off." He jerked her arm and she nearly lost her balance as she stumbled behind him.

"I don't ride," she said. "I ...."

He didn't give her a chance to finish for he spun her around, grabbed her around the waist, and hoisted her into the saddle, half-laughing when she fumbled to grip the saddle horn for dear life, striving not to tumble off the other side of the saddle.

"Oh, Lord!" she whispered. "Oh, Lord!"

She was perched there with her skirt hiked up to her knees, her prim little white stockings looking odd against the darkness of the saddle's fender. She was a good foot shorter than him and her feet didn't reach the stirrups and when he swung up behind her, lacing her into the fortress of his arms, he had to nudge her legs out of the way to thrust his boots into the stirrups.

"How the hell much do you weigh, woman?" he snorted as he leaned forward to take the reins.

He felt her stiffen in his arms and sit forward so her back wasn't touching his chest, but when he kicked his mount into motion, she was thrown against him, and when he tightened his hold, she had no choice but to rest against him. The rocking motion of the horse brought her rump into contact with the spread V of his legs and he wasn't expecting the reaction his body gave to the situation. Getting an erection irritated the hell out of him and made his upper lip curl with disgust. The bitch in his arms was Dalton's old maid daughter, the rancher's most treasured possession, the apple of her father's eye, and just knowing she had the bastard's blood running through her veins was enough to make Harper want to slit her throat and leave her to bleed out.

But he had other plans for this woman and those plans would take them across the border and into the Mexican hills where a posse would never find them. She would be entirely at his mercy, under his control he thought as he let the stallion run full-out back the way the stage had come, backtracking, leading anyone who might try to track him far off course.

Her hair was flying free of the ridiculous little bonnet that she was trying desperately to keep atop her head. He got tired of the loose ribbons slashing at his chin and pushed her hand aside to snatch off the stupid thing, letting it flutter behind them.

"Oh!" he heard her gasp and she actually had the nerve to punch him on the forearm in protest. He chuckled, not in the least perturbed by her little show of bravery. When she did it again, he made up his mind to show her who was in charge and bent his left arm so it snaked around her midriff, just under her breasts, and he jerked her against him, fingers digging into her ribcage, and lowered his head so his lips were at her ear.

"Hit me again and I'll strip you naked and you'll ride that way all the way to Mexico," he warned, his warm breath harsh in her ear but gaining the satisfaction of having her go as still as death in his arms. He didn't know if it was his threat or her finding out where he was taking her that made her turn motionless.

They rode for over an hour--cutting back and forth across the Rio Grande several times before he finally took the trail he had planned. It was hot as hell with the wind having died down to a heavy press of air against them, but in the distance lightning forked and dark clouds were building.

He stopped at a little village for food and water, warning her if she spoke, if she called attention to herself, he'd make her pay for it in ways she might find humiliating.

"I'm not adverse to hiking your skirts over your head and laying a hand to your wide-load ass," he threatened. "There won't be anyone here who'd dare to stop me, either."

Since the villagers did not appear to speak English and her captor spoke to them in Spanish, she had no way of knowing what it was he was saying, but now and again they would look at her and shrug. A few snickered at her.

"What did you tell them?" she got up the nerve to ask.

"That your father hogtied me into marrying you and that I'm stuck with you until I can get you farther south and sell you to whoever will pay me to take you off my hands," he said and when her eyes flared and she looked like she would faint, he laughed hatefully. "I told them you paid me to spirit you away from your old man. Annoy me, though, and I just might be tempted to sell you."

She took him at his word and stood meekly by the horse, waiting for him to finish his business. She eyed his mount but even if she had been an expert horsewoman, she doubted she could control the brute. The horse--like its owner--looked dangerous. With her gaze repeatedly straying to her captor, she knew she'd not get far even if she managed to find a docile horse. The outlaw would come after her and she didn't think the punishment he'd mete out for her daring to defy him would be pleasant.

"Let's go," he told her, striding--no, she thought as she got up from the keg upon which she'd been sitting--the man was strutting toward his horse. She noticed several Mexican girls who were batting their dark lashes at him and he was grinning, obviously enjoying the attention. He said something to them and they all giggled, putting hands over their mouths as though whatever it was he'd said had been risqué.

He stuffed their food into his saddlebags and adjusted the cinch on the saddle. As she joined him, he gave her a disgruntled look then swept his arms under her knees and behind her back and tossed her casually upon his horse once more.

She winced and cried out, scrabbling for the saddle horn. "You are certainly no gentleman," she complained.

"Never said I was," he quipped.

She squirmed in the saddle trying to get comfortable and moaned.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he growled as he untied the horse.

"If you must know, my posterior is bruised from the riding. My corset is cutting into my waist so I have a stitch in my right side that makes it hard for me to draw a decent breath," she said, surprising him. "And I have a brutal headache."

"We'll be at the cabin in an hour or so," he mumbled and swung up behind her once more. He shifted in the saddle, his taut thighs bumping hers out of the way.

"An hour?" she said and groaned. "I don't think I can take another hour of riding."

"You can and you bloody well will. Or would you prefer I sling your fat ass over the saddle like a sack of salt and let you ride like that?" he countered.

"I wish you would cease speaking to me in that vulgar manner," she told him, trying once again not to come into contact with his broad chest. "I'd rather you drop dead of a heart attack and the horse stomp you to a bloody mush."

"Won't happen," he told her. He moved so his cock pressed into her backside.

"Stop that, you oaf!" she said, leaning forward.

"If you don't sit back, I swear to you, wench, I will sling you over the saddle on your bulging belly."

"You go to hell," she replied as they left the sanctuary of the poor little village, but she leaned back against him though her body was ramrod straight. "And please refrain from poking that thing at me!"

Harper grinned down at her for he planned to do far more than just poke his clothed rod against her. He intended to send her back to her father a little worse for wear and if luck was allowed, with a reminder of the man who had disgraced his precious offspring.

The rain overtook them about ten miles from the cabin he'd provisioned for them. Lightning spewed forth dangerously and he had no choice but to find shelter in a large cave, hoping there weren't already denizens lurking inside it even more dangerous than he knew himself to be. Dismounting, he led his horse into the semi-darkness and found a place to tether him as thunder rumbled, spooking the beast.

Soaked to the skin, her gown plastered to her chubby body, her hair a sodden mess streaking down her back and into her face, the woman had stumbled along in Harper's wake as rain pelted the entrance to the cave, coming down in solid sheets with the wind blowing the rain sideways. She looked a sorry sight and one that shouldn't have aroused anything in him other than disgust, but as she stood there trembling with her arms wrapped around her while he gathered sticks and brush to make a fire to warm them, he found his gaze straying to her more than it should have.

He tossed his saddlebags down.

"Sit down," he said, nudging his chin toward a flat rock that had obviously been used for just that purpose at some point in time. The cave was dry with a good draft coming through the opening which told him there was a crevice somewhere farther back in the rocky expanse that allowed for drawing in fresh air. There were also the remnants of older fires that bespoke humans had used the cave for shelter in the past.

She perched on the edge of the rock and looked around her, arming a wet strand of her fine hair back from her damp face. "Who are you anyway?" she asked.

"What difference does it make?"

"My name is Peytonlía," she said.

"I know who the hell you are, wench," he grated.

"My father will pay a good price for you to return me to him," she said. "You undoubtedly know he's a very wealthy man with a large ranch in Texas."

He was hunkered down in profile to her and didn't reply as flames leapt in the center of the brush he had managed to fire to life. He fanned it with his hat until it was going good and a low light lit the dark walls.

"Did you hear me, Mister ...?"

"I heard you," he muttered then got to his feet to fetch the saddlebags. "And I told you I don't need your damned money."

He saw her looking longingly at the fire and told her to move closer to dry her clothing. He didn't have to make the offer twice for she came to squat down with her hands out to the heat, her skirts tucked securely over her knees.

"That isn't why you abducted me, then?" she asked, turning her head to watch him as he doled out the food he'd purchased at the little cantina into the two tin plates he'd fished out of his saddlebags. When he didn't answer her, she looked back at the fire, staring into the flames. She flinched when he stuck the plate of beans and rice and tamales in front of her.

"It's cold but it'll have to do," he said as he sat down across from her, his legs crossed tailor style as he began scooping the food into his mouth, chewing methodically, his eyes never leaving her face.

She acted as though she'd never had such plain, peasant fare before, but seemed to enjoy it as she ate gracefully, chewing delicately, and occasionally taking a sip of the canteen he had placed between them.

"You are from Scotland, aren't you?" she surprised him by asking.

His eyes narrowed. "How did you know that?"

"You try to hide the brogue but it slips out now and then," she said. "How old were you when you came to America?"

"That's none of your damned business," he grumbled. "You don't need to know nothing about me except I'm a bad man to make an enemy of."

"Is that what my father is to you? An enemy? Is that why you kidnapped me?"

He didn't answer, just finished his food, and went over to set the plate out in the rain. He stood at the cave entrance for a moment then came back to the fire with a look of anger. "Damned rain might keep up all night," he mumbled.

She shrugged and delicately swiped a tortilla through the gravy from the beans. "It'll end when it ends, I guess," she said.

"It'll end when it ends," he mimicked her then unfolded his bedroll and laid it on the ground. He took off his hat and stretched out, crossing his long legs at the ankle as he folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the stone wall.

"Well, it will," she stated.

Harper wanted to say something else so she wouldn't have the last word, but he was tired of hearing her talk for her thick southern drawl annoyed him.

When she was finished eating, she did as he'd done and took her plate to set it out in the rain to be rinsed clean and like him, she stared out at the rain.

"Get your ass back over here before a lightning bolt zaps down to fry you," he ordered.

"I don't think that's likely," she said.

He craned his head around to pierce her with a glower. "You ever see a man hit by lightning, wench?" he asked. "It isn't a pretty sight although anything might be an improvement on your looks."

He heard her sigh, but she came back to perch on her rock, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"You are such a lout, do you know that?" she asked.

"You want me to show you how big a lout I can be?" he replied with a warning growl.

She tossed her head, looking away from him to stare out the cave entrance. At least she was quiet and he found himself nodding off until he realized she might get up enough courage to beam him with a rock if he let his guard down. Instead, he sat up straighter, uncrossed his legs, and drew one knee up to rest his wrist upon it.

At one point, he caught her staring intently at him and realized her attention was on the vicious scar that ran down his right cheek from temple to chin. His mouth twitched. "Compliments of your father," he informed her.

She flinched, but didn't deny the charge, didn't accuse him of lying. No doubt she knew her father well enough to know he was a brutal man not above marking another man's face in such a cruel way.

"Stop looking at me!" he snapped and when her eyes lowered as though he'd struck her, he felt like a real bastard and that irritated the hell out of him.

In a voice he barely heard, she asked him point blank if he was going to kill her. When he did not answer, she timidly raised her gaze and looked him in the eye. "Are you?" she whispered.

He leaned toward her, his face hateful, his eyes narrowed. "No, bitch," he replied. "I'm going to fuck you."

The moment his words registered, he saw her eyes flare and she sprang to her feet, and ran for the entrance to the cave as fast as her pudgy legs could carry her. She was just barely out in the pouring rain when he grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Though she lashed out at him with her fists--hitting him harder than he would have thought possible for a woman her size, getting in one solid slap to his face--and kicking him with her hard little shoes, he bent down, planted his hard shoulder in her midsection and hoisted her from the ground with his arm restraining her legs, ignoring her screams and flailing fists as she pounded at his back, scratching him with her nails as she dug at the small of his back.

He carried her to his blanket and dropped to his knee, letting her fall backward onto the hard ground. Before she could kick out at him, he was shoving the hem of her gown up, wedging himself between her thighs, pinning her wrists above her head with one strong hand as he used his other hand to rip her bodice and chemise downward, exposing her breasts. He reached down to tear her drawers from her lower body, his palm brushing across her wiry curls.

"No!" she shrieked and fought him like a wildcat though her strength was nothing compared to his. He easily restrained her, grunting at her struggling, but his intent clear in the hard glint of his green eyes. The drawers ripped open at the crotch, exposing her sex to him and she hissed.

“Don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt,” he snarled.

He fumbled at the closure of his pants, striving to free his cock, intending to take her with as much savage force as he could, but the erection that throbbed, that pushed with need to be free, that ached to thrust inside her was doing something to her he had not expected. She was panting, but her eyes were glazed and she kept sweeping her tongue over her lips, her body quivering as he pressed his weight atop her, holding her down, his hand trapped between his crotch and hers.

He looked down into her face and as one brutal roll of thunder shook the cave walls around them and lightning flared beyond the entrance, he saw hunger and need building in her. Her lush breasts heaved upward with each harsh breath, but it seemed to him they pressed toward him, offered themselves for his tasting and he lowered his head, drawing the hard little bud deep into his mouth.

"No," she whispered, but it seemed to him not so much a protest of what he was doing to her as what her own body was doing to her.

Suckling her, sweeping his hot tongue over her straining nipple, nibbling gently, he realized he was drawing from her a response neither could have imagined and his hold on her wrists eased.

They stared deeply into one another's eyes and when the hand between their bodies moved, he saw her gaze waver, her eyelids flicker. He knew in that moment she was surrendering to him.

"I'm a virgin," she told him.

He nodded for he had suspected as much. It was part of the reason he'd chosen to exact his revenge on Dalton in this way. "Then its well past the time you weren't," he said in a throaty voice.

She made no comment to his brazen words. Instead she swept her tongue across her lips once more and Harper felt his shaft harden painfully. Freeing his cock finally, he swept it down the folds of her sex, allowing her to feel the moistness that clung to the aching tip. She drew in a shuddering breath but no longer fought him. He could see the hollow at the base of her throat throbbing wildly and could not stop himself from placing a kiss there.

"Oh," she whispered.

He released her wrists and she lay there for a moment with her arms still crossed over her head, but then she hesitantly lifted her hand toward him. Though he shied away slightly from the contact, she ran her fingers through his hair.

"Please don't hurt me," she asked, holding his gaze.

His attention went to her lips and before he knew what he was doing, he had lowered his head to claim her mouth. He nibbled on her lower lip until she opened for him then he thrust his tongue gently inside as she tightened her grip on his hair. He felt the hesitant flick of her tongue against his--testing, experimenting--and then he pressed deeper into her mouth. He tasted her and lost himself in the sweet honey of her mouth.

Her arms curled around his shoulders as her fingers slid through his hair. It was a sensuous feeling that had him staring down into her soft green eyes. When she tentatively smiled at him, he answered that smile with a gentle one of his own.

"You're not such an ogre after all," she said and swept her gaze over his handsome face.

"Aye, but I am," he said and though he tried not to, he brought pain to her when he eased his cock inside her tight sheath. He filled her, stretched her slowly, but when he broke through the fragile membrane, she gasped and tears filled her eyes.

Peyton tensed against him, her fingers tugging at his hair. "You hurt me," she accused.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself say and it was the first time in years he had apologized to anyone. "It couldn't be helped, wench, but it won't ever hurt again."

She wasn't so sure for his member was so large inside her it felt as though he were ripping her apart. It was uncomfortable, but just beneath that layer of discomfort was something that made her wanted to squirm beneath him, to push against the invading hardness that filled her. Her womb clenched as he slid his hands beneath her rump and lifted her up for a deeper penetration and there was burgeoning pleasure beginning to build. Her eyes grew round as her body grew accustomed to his shaft, seemingly drawing it deeper yet into her.

Slowly and as gently as he could he began to move inside her until he felt her body reacting to the depth and rhythm of his thrusts. He was pushing them firmly toward that wondrous place where bliss and lust and desire dwelt. The aching in his groin was intensifying and her juices were flowing as he pumped faster into her sleek warmth.

"Put your legs around me," he said.

Peyton obeyed him, bringing her legs over his.

"Damn it, no, wench," he said, his shaft working like a piston inside her. "Around my hips! Drape your legs around my fucking hips!"

She lifted her legs and wrapped them around him, hooking her ankles together to keep her feet from sliding off his hard rump. The action brought him farther into her and began to elicit a sensation that was so pleasurable, so exciting, her fingers dropped from his hair to his shoulders as her fingernails dug into the muscles there.

"Oh--" she gasped. "Oh--oh, what is your name?"

"Sloan," he hissed as he felt the walls of her vagina suddenly grip him with such force he lost his breath. The staccato pulses rippled along his shaft to cause him to pump faster, harder, his knees being ravaged by rocks beneath the coarse blanket.

"Oh!" Peyton suddenly cried out. She had not been prepared for what happened to her in that moment. The tremors inside her, the tight little squeezes that clutched at his member stunned her and as the intensity of the release shot through her, her fingernails drew blood from his flesh.

He heard her scream his name, felt her muscles strongly milking him and he spilled into her as thickly as a randy teenager. Though he'd had a couple of women after his escape from prison, neither of them had given him the pleasure this one had and when the last of his cum pulsed from his cock, he collapsed atop her, panting, sweat running down his flushed face, his heart thudding dangerously fast and hard in his chest.

"My Lord," she said and as he lay there with his cheek against her shoulder, he could feel her heart thundering. She had yet to unhook her legs from around him and her arms still cradled him tightly.

He grunted and pushed up from her, wriggling his hips to get her to release her hold on him. When she did, he rolled off her to lie beside her, still dragging harsh breaths into his lungs. Flinging an arm over his eyes he lay there listening to the rumbling thunder and pouring rain, the shrieks of lightning and tried hard to get his racing heart under control.

"Is it always like that?" she asked him and he could feel her looking at him.

"I don't know about how it is with a woman's first time but my first--and my last--one wasn't even close to being like that," he said.

"It was as enjoyable for you as it was for me, then?" she asked.

He lowered his arm and turned his face toward her, his brow furrowed. "What do you think, wench? I'm lying here dying and you ask if I enjoyed it?"

She flounced her skirts down and sat up, wincing a bit. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she said.

Harper just stared at her. "Hurt me?" he echoed then snorted with disdain. "Woman, you didn't hurt me!"

She was squirming on the blanket. "No, but you hurt me. Am I bleeding?" she asked. "Something is all gushy between my legs."

He sighed. "That would be my cum, wench," he said. "Aye, you'll be bleeding a bit but nothing of any significance. I broke your maidenhead not your cunt."

She looked up. "My what?"

"Your pussy." At her confused look, he drew in a long breath then exhaled slowly. "Your vagina."

"Oh," she said then blushed hotly. "What is cum?"

Some hateful part of him made him sit up, thrust his hand under her skirt and between her legs. Though she gasped with outrage and batted his hand away, trying to evacuate him from under her clothing. When he brought his hand out from under the skirt, he held it out to her, his fingers slick, a slight tinge of pink mixed in with his juices.

"That is cum," he growled. "It's what comes out of my cock when I squirt inside your cunt. It's semen, wench."

Peyton looked down at his hand. "That's what makes babies. Sort of like bull semen makes calves."

"Aye, it's what makes babies but it's man semen," he said and realized her gaze had fallen to his pants where his limp cock lay crooked in exhaustion outside his fly. He cursed then reached down to stuff himself back into his jeans, tugging the zipper up with more force than necessary to hide himself from her avid view. "Will you stop looking at me?"

Her breasts were bare because he had ripped her bodice and chemise open. She thought it only fair that she see him if he was going to ogle her--which he was doing as she tugged at her torn clothing.

"Oh, hell," he said and began unbuttoning his shirt. He stripped it off and threw it at her. "Put it on."

Thrusting her arms through the sleeves that hung a good two inches past her fingertips, she was buttoning the front of the shirt when he got up from the blanket and stomped over to his saddlebags. She gave him a cursory look, glanced down, then her head shot back up as she stared at his bare back.

"Whatever in the world happened to your back?" she gasped.

He was rummaging for his only other shirt—soiled and wrinkled and smelling to high heaven—so he didn't look around at her. "Numerous run-ins with a cat," he answered dryly.

"A cat did that to your back?" she asked, tracing the wicked marks crisscrossing his flesh. "What kind of cat? Was it a tiger or a ...?"

"A cat-'o-nine tails, wench," he said with exasperation as he pulled on the dirty shirt, grimacing at the feel of it against his skin as he rolled up the sleeves. "A whip."

Her face took on a strained expression. "Someone whipped you, Sloan?"

"Aye," he barked. "They do that to convicts who don't tow their fucking line."

"Convict," she repeated. "You were in prison?"

"Five really terrific years," he answered. "Something else I have your father to thank for."

"What did you do?"

"Not a damned thing," he replied through grinding teeth.

"They don't put innocent men in prison," she said and when he lifted his head and gave her a hateful glare, she lifted her chin. "Well, they don't."

"And I suppose you still believe in fairies and trolls, eh, wench?" he questioned with a sneer. "Must be nice to be so damned sure the world is just the way you view it. Your father teach you that?"

His anger made her blink and she didn't know how to answer. She watched him snatch up the canteen and take a long drink of water, spilling some down his chin as he drank. He hadn't buttoned the shirt and the water dripped down his broad chest, spiking in the dark hairs nestled there. She couldn't seem to take her eyes from that particular sight until his voice made her jump.

"Stop looking at me!" he yelled.

For the life of her she couldn't imagine why he didn't like her looking at him. Where else was she to look?

Almost as though his anger had caused it, the rain increased in volume and sound. The fire sputtered as wind came howling through the entrance. In the distant was a low, rumbling sound like that of a freight train.

"I don't like the sound of that," he said and went to the entrance, trying to see out past the sheer curtain of rain.

The sky was black from horizon to horizon although it couldn't be much past four in the afternoon. With the increase in lightning forking through the heavens and the sudden onslaught of hail dropping to the ground, he was fairly sure a tornado was in the vicinity. As rain blew against him, he moved back into the cave, listening to the low roar coming toward them.

"That's not good," Peyton said.

"Get up and move farther back into the cave," he told her, bending down to pick up his blanket. He took up his horse's reins and followed Peyton, putting distance between them and the entrance. He barely noticed her stepping out of her torn drawers and kicking them aside.

Beneath them, the earth shook and a few scrabbles of rocks tumbled down the cave walls. The fire was blown out by an abrupt gust of wind barreling from the entrance, plunging them into near darkness. The roaring sound was right over them now and the horse began to whinny and sidestep in an effort to break free. It was all Harper could do to hold on to it as he crowded Peyton against the wall, shielding her with his body as debris came swirling through the entrance.

Something hard hit him on his right thigh and he cried out, but he continued to block Peyton while sand swirled around them. He used his free hand to cup the back of her neck, pulling her face against his shirt to protect her as he turned his head away in order to breathe. The pressure inside the cave was fierce and when it suddenly dissipated, his ears popped uncomfortably.

"Is it over?" he heard her mutter.

"I think so, wench." He had her tight against the cave wall, his body pressed into hers, his hand still on her neck so that when she lifted her head and looked up at him in the darkness he could feel her gaze on him. "You're looking at me, again," he complained.

"I can't see you," she said, "but I can sure smell you."

He could smell himself and it bothered him. After all the years he'd spent not being allowed but one bath a week--and sometimes not even that often--he had sworn he'd never be or feel or smell dirty again.

"I can smell you, too," he said in a husky voice, but it was a scent that was doing unbelievable things to his lower body that he shouldn't allow at that moment. He released her and stepped back, putting distance between them.

Peyton shrugged as he moved toward the entrance where light was once more glowing. "If you smell me, it's just your stink on me," she said with a sniff and followed him to where the rain was now a gentle cascade.

Harper smiled at her remark and was very aware of her there behind him. He almost wished she'd put a hand on his back.

"Are we going to ride out, do you think?" she asked.

"If it stops raining," he said. "I've no desire to ride around in a wet, smelly shirt."

"Makes sense to me," she said and went to the fire to see if it could be fanned into life again.

"Glad you approve," he mumbled as he joined at the fire pit and set about re-lighting the fire.

"You know that wasn't nice what you did," she said and when he looked over at her, she cocked a shoulder. "Raping me. That wasn't nice."

"Nice?" he repeated. "No, I guess it damned sure wasn't."

"I said no but you didn't listen," she reminded him. "Gentlemen are supposed to ...."

"I'm not a gentleman," he snapped. "I thought we covered that before."

"Yes, but rape ...."

Harper frowned. "Well, it wasn't exactly rape, wench. After a bit, you weren't putting up much of a struggle."

She thought about that for a moment, her eyebrows drawn together. "No, I suppose technically speaking it wasn't." She tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "I was curious and as you said, it was time I ceased being untried. I am, after all, a grown woman." She gave him a steady look. "And I found I enjoyed what you did there at the last."

He snorted at that comment, moving back as the flames finally took a good hold on the kindling. He sat down with his ankles crossed, knees drawn up and spread apart within the scope of his arms.

"Why aren't you married?" he asked.

She lowered her attention to the bottom button of her borrowed shirt and plucked at it. "Daddy has always discouraged suitors," she said. "I don't think he wants me to ever marry."

"Doesn't that seem unnatural to you?" he inquired.

"The Double D has been in our family for generations," she said. "A husband might demand rights Daddy isn't willing to give. He wants to keep it in the Dalton family."

A strange light entered Harper's eyes. "But if you die without issue, where does that leave the ranch?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm sure he's made arrangements, but hasn't seen fit to share them with me."

"Will you be able to run the ranch once he kicks the bucket?"

"I've been trained to do just that," she replied crisply.

One dark brown arched upward. "Aye, how is that?"

"I do the bookkeeping for the spread already and I know the workings of the ranch inside and out. I can tell you down to the last calf how many we have on the range, what the market value is and how to dicker with a potential buyer or breeder," she answered. "If need be, I can help with the branding and inoculations as well as the dipping." She glanced down at his gun. "I also learned to shoot when I was little girl."

"You learned to shoot," he echoed in a disbelieving tone.

She nodded. "My father desperately wanted a boy but had to settle for me. I went everywhere with him until I was fourteen and my mother decided I needed to go to boarding school." She smiled. "Mama didn't think being able to fire a rifle and hit a moving target was a very ladylike thing to do."

"Yet you don't ride," he said. "Why is that?"

"I've never felt comfortable around horses," she admitted. "I got thrown when I was about five or so and broke my arm in several places." She rubbed her arm. "It hurt like the dickens so after that I was terrified of the beasts and Mama refused to allow Daddy to make me take lessons because of my fear." She sighed. "One day, though, I'm going to have to get over that fear and learn to ride. I can't have my foreman driving me all over the ranch in a buckboard."

"With fancy lace parasol extended above your perfectly coiffed hair," he said with a smirk.

She smiled at his remark. "Don't forget the picnic basket with wine and cheese and a good loaf of crusty bread alongside a plump apple or two."

Harper turned his head toward the cave entrance. "It's stopped raining."

She glanced that way. "So it has," she agreed and got to her feet, shaking out her wet skirt. "Are we to leave now?"

"I don't know about you but I'd like some clean, dry clothes and a decent meal. I've provisions at the cabin," he said as he stood. "We'll have a good supper."

"Provided banditos haven't made off with your supplies."

"I have someone watching the place," he told her. "Not many people around here will mess with Snake."

She shook her head. "I imagine not with a name like that."

He went to his horse and led it back toward the entrance as she kicked sand into the campfire and folded his blanket, then handed to him. As he rolled the blanket and secured it to his saddle and strapped on his saddlebags, she retrieved the two plates from outside, dumped the water from them, and then used her damp skirt to dry them off as best she could.

"You're taking this pretty well all of a sudden, wench," he commented.

"What?" she asked.

"Your abduction."

"You've already done your worst, haven't you, Sloan?" she asked, her head cocked to one side. "I mean you—you ...." Her face turned red.

"I fucked you," he said as he led his horse outside.

"Yes, you did," she muttered, but didn't seem particularly upset about it to his way of thinking. If anything, she was looking at him as though she expected it to happen again--which he had no doubt it would if he kept to his plan.

"There are worse things than fucking a woman, Peyton," he said as he climbed into the saddle then held out a hand to her to help her up.

"Such as?" she asked, putting her foot in the stirrup to lever herself behind him this time.

"I really could sell you to a brothel or loan you out," he said as she put her arms around his waist. "Share you with my friends."

"You could but you won't," she said as she settled against his back.

He twisted his head to the side to look at her. "What makes you think that?"

"You're doing this to get back at my father so the chances are good you intend to send me back to him eventually," she said as he kicked the horse into motion.

"Aye," he said, "with a little Harper growing in your belly. That should piss him off royally."

Chapter Two

If he thought his words would shock or hurt her, he was wrong. He felt her lay her cheek against his back and tighten her grip around his waist as they rode. Of course that could have been because he had set his mount to a fast gallop, but something told him it wasn't. He could feel her warm breath through his shirt and it made his cock as hard as steel, something he just simply didn't understand.

As he neared the cabin, he slowed the horse and took out his six-shooter, lifting it to fire two rounds into the air, waiting to the count of five and firing one more.

"Are you letting that Snake person know we're here?" she asked.

"Aye," he said and drummed his heels lightly against his mount. "She'll be less likely to shoot first and ask questions later."

He felt her sit up straight behind him. "She?" was her instant query.

Harper set the horse to a fast trot and they entered a copse of trees behind which sat a weathered cabin that looked deserted but as he reined in, the click of a rifle made him turn his head to the left.

"How's it going, Snake?" he inquired, throwing a leg over the horse's head to slide to the ground.

"I could be better," came the reply, then an older woman dressed like a man sauntered from around the side of the cabin, a rifle held in the crook of her thin arm. She hawked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on the ground, wiped the back of her free hand across her mouth. "See you accomplished your goal."

Harper held his arms up to Peyton. "That I did."

Peyton leaned toward him, allowing him to help her down from the horse. She kept eyeing the woman standing by the cabin. She'd never seen anyone like her.

"What the fuck she staring at?" Snake asked. Chickens were weaving in and out between her legs as she strolled forward. She kicked out to scatter them.

"She tends to do that," Harper said. "Ignore her. She doesn't mean anything by it."

"Don't like to be stared at," Snake stated with eyes narrowed. She turned her head and spit again. "Don't like it one goddamned bit."

"Neither do I, but she isn't doing it as an insult," he told the older woman as he untied his saddlebags and slung them over his shoulder, lifted the rifle from its scabbard.

"Know you don't like people gawking at you, boy." Snake sniffed. "Know why, too."

Harper nodded. "Aye, well, keep the knowledge to yourself, then." He started toward the cabin.

"Want me to unsaddle the brute for you?" Snake asked him.

"I'll take care of it later. Why don't you start supper for us?"

"Humpf," Snake snorted. "Like I ain't got nothing better to do than put food in your belly, boy."

"I can cook," Peyton said, preferring not to eat anything the old woman with her dirty hands might set before them.

Harper turned his head around and looked down at her to arch a brow as she followed him up on the wobbly porch.

"I can," she told him, chin up. "I'm a good cook."

"Okay," he said with a shrug.

"Did you fuck her yet?" Snake asked and grinned viciously, revealing stained, pitted teeth when Peyton flinched.

"What do you think?" Harper asked.

"Think she most likely needed it," Snake chuckled. "And I know you did."

Peyton's cheeks were burning as she entered the cabin, expecting it to be dirty and cluttered. She was amazed to see the spotless condition of the building and the cleanliness with which it was obviously kept.

There were two full-sized beds pushed to one side of the large one-room cabin with a couple of rocking chairs, sitting before the stone hearth. There was a table and four chairs on the other side of the room where a wood burning stove, pie safe, and a counter with a water pump arched over a porcelain sink.

"Washroom is over there," Harper told her, pointing to a large screen in the corner of the room. A large copper washtub, a sink with another water pump, and a water closet were behind it.

"This is a pleasant surprise," she said, having thought she'd be forced to make her toilet in the woods beyond the cabin.

"Boy likes his little conveniences," Snake commented as she came through the door and plopped down in one of the rockers. "Guess spending five years without 'em took its toll on him."

"I imagine prison does that to a man," Peyton replied.

"Told you 'bout that, did he?" Snake inquired. She was filling a corncob pipe with tobacco as she rocked.

"Can you make rabbit stew?" Harper inquired.

"Yes," she replied.

"I'll fetch you one," he said, heading for the front door.

"Best clean it for her, boy," Snake suggested. "She don't look the type to do her own skinning."

Harper made no reply as he left.

Peyton went through the cupboards and bins in the kitchen, continually surprised at how well-stocked and neat everything was. She took out jars of canned tomatoes, spices, found potatoes, onions, and some carrots and began peeling and quartering the vegetables.

"Where'd you learn to cook, girl?" Snake asked as she puffed away on her odorous pipe.

"From watching Lucinda, the woman who has cooked for my family since before I was born," Peyton answered. "I loved helping her and my mother didn't discourage it."

Snake snorted. "I wouldn't think your old man would have approved of such."

Peyton glanced at the old woman. "Do you know my father?"

A mean look appeared in Snake's rheumy eyes. "All too well."

"May I ask how?" she asked as she washed the vegetables and dropped them into a blue enameled pot.

"Was there when he murdered the boy's parents and his brother then stole the Harper land," Snake replied and there was a hard edge to her voice.

Peyton's hand stilled while she was adding salt to the pot. She slowly turned to stare at Snake. For a long moment she held the old woman's steady gaze and knew Snake was telling the truth. She came to sit down in the rocker beside Snake. "When was this?" she asked quietly.

"Nigh on to seven years ago," Snake replied. She clenched the pipe between her teeth, speaking around the obstruction. "Don't hear you denying your old man would do such."

Peyton was sitting on the edge of the rocker, her back ramrod straight, hands clenched in her laps. "Nothing my father does surprises me, but I've never heard anyone accuse him of murder before."

"Well, he didn't do the deed himself," Snake said. "Wouldn't dirty his hands with the like, but he ordered it done. He was sitting right there on that fancy roan of his when the boy's home was torched with his parents and little brother still inside."

"They died in the fire?" Peyton asked, her face pale.

"Died when they come running out and was shot down like dogs on the roadway," Snake snapped. A noxious cloud of smoke circled the woman's white head. "The boy and me would have died, too, had we been there."

Peyton blinked. "Are you a relative of his?"

Snake's slow smile held no humor or pleasantry. "I'm his ma's ma," she said. "His nanna."

Absorbing that information, Peyton sat back in the rocker with her hands curled around the arms. "Where were the two of you when the rest of his family died?" she asked.

"The boy and me had gone into town for supplies," Snake said, her eyes taking on a deadly sheen. "We came back to the cabin in flames and the bodies of our kin lying in their own blood. We knew who'd done it. Knew Jacob Dalton had come calling whilst we was gone. After Sloannie done the burying, he went looking for Dalton."

"You say my father took the Harper land. How did he do that?"

Snake took a long pull on her pipe then blew the smoke out. "They was waiting for the boy," she answered. "Set him up, they did. Dalton knew Sloannie would call him out and so he sent one of his untried hands to go up against the boy, knowing full well Sloannie would outdraw that little peckerwood. Even back then, Sloannie was a dead shot, as quick as greased lightning." She guffawed. "'Course, he's even faster now."

"There was a gunfight," Peyton said, "and Sloan won."

"Hell, yes, he did!" Snake hissed. "That little peckerwood hadn't even cleared leather before Sloannie shot him smack dab in the middle of the chest. Trouble was, though, that when the sheriff arrive, Dalton's men swore up and down that Sloannie shot the peckerwood down in cold blood." The old woman snorted with disgust. "Sheriff didn't believe it for a minute and when he heard what had happened to our kin, he was inclined to let Sloannie go."

"But that didn't happen."

"No," Snake spat. "It didn't. Dalton bought himself a judge and that judge said it was manslaughter and Sloannie wound up in a cage in Missouri and the ranch got sold to Dalton for pennies on the dollar."

"What happened to you? Where did you go?"

Snake shrugged. "Don't make no never mind where I was, girl. Let it suffice to say, I survived. It was a good thing the boy had some idea of where to find me when he broke out of that hellhole, though. Good that we hooked up again."

Peyton drew in a breath, her eyes wide. "He escaped from prison?"

"You don't think they just opened the door pretty as you please and told him to sashay out, now, did you?" Snake scoffed. "'Course he escaped else he'd still be sitting in there."

The sound of a rifle shot reverberated outside and Peyton jumped. Another shot quickly followed.

"Boy done bagged him a couple of hopalongs," Snake said with a chuckle.

"So the law is looking for him," Peyton said softly.

"I imagine they are, but they won't come down here to get him," Snake declared.

Peyton got up from the chair and went back to the pot into which she poured the jar of tomatoes before striking a match and lighting the wood stove. She said nothing as she worked, mulling over what the old woman told her. She felt Snake's eyes on her, assessing her, but she pretended not to notice.

"Ain't you curious 'bout why he calls me Snake?" the old woman asked.

Adding pepper to the stew pot, Peyton glanced at her. "A bit."

"My given name is Coronella," Snake told her. "The Coronella austriaca is better known in Scotland as the smooth snake."

"Oh, I see," Peyton said.

"Boy has a mean sense of humor at times," Snake stated as she shifted in the rocker to tap her pipe against a tin can. "Comes from all that book learning he did back in his younger days across the ocean."

The door opened and Harper came in with a brace of rabbits that he brought over to Peyton. "I'll cut them up for you," he said.

"I can do it," she said though from the expression on her face it was obvious to him she'd rather not.

"I'll do it."

He worked efficiently beside her and when he had the meat cut into small stew size pieces, washed them off then dropped them into the pot. Wiping his hands on a towel, he leaned his hip against the cabinet and watched her as she made biscuits. "You really do know how to cook," he observed.

"Are you surprised I'm not a useless female?" she asked.

"Aye," he replied. "But glad to see you aren't." He tossed the towel aside and went to sit beside Snake.

"Where in Scotland were you born, Sloan?" Peyton asked.

"Inverness," he answered. "In the Highlands."

"But that isn't where you're from is it, Miss Coronella?"

Harper shot his grandmother a surprised look. "You told her your name?"

"I did," Snake snapped. "What of it?" She held his stare for a moment then looked away. "Nah, girl. I hail from far above the border up Canada way. My folks came there from Italy. It was up Dawson City way that my daughter met up with Sloannie's pa, who’d thought to do a bit of mining up that way. The boy's pa was running away from his pa."

"He came to North America to make his own fortune," Harper corrected.

"Your father was running away from his pa who wanted him to marry some fancy countess or the like," Snake declared. "And don't you be saying otherwise, boy!"

"A countess?" Peyton asked, her eyebrows elevated. "I'm impressed."

"Don't be," Harper grumbled. “The woman was old enough to be his mother and apparently had no other prospects.”

“Are you saying Sloan’s grandfather had enough clout to negotiate a society match for his son?” She opened the oven to put the biscuits in.

"Sloannie's grandpa was a Duke or something of the kind," Snake said.

Harper growled as he bent forward to take off his boots. "You talk too much, old woman."

"Your father was a member of the royalty?" Peyton inquired.

"From the wrong side of the blanket, aye," Harper snapped. "He was the bastard son of Lord Edward Ferguson, the Duke of Warenstone. He came here to get away from all that crap and especially away from the sixty-four year old woman my grandfather was trying to tie him to."

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-four."

"But he must have eventually gone back to Scotland with his bride since you were born ...."

"My Anna-Lucia never married Gilbert Harper," Snake said. "Sloannie is just as much a bastard as was his father."

"She wouldn't marry him," Harper said, a muscle flexing in his jaw. "You know that."

"Yeah and you know why!" Snake threw at him before hiking herself up and stomping out of the cabin, slamming the door behind her.

Peyton watched Harper set his boots beside the fireplace. He was scowling fiercely so she left him alone as he leaned back in the rocker and stared up at the ceiling. Though she tried not to show it, she was afraid of him. He was a dangerous man and what he had done to her in the cave—even if it had been something she had secretly desired for many years—had been wrong and despite what he'd said, it had been rape.

She stared at him, thinking no phantom man of dreams who had scaled the balcony to take her could have ever been as handsome in her imagination as Sloan was in the flesh. Since she had wanted to be deflowered—although if truth were told not in the way he'd gone about it—she could have done much worse in her violator.

His hair was midnight black and curled lightly and thickly around his head. He wore it long to his collar and she could well imagine him tying it back with a leather thong when the mood struck. His eyes were a pale hazel green color that darkened noticeably when he was angered. A dark tan that set off the stark whiteness of his teeth only added to the allure of his purely masculine face. With broad shoulders, muscular arms and a chest that had just the right about of hair darkening it, he was a superb male specimen. Thinking back on how his bare chest had looked, she thought of the way a boarding school friend had described the ideal male chest ....

"The man must have a moderate amount of chest hair that grows just beneath the Suprasternal notch and across his collarbones. Just enough to run your fingers through. Let it taper nicely over his pectoral muscles and then arrow down into that sweet little tiger line that disappears below the waistband of their pants. Then it should return to full glory across the pelvic arch."

Sloan was a perfect example of what Dawn had described and then some.

She frowned sharply as she remembered his poor, ravaged back and her heart ached. How that must have hurt him. The scars were vicious and they crossed his back in wide stripes that would have taken days--if not weeks--to fully heal.

"What are you thinking, wench?" he asked her and she noticed his brogue was more pronounced.

She shook her head to clear it of the image of his torn flesh. "Nothing," she said and put a lid on the pot of stew.

“You looked like you were about to cry,” he accused.

“I wasn’t.”

“If you are worried about bearing a child out of wedlock, you need not be,” he told her.

Peyton’s forehead creased. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I mean we’ll be saying our marriage vows as soon as I can get you to a priest.”

She stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t stutter, wench,” he snapped. “I’ll not have a child of mine born illegitimate like his father and his father before him was. That’s a curse I wouldn’t wish on any child.”

She came over to him and took the rocker beside him. “We should talk about this, Sloan,” she said. “You can’t just blithely inform me you are going to marry me and then let it go at that.”

“What is there to talk about?” he countered. “You will marry me, wench. There’s no discussion to be had concerning it.”

“But I don’t even know you!” she said. “Why would you want to ...?” She narrowed her eyes as understanding hit. “You want your father’s ranch back.”

He snorted “I don’t want that land or have any need for it. I have no intention of returning to Texas.”

“But if I marry you ....”

He turned his direct gaze to her. “There’s no ‘if’ involved in it. You will marry me, wench, then you’ll go back to Texas--most likely with a bun in the oven--and live happily ever after. Tell me that’s not what you’ve wanted but thought you’d never have, wench.”

She mulled that over then slowly nodded. “True, I never thought to, but do you really think it’s going to be that easy for you?” She tilted her head to one side. “As soon as my father learns what you’ve done, he will send his own men after you. Those men won’t be hampered with laws or consciences. If I know him, he’ll have his attorneys annul the marriage as soon as he hears about it.”

“Won’t matter,” Harper said. “The important thing is that I did right by you and gave my child a name. Whether you choose to let him use it is up to you.”

Peyton smiled. “That’s assuming I get with child and that it’s a boy.”

“Aye.”

She got up and went to the stove to stir the stew and check on the biscuits, which she took a pot holder and removed from the oven. When he told her the biscuits smelled good, she smiled. “I hope they taste as good as they smell. It’s been a while since I’ve made biscuits.” She glanced at him and noticed he was rubbing his right temple, his eyes narrowed as though he had a bad headache.

“You’re staring again,” he mumbled and slumped back in the rocker.

“Why does that bother you so much?” she asked, returning to the chair she’d vacated.

He didn’t answer, just kept rubbing his temple.

Snake came sauntering back in and her hands and face were clean this time. “Supper ‘bout ready?” she inquired.

“In about ten minutes,” Peyton replied. She got up again to set the table and as soon as she did, Snake took the rocker.

“You got one of them megrims, boy?” she asked, her eagle eyes on Harper and when he ignored her, she sighed loudly. “Want me to get the laudanum?”

“No,” he stated and got up to go to the sink to wash up.

“You have migraines?” Peyton inquired from the table.

“Aye,” he admitted as he splashed cold water onto his face. He muttered thank you when she handed him a clean, dry towel with which to dry off.

“Soup’s on, Miss Coronella,” Peyton called out.

“Damn if I don’t like the way you say that name, girl,” Snake said.

“Snake sounds so disrespectful,” Peyton declared.

“She’s as mean as a cornered one,” Harper said.

“I should have been around to whip your ass when you was younger and you wouldn’t be so goddamned pissy,” Snake commented as she pulled out her chair and sat down. “Goddamned governess sure didn’t do you no favors rearing you.”

“I got plenty of whippings from my grandfather,” Harper told her.

At Peyton’s inquisitive look, Snake explained, “Sloannie’s ma and pa left him over in Scotland to be brought up by that fancy crowd and they came back to Canada.” She took the plate of biscuits Peyton passed to her and took four of the ten. “My Anna-Lucia thought it was best the boy be raised amongst gentry instead of in a cat house.”

Peyton’s lips parted and she turned to give Harper a stunned look. “I don’t suppose that means a place where they make whips.”

Snake chuckled. “Use ‘em but don’t make ‘em there,” she said with a twinkle. “I’m speaking of a whorehouse, girl.”

Harper refused to meet Peyton’s shocked look. “My mother worked in the house my grandmother ran in Dawson City.”

Slowly turning her head toward Snake, Peyton’s eyebrows shot up. “You were a madam?”

“One of the goddamned finest in the whole of the Yukon,” Snake bragged. “One of the prettiest, too.”

“And the most humble,” Harper mumbled as he ladled stew onto his blue enamel plate.

“Hell, ain’t no call to be modest when you know you’re the best, boy,” Snake said. “I done told you that how many times now?”

“More than I care to remember,” Harper answered. He sat back in his chair and put his hand to his head again.

“I don’t give a rat’s pecker what you say, I’m getting that laudanum,” Snake informed him and scooted her chair back.

“Will you at least let me have my supper before you force that shit down my throat?” he countered.

“Eat,” Snake said as she rummaged through a cupboard. “Ain’t stopping you.”

“Interfering old viper,” Harper grumbled as he shoveled stew into his mouth.

It was a strange relationship the grandmother and grandson had, but Peyton recognized affection when she saw it. She lowered her head and sighed wistfully. Family warmth was not something she’d ever experienced. Her father was a cold, brutal man and her mother had been fundamentally indifferent to everything save her silk dresses and jewels, although she had shown a degree of care when it came to Peyton’s health and well being. Her daughter chalked that up to being wary of angering her husband should anything bad happen to his solitary heir. Neither of her parents had given her much in the way of love. They had left that up to the succession of Mexican maids and cooks who had filtered through the ranch house.

Snake mixed a portion of the laudanum in a glass of water then brought it to the table, slapping it down beside Harper’s plate. “And don’t be gagging on it like you always do.”

“Sit down and eat, old woman,” Harper snapped. “Your food’s getting cold.”

“Ungrateful little whelp,” Snake commented as she set in to eating with a vengeance.

“So how old were you when you came to America?” Peyton asked.

“I was twenty-nine,” Harper answered. “I came over to have my father sign some papers regarding the disposition of my grandfather’s estate.”

“Boy was a lawyer over there,” Snake said with pride evident in her husky voice.

“A solicitor,” Harper corrected.

Peyton frowned. “How did you get so proficient with a gun if you were a solicitor?” she inquired.

“Had a knack for it, he did,” Snake replied for him. “Strapped on a rig one day and spent the rest of it practicing his draw ‘til he had it down pat.” She glanced at her grandson. “Was a damned fine shot beforehand so he was a natural gunslinger, it seemed.”

“My grandfather was a champion marksman,” he said. “He taught me.”

“We’ll have to have a competition,” she suggested, “to see who’s best.”

Snake paused with a biscuit at her mouth. “You a sharpshooter, girl?”

Peyton’s face beamed. “I’ve been known to win a contest now and again.”

Harper snorted to that and continued eating, sopping his plate clean with the last biscuit.

“Take that elixir now, boy,” Snake demanded. “Ain’t going to do you no good just sitting there in the glass.”

With a distinctly disgusted look on his face, Harper wrapped his hand around the glass, put it to his lips and tilted it back, pinching his nostrils closed with his free hand.

“Ain’t nothing but an overgrown child,” Snake complained.

“It tastes like shit,” Harper said, grimacing as he put the empty glass on the table.

“You been eating shit, boy, to know how it tastes?” Snake threw at him. “No wonder you don’t eat what I put before you!”

“You’d be surprised what I’ve been forced to eat, old woman,” he said in a soft voice as he got up from the table and went over to the far bed, lying across it on his belly with his face turned to one side, hands to either side of his head.

“He’s hurting worse than he’s letting on if he does that,” Snake said in a low voice. She was finished with her food and was careful this time as she scraped her chair back and got up. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

“I’ll help you ...,” Peyton began.

“Won’t do nothing of the sort, missy,” Snake growled at her. “Go sit and leave a body do her work!”

Peyton held her hands up. “I’m going,” she said and started for the rocker, but stopped and walked over to the bed. “Would it help if I rubbed your neck and shoulders?”

Harper’s eyes were closed. “Couldn’t hurt worse than it already does,” he responded.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Peyton crawled up on the bed and knelt beside him, putting her hands to his taut shoulders.

“My Lord, but you’re tighter than a drumhead,” she said. She began kneading the bunched muscles and heard him sigh with pleasure.

“This is certainly no way to treat a man who did to you what I did,” he told her.

“I’m adaptable if nothing else, Sloan,” she replied. “As I see it, you did me a favor by relieving me of something I’d wanted to lose for quite some time.”

“You’ll be sleeping beside me tonight,” he stated and she saw him open his eyes to stare at the wall.

“I would prefer that to sleeping with Miss Coronella,” she said.

“I intend to take you again.”

Peyton’s brows drew together, her hands stilling on his shoulders. “Certainly not with your grandmother in the next bed,” she stated.

“She’ll be dead to the world in less than five minutes from the time her head hits the pillow. Besides, she’ll expect it.”

“Nevertheless,” she said as she withdrew her hands. “I have no intention of allowing you to ....”

He lifted his head and looked around at her. “Allowing me?” he queried. “Wench, it’s not like you have any options in this. I will take you whether you want it or not, whether you fight me or not.” He narrowed his eyes. “As a matter of fact, the struggling might add more to it.”

“But why?” she asked, tears gathering in her eyes as humiliation set in. “Why would you shame me in that way?”

“I intend you be carrying my child when I send you back to Texas,” he said, a muscle grinding in his jaw. “The more times I take you, the better the chance of that happening.”

“And have you once--even once!--considered that I might be incapable of bearing a child?” she threw at him. “I am forty-eight years old and ....”

“I will get your pregnant,” he said. “Never doubt it, wench. To contemplate anything other than that is unacceptable to me.”

“All that talk ain’t even necessary,” Snake said and it was obvious the old woman had been eavesdropping. “I’m gonna be bunking outside while you’re here, girl. I’ve heard enough grunting and groaning, mewling and moaning to last me a lifetime.”

“You most certainly will not give up your bed!” Peyton declared. “You ....”

“Ain’t no discussing it,” Snake told her. “Done made my mind up I don’t want to be where the boy is making noises like his old man did so that’s that.”

Peyton stared down at Harper but he had already laid his cheek on the hobnail spread and had closed his eyes. “This isn’t right,” she said.

“She’ll do what she wants so you might as well accept it,” he said, his brogue thick as the laudanum began to take effect.

Realizing he would soon fall asleep from the result of the medicine, Peyton scooted off the bed and went to sit in one of the rockers, her clenched fist jammed under her chin as she glared across the room at her captor.

“Don’t do no good to send him them fiery looks,” Snake said as she strolled by on her way out, pillow and blanket in hand. “He’s dead to the world right about now.”

“How long will that last?”

“Most of the night,” Snake answered, “but if’n you’re thinking he won’t be able to get it up, think again. He’ll wake himself up stiff as a post and be reaching for you, girl. Best you be in the bed beside him and ready else he’ll be one sorry-tailed bear.” She put a finger alongside her nose. “Mark my words now and don’t get him all riled up. He’s a good man most of the time, but I’m thinking he might be less so if you try denying him what he has his heart set on having.”

That said, the old woman left the cabin, easing the door shut behind her. The silence left behind was palpable and Peyton sat there as the sun went down and the crickets began chirping loudly. She shifted uncomfortably in the rocker--listening to Harper’s faint snoring--and stared at him. She missed her soft, comfy chair in her bedroom, wishing she was in it curled up with a good Gothic novel and a glass of warm milk.

Thinking of the milk, she yawned. It had been a long, eventful day and she was tired. The bed looked inviting but Harper was lying across the middle of it. In order to sleep on it, she’d have to stretch out beside him with her feet off the edge and that didn’t seem conducive to a good night’s rest. Ideally, she switched her gaze to Snake’s bed but the old woman’s warning flittered through her mind and she dismissed that as a possibility. After another ten minutes or so of staring at Harper, she took off her boots and stockings then hoisted herself out of the chair, went behind the screen to make her toilet for the night, then came out to pluck a pillow from the bed and crawl up on the bed beside him, lying on her side, her back to him. She had no sooner laid her head on the pillow than his heavy arm settled atop her, his hand curling around her middle to draw her closer to him.

“You smell good,” she heard him mumble a second or so before his warm breath fanned over her neck.

“How’s your head?” she felt compelled to ask.

“Still there,” he muttered.

Peyton thought she had to be the most sinful woman in the world for when his hand crept up to close over her breast, she drew in a slow breath and closed her eyes, the better to enjoy the sensation, and said nothing, did not shy away from his touch, did not sigh with exasperation or bat his hand from her. When his thumb stroked over her nipple, she simply bit down on her lower lip, forcing herself not to groan as she so longed to do.

“You are a sensuous woman, wench,” he said against her ear. “You were made for making love. You were made for a man’s touch.”

His words made Peyton’s womb clench and she relaxed against him, willing to have him do whatever it was he felt compelled to do to her. Though she knew it was wicked, knew it was wrong, but she didn’t care. She was a woman who had been denied what most women took for granted and she wanted to experience, to experiment with those things that had been forbidden, hidden, things for which she’d been starved for so long.

“Turn over,” he said and she obeyed immediately, eager to know what wondrous things he had in store for her.

He rose up, poised over her as he kneaded her breast through the fabric of her bodice. His fingertips grazing her taut nipple. His mouth came down over hers and his insistent tongue parted her lips to delve inside as his fingers pinched her lightly. The moment he thrust deep with that wicked probe, Peyton was lost, completely at his mercy, offering herself up to him like an opening flower petal to the morning sun. Her entire body became one throbbing, pulsing tool for him to wield as he liked.

She put her arms around his neck and held him as his kiss deepened. She had waited so long, ached so long, needed a man for so long that she was on fire beneath him. Her fevered dreams could never have prepared her for the reality of a man’s kisses or the way his body felt pressing down upon hers. No forbidden touches between her thighs--fleeting and filled with shame--could ever have been so sweet.

“Touch me, wench,” he said in a husky voice and reached for her hand, pulling it down to the hard bulge that pressed against her leg.

“W--what do I do?” she asked when her palm was held to that thickness.

“Undo my pants and reach inside,” he said, his warm breath fanning over her face as he looked down at her.

Her hand shook as she did as he bid her, fumbling with the hook on his jeans, barely able to draw the zipper down her body quivered so violently. There was no need for her reach inside the garment for his manhood sprang free, jutting toward her, its tip slick.

“Wrap your fingers around me,” he instructed.

Licking her upper lip, she forced her concentration to that part of his anatomy and gently closed her hand around him. He was velvet soft but hard as steel and she could feel the pulse of his heartbeat against her palm.

“Tighten your fingers around me.”

Her eyes flew to his. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” he said, holding her gaze. “Squeeze me, wench, then run your closed hand up and down the length of me.”

She increased the pressure around his rod.

“Tighter,” he said.

Peyton drew her fingers inward and when he bid her squeeze even harder, she complied though she was afraid she might bruise him and said as much.

“I hope to God you do, wench,” he breathed against the side of her face then lowered his mouth to hers once more, thrusting his tongue deep into the warm recesses, his shaft leaping in her hand as she ran her hand down him and he bucked his hips toward her. He tore his mouth free of her and lowered his lips to the hollow at her throat. “Aye, like that.”

He was so thick in her hand and the tip of him was oozing in such a way it aided her in running her palm up and down him. There was such heady power in handling him like that and Peyton was reveling in it.

“Squeeze and release slightly then squeeze hard again,” he said and she heard him growl deep in his throat as she did what he wanted.

“You like this?” she asked, innocently.

“Aye, wench, I like it,” he muttered, “but let go now else you’ll have a mess in your hand.”

She released him and he slithered down her like a snake, pushing her skirts up as he’d done in the cave except this time she helped him, tugging them up until they were out of the way and he was between her legs where he obviously desired to be, shouldering aside her thighs until his hot breath was centered on her most private area. A part of her was embarrassed beyond belief for she no longer had the protection of her drawers and she could feel him staring intently between her legs.

“What are you doing, S--sloan?” questioned.

“Shush. God, you smell so lusty, wench,” he said. He moved closer to draw in her scent.

She thought she felt him lick her--there!--and she froze, her face burning with a raging fire. “That can’t be right,” she said as he reached up to lay the flat of his hand between her legs. She nearly levitated straight off the bed, her entire lower body hitching upward to meet his touch.

“Trust me,” he said. “What I’m going to do, you’re going to like.”

Peyton had no time to question that claim and no desire to miss out on anything this man wanted to do to her. She was putty in his hands and as soon as she felt the unmistakable touch of his lips to her flesh, she arched her hips up, her hands going to his thick hair to hold his head.

“Aye,” he said around slow, long drags of his tongue over her folds. “Hold me like that, baby.”

Peyton stared up at the water-blotched ceiling above her and vaguely heard thunder rumbling in the distance. She was panting, her rump wriggling on the mattress, mussing the spread as he licked her, but at the moment his lips closed around something truly enlightening, she cried out and she heard him laugh as he suckled her.

“Sweet, Merciful Lord!” she exclaimed. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought she might not survive this round of love making. With the insertion of his finger into her wetness, she believed herself well on her way to dying, her eyelids fluttering as a second intrusion joined the first.

Her heels were digging into the mattress and her knees fell wide apart. He was thrusting his fingers in and out of her slowly, deeply, as he drew on whatever that delicious part of her flesh was that held his rapt attention. Her hands were buried in his long hair, her fingernails grazing his scalp, and she closed her eyes, arching her head back as a third finger slid smoothly into her, stretching and twisting then arched upward as he seemed to be searching for something within her. The moment he found what he was looking for, she knew and cried out, pressing down, bearing down on his hand as wave after wave of purely intense delight shook her to her very core.

He had hooked his fingers inside her and was pulling on what she thought might be her pelvic bone but there was no pain, just vibrant enjoyment that shimmied down her back and fanned out through her womb and spread to her limbs.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. “Come for me.”

And that ripple of pleasure ran through her again until she was nothing more than a boneless mass lying splayed open for him, unable to move, her hands falling from his hair to lay palm up, her short, quick hitches of breath sounding very loud to her ears.

“Now, it’s my turn,” he said and as she lay there, he slid his palms beneath her and hiked her hips upward, bracing the backs of her thighs on the tops of his as he guided his stiff cock into her moistness.

He went deep inside and then began a slow, tantalizing rhythm that finally gave her the impetus to move and she slammed her hands to his upper arms and wrapped her fingers around him--her nails digging into the backs of his arm--as his thrust increased in speed and depth and he filled her to bursting with his hard, pulsing tool.

His spending was thick and hot shooting deep inside her and the leap of him brought about still another wave of quickenings within her tired body. She brought her legs up and captured him, holding him to her as the last of his juices spurted.

“Damn,” he said, panting and his body weight descended upon hers for a moment or two before he rolled off, flinging an arm over his eyes as he gasped for breath.

“Did I hurt you again?” she asked.

He laughed. “Aye, wench, and the more you hurt me, the better I like it.”

She frowned at his words. Surely hurt was not a good thing for a man when he was making love, but how was she to know? Perhaps hurt made the act more enjoyable.

He turned his head so he was looking at her. “Wench, you are doing things to me no woman ever has.” His gaze slid over her face as though he was trying to understand how that could be.

“Is that a good thing, then?” she asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to think about it.” He rubbed at his temple. “I don’t want to know how I could possibly have fucked you with all that laudanum roiling around inside me but I did.” He shrugged. “I shouldn’t have been able to get the damned thing up but I did.”

She moved so she was laying on her side facing him, looking into his handsome face that looked so young and vulnerable at that moment, his eyes shadowed with some emotion she could not discern.

“Is your headache better?” she asked.

“One of them is,” he replied and his eyelids slid down over those remarkable eyes.

“Sleep, Sloan,” she said with a smile and when he moved so his head was upon her shoulder, she tilted her head to his and closed her eyes, feeling his fingers threading through hers.

For the first time in her life, she went to sleep knowing what it truly was to be a woman.

Chapter Three

Jacob Dalton could not remember ever being as infuriated as he was at that moment. From the moment he had learned his daughter, his heir, had been abducted, he had been awaiting a ransom note, a demand of some kind from her kidnapper. Now--two days after her disappearance, he stared down at the missive that had sent to him from the stage driver. Dalton was shuddering with suppressed rage as he read the careful handwriting.

“You took what was mine. I took what was yours. At this very moment I have your daughter spread beneath me. Her body is mine, her maidenhead pierced, her soul corrupted. I will send her back to you when I have had my fill.”

“Sloan Harper!” Dalton shouted the signature. “Some bastard named Sloan Harper has my little girl!”

“I’ll notify the federal marshal, sir,” Jim Kitterling, Dalton’s foreman informed him. “They’ll find him, sir. He can’t have gotten far and ....”

“Do you really think that bastard is still in Texas?” Dalton yelled. “He will have taken Peyton across the border into Mexico by now, knowing full well the law can’t reach him there!”

“The Texas Rangers won’t let the border stop them, Mr. Dalton, not with it being your daughter,” Kitterling said. “They will ....”

“You’ll keep the law out of this, Kitterling! I want my own men to go after Harper,” Dalton said. “Men who won’t have to worry about upholding laws or adhering to them.”

Kitterling nodded slowly. “I’ll see to it, sir. Who from the ranch do you ...?”

“There ain’t a man on my payroll I’d trust to do this! You get me the best goddamned hired guns you can find. I want the deadliest shots, the men other gunfighters fear,” Dalton snapped. “I don’t give a shit what you have to pay them. Ride into Brownsville and get me some mean sons-of-bitches! You make sure they bring Harper back here alive, you hear me? I want that bastard alive! By the time I’m through with him that little peckerwood will know he fucked with the wrong man!”

Kitterling turned to go then memory whirled him around and he snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, sir! Sloan Harper. Isn’t that the name of the man you paid Judge Harvey to send to prison? The one whose family was burned out over on the north ridge? He shot Guthrie in a throw down, but you had the judge declare it wasn’t a fair fight.”

Dalton’s eyes flared. “Son of a bitch if it ain’t!” He slammed his fist down on the desk. “That’s the prick who has my daughter? I’ll strip the skin from him layer by layer!”

“We’ll get him, sir,” Kitterling stated. “He’s as good as dead.” He made a move toward the door again but stopped to assure his boss that Dalton’s daughter would be handled with respect on the ride back.

“No,” Dalton said, a muscle working in his cheek.

Kitterling blinked, obviously confused by the denial. “Excuse me?”

“Leave her where you find her,” Dalton said. He lifted his chin. “She’s damaged goods and I’ve no need for her now.”

Dalton’s underling had to carefully school his face not to show his shock. “You are sure about this, sir?”

“Yes,” Dalton said, teeth grinding. “I don’t want her back.”

Forcing his parted lips together, Kitterling frowned at the statement. When he spoke, he could not look at his boss. “I understand, sir, but what if she wishes to return?”

Dalton turned his back on Kitterling. “Explain to her that she will not be welcome in my home again.”

Despite his loyalty to Dalton, Kitterling thought the man’s reaction was bizarre under the circumstances, but he knew better than to question what Jacob Dalton did. He simply nodded and left, his hands clenched into fists to keep from snarling with disappointment.

* * * *

Peyton woke to the sound of rain drumming on the tin roof. She would have stretched but Harper’s head was still on her shoulder. She doubted he’d moved all night for her hand was still cupped in his and one of his long legs was laying atop hers.

“Morning,” he mumbled, but didn’t open his eyes, fully aware she was awake beside him.

“How’s your head this morning?” she asked and surprised herself by reaching up to push a lock of dark hair from his forehead.

“The laudanum did the trick,” he said. “Must have slept like a baby.”

He turned to his back and wedged his eyes open. “Sounds like the bottom has fallen out.”

“Miss Coronella won’t be out in that, will she?” she asked.

He snorted. “No, wench. She’s in the shed out back. She sleeps there most of the time.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “She says it’s because I snore, but actually it’s the other way around. The woman could rival a sawmill buzz saw.” He let go of her hand and swung his legs from the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress to plow a hand through his hair.

“Do we have any eggs?” she asked.

“I can get some,” he said. “You like milk?”

“We have a cow?”

Harper looked around at her, smiling slightly at her including herself. “Aye, wench, and a pig. Had a goat, but it ran off.” He stood and went behind the screen to relieve himself. “Snake has a nice garden out back, as well.”

“Do we have tomatoes, peppers and onions?”

“We should,” he said. “Look in the larder.”

“Would you like an omelet for breakfast?” she asked as she got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

“I’ll eat whatever you set before me,” he told her.

“Me, too,” Snake said as she came through the front door. “Ain’t partial to tripe but anything else will suit. Rain’s stopped by the way.”

“Then I’m going down to the pond,” Harper said as he came from behind the screen carrying his razor, shaving cup and brush and a small mirror. He went to a chest and took out a clean checked shirt and jeans, a pair of socks, then picked up his boots and headed for the door.

“Here, boy!” Snake snapped and pulled a towel out of a wicker basket and tossed it to him.

Harper nodded his thanks as he went out. “I’ll be back with the eggs, wench.”

“Why doesn’t he use the tub to bathe?” Peyton asked after Harper had gone. She set about lighting the burner on the stove.

“Ain’t used it yet to my knowledge,” Snake said, fixing herself a fresh pipe while she rocked in her chair. “Why he prefers that goddamned cold water in the pond is a mystery though it could be that’s what he got used to at the prison.”

“Was it bad for him?” Peyton inquired.

The door opened and Harper came in with a wire basket of eggs. He put them on the table then left again without a word.

“You seen his back?” Snake inquired.

“Yes,” Peyton said with a wince. She had set the coffee to brewing.

“That was just one of the delightful little things they did to the boy,” Snake said as she puffed away. “Reckon he won’t ever tell you so I guess I should so’s you know why he’s done what he’s done with you.”

Peyton took a bowl and began cracking the eggs into it. She said nothing, knowing the old woman would continue.

“One of the things they do to men who don’t tow the line up there is putting them in a dark cell by themselves. Ain’t got no windows in that cell so in the summer it’s hotter than blazes and in the winter it’s colder than a witch’s tit. Those john bulls put them men in there for weeks at a time with nothing but one meal a day of bread and water. Sure ain’t healthy for them.”

“I would imagine not,” Peyton agreed. “Did they do that to Sloan?”

“Many a time as he tells it,” Snake replied. “And then they have the other punishments like the cat and the water hose.”

Peyton looked around. “The water hose?”

“Aye,” Snake said with a grimace. “You ever seen one of them wagon hoses pumping onto a raging fire, girl?” At Peyton’s slow nod, Snake glanced at her. “Just you imagine having the force of that water turned on you with you hanging helpless on a post as nekkid as the day you was born. Hurts something fierce, I’d imagine--especially so on a man’s privates.”

Peyton flinched. “Yes, I suppose it would.”

“You’ll see him doing his thumbs like this now and again ....” Snake held up her thumb and flexed it up and down. “They used to hang him up by them and they still pain him sometimes. Reckon they got dislocated a few times too many.”

Tears had gathered in Peyton’s eyes. Her heart bled for Sloan Harper and it wasn’t just because he’d been treated so inhumanely, but because her father had been the cause of it.

“Don’t let on to him I told you all this,” Snake said. “He wouldn’t like it none.”

Peyton whisked chopped tomatoes, green peppers, and onions into the beaten eggs, added salt and pepper and then poured it into a greased cast iron skillet. “Why doesn’t he like to be stared at?” she asked and when the old woman didn’t answer, she looked over at her. “Can you tell me?”

Snake held Peyton’s gaze. “Didn’t do to have men looking at you in that place, girl. Not a boy what looks as good as he does.” She sucked on the stem of her pipe for a moment then blew out a cloud of smoke. “Men looking at you usually ended up with men touching you.” She narrowed her eyes. “You understand what I’m saying?”

“I guess so,” Peyton said. “You mean they beat him up.”

The old woman gave her a strange look. “Ain’t what I meant at all. They fucked him, girl,” Snake stated.

Peyton blinked. “But how could they ...?” She stopped as understanding hit, her face going pale then she looked quickly away, her cheeks bright red. “Oh.”

“He don’t like to be stared at so don’t be doing it,” Snake said softly.

Stunned at Snake’s revelation, Peyton kept her head down, her eyes on the omelet. “Breakfast is almost ready,” she said in a strained voice.

“Guess I’ll go tell him to get his fanny in here, then,” Snake said, pushing up from the rocker.

Alone in the cabin, Peyton divided the omelet and dished up two plates before setting about making another one. She was unaware of the tears sliding down her face and dripping from her chin. As one hit the counter, she put a hand up to wipe at them, feeling her lower lip trembling.

No wonder Sloan had decided to exact his revenge in the way he’d gone about it. It had been an eye for an eye, she thought, a body for a body. He had been brutalized and he had decided doing the same to her would be a fitting vengeance against her father.

But he had not brutalized her, had not hurt her as he’d no doubt been hurt. He had tempered his vengeance in such a way that it had given her intense pleasure and she doubted he had experienced that at the hands of his fellow prisoners.

“That smells great.”

Peyton looked around as he came in behind his grandmother. He had shaved the stubble from his cheeks and his dark hair was wet, curling around his face and his shirt was hanging unbuttoned on his broad chest. When he saw where she was looking, he quickly ran the buttons closed, tucking the tail of the shirt into his jeans.

“Hope you’re making more than one of them, girl,” Snake said as she sat down before her plate and automatically reached for the salt.

“I’ll make as many as I have eggs for,” Peyton said quietly. She was aware of Sloan staring intently at her.

“Have you been crying?” he asked as she poured cups of coffee for the three of them.

Out of the corner of her eye, Peyton saw Snake’s head snap up. “The onions,” Peyton said. “I never could peel them without crying.”

He continued to stare at her for a long moment then slowly turned his head toward his grandmother. Whatever he saw on the old woman’s face made him clench his jaw. He put out a hand and gripped Snake’s wrist as she started to put a fork of omelet in her mouth. “Be careful what you say to her, old woman,” he told her.

“Ain’t said nothing but the truth,” Snake shot back and snatched her hand away. “Girl has a right to know why you ....”

“Just shut up,” Harper snapped. “You talk too much.”

Peyton brought the second omelet over and divided it between them.

“When are you going to eat?” Harper asked her.

“I’m making mine now,” she said. “I like my eggs scrambled.”

He chewed thoughtfully for a moment then took up his cup to take a sip of the coffee. When he set the cup down, he told her they’d be leaving for the closest village right after breakfast.

Peyton had been about to sit down and her gaze fell on her dirty dress. He saw her lips purse.

“You don’t have to worry about that, wench. I’ll get you something decent to wear before we go see the priest,” he said.

Reminded of her upcoming nuptial, Peyton felt her heart speed up. The eggs no longer looked palatable. She wasn’t sure she could force them down. She took up her fork and scooped up some egg then just pushed it around on her plate.

“You get her some clothes for wearing around here, too, boy,” Snake said. “You got money or you need some?”

Peyton couldn’t keep a smile from tugging at her lips. Though she’d never known her own grandparents, she had often been around her childhood friends’. It seemed offering money to a grandchild was something all grandmothers did.

“I’ve got enough,” he replied.

“You sure?”

“Aye, I’m sure!” he barked.

Snake made a rude sound with her lips. “If’n he was back in Scotland, he’d have all the ....”

“Didn’t I tell you you talk too much?” Harper growled, slanting the old woman a warning look.

“Screw you, boy,” Snake groused. “If the girl is to be your wife and bear you a child, least you can do is share some of who you are with her!”

“She’s not interested in who I am,” Harper grated.

“Yes, I am,” Peyton said, but when he turned that fierce glare on her, she shrank back in her chair.

“Leave--it--be--wench,” he said slowly and distinctly.

Peyton shoved a forkful of egg into her mouth and chewed quickly.

When the meal was finished, Snake shooed them off, informing them she’d clean up. Harper went outside to saddle his horse, replying to his grandmother that they wouldn’t need her horse she’d offered for Peyton wasn’t much of a rider.

“Better teach her, then,” Snake grumbled.

The ride into the bustling village took less than an hour and by the time Harper found a store with clothing he considered fit for his bride-to-be, the sun was high overhead and the inhabitants scurrying for their afternoon siesta. There would be a few hours wait for the priest to perform the ceremony so Harper and Peyton sat under the shade of a cantina roof and looked out across the pretty town square with its bubbling fountain.

“So how rich are you?” she asked after awhile, giving him a saucy grin that said she expected at answer.

Harper growled low in his throat. “That old woman’s mouth is going to get her in deep shit one of these days.”

“I take it the money is in Scotland?”

He nodded. “Along with the land my grandfather left me.” He glanced down at his right hand and wiggled his thumb. “I can’t touch any of it unless I go back there.”

Peyton took a sip of the cool lemonade the cantina owner had poured for them before heading for his nap. “Have you ever thought about doing that?” she asked over the rim of the glass.

She didn’t think he’d answer as he gently massaged his thumb. “I thought about it this morning while I was bathing,” he answered in a soft voice.

“Is your thumb hurting very badly today?” she asked.

He looked up at her. “Did she tell you about that, too?” he asked, his brogue thick. He stopped rubbing his thumb.

Peyton smiled gently at him. “There’s no shame in me knowing, is there?”

A mutinous look shifted over his face for a moment then moved on. “I suppose not,” he said in a grudging voice.

They were quiet for awhile then he turned to give her a steady look. “If I were to ask you to go with me to Scotland, would you be inclined to think on it?”

Peyton’s brows drew together. “How would we get there?”

“By clipper,” he said. “Out of Tampico.” He frowned. “We’d have to take the old woman with us. I couldn’t leave her here.”

“Of course, you couldn’t,” she agreed. “She loves you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he grumbled.

“She does,” Peyton stated.

“The law will always be after me here,” he said.

“I’m sure they would.”

“Over there, I’d be a free man, not having to look over my shoulder all the time.”

Peyton thought of her father, worrying the situation over in her mind.

Harper was silent a long time then asked her again if she’d consider going with him.

Peyton met his gaze. “I’ve been doing just that for the last ten minutes.”

“And?”

“And yes,” she said. “I would go with you.”

“You’d leave all you own behind to do that, wench?” he asked, his generous lips working as though trying to smile and he kept them from doing so.

“Yes,” she said and took another sip of the wonderful lemonade. “I would leave everything behind to be with you.”

Harper gave up his struggle not to smile. “Then I’ll arrange it,” he said.

“The sooner, the better,” she said, a picture of her father’s scowling face flashing across her mind.

“Aye,” he said. “That would be best. It’ll take me a few days, maybe even a week, to get my things in order then we can head for Tampico.” He looked about them as though eager for the sun to lower so he could get on with his life.

“What kind of things?” she asked.

“I have money in a bank on the other side of the border. I’ll ride up and get it. We’ll need money to travel on.”

“Can I go with…?” she started to ask, but he was already shaking his head.

“I can make better time alone, wench, and you know how much you like horseback riding,” he said with a rueful grin. “When we get home to Scotland, you’ll have time to become an expert with a horse. There are acres of beautiful land where we’re going.”

“So you have land in Scotland, then,” she said.

“Hearthridge, the hunting lodge where I grew up,” he said. “There’s the lodge and about a fifty acres of land surrounding it. It belonged to my grandfather’s side of the family and since his wife wouldn’t allow me at the mansion ....”

“Your father’s mother kept you from your ancestral home?” she asked.

“She hated me,” he said. “She couldn’t have bairns of her own and knowing another woman gave her husband an heir provoked her something fierce. She never let me forget I was born on the wrong side of the blankets.”

“But you didn’t inherit the family estate?”

He shook his head. “She kept me from it, but she had no care for the hunting lodge and at the advice of her solicitor agreed not to fight me on that. There was nothing she could do about the yearly allowance my grandfather left me and it’s just been sitting in the bank accumulating interest while I was rotting in that damned prison.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he said and his brogue was so thick she had a hard time understanding his answer. It finally occurred to her that she was hearing more and more of that accent as time went on and wondered why he had been deliberately tamping it down. “There wasn’t no love lost between us. If she’s alive, I’ll venture to say I never cross her mind.”

“So she wouldn’t have heard of your arrest.”

“I doubt it. Who’d have told her?” He stood and shoved his hands into his pockets, began pacing. “Never have understood this sleeping in the middle of the day. Seems counterproductive to me.”

Peyton smiled. He was nervous, anxious to get the wedding over with. His spurs jangled against the wooden planking as he paced. Every minute or so he’d looked to the church at the end of the square, waiting for the priest to open the heavy carved portals and motion them over.

By the time the church doors opened, Sloan Harper had worked himself into a sweat, the front and underarms of his shirt stained dark. His hat was laying on the table and his dark hair ruffled from the constant raking of his fingers through it.

In contrast, Peyton Dalton was unruffled, having finished her lemonade and the rest of his. She was fanning herself leisurely with an old newspaper she hadn’t been able to read since it was printed in Spanish.

“Let’s go!” he said and stomped over to take her arm and lever her from the chair, striding purposefully toward the church so quickly she was stumbling in his wake.

“What is your hurry?” she asked, grinning.

“I want to get you back to the cabin so I can head north. I’ll leave after supper,” he said. “There’s no sense in waiting around.”

“What about the cabin?” she asked. “And the animals? You can’t just leave them ....”

“I’ll give them to the priest,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll know someone who needs a home.”

Father Roberta Escobar did, indeed, know someone and once he had performed the ceremony and the two witnesses had put their names to the document, he had shaken Harper’s hand, thanking him for his generosity.

“The family can take it over next week, Father,” Harper said. “We’ll be gone by Friday next, looking to take a ship out of Tampico. I’ll feed the chickens and the animals before we leave.”

“God bless you. This is so generous. The Villareals will be so happy.”

“Aye, well thank you for saying the words over us. We’ll be leaving now,” Harper said, embarrassed.

“Vaya con Dios, my children,” Father Roberta bestowed his blessing as Harper swung her up onto the horse behind him.

* * * *

They rode for half an hour then Harper stopped for Peyton to rid herself of all the lemonade she’d consumed. He waited for her as she made her way into the bushes, cautioning her to be on the lookout for snakes or tarantulas.

A small waterfall rippled into a stream nearby so he led his horse over to take a drink. Sitting down on a rock, he took off his hat, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and shook his head in disgust, cursing under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” Peyton asked as she joined him.

He sighed deeply then looked up at her, turning the hat around and around in his hands. “I forgot the goddamned ring, wench,” he said. “When the priest asked us about a ring, I could have kicked myself then and there.”

“You couldn’t remember everything, Sloan,” she said.

“Snake reminded me about the ring before we left,” he said. “I should have remembered it. I was going to look for one but it slipped my mind.”

“You can buy me one in Scotland,” she said.

“You’ll have one before we set sail, wench,” he stated firmly. “I’ll not have anyone wondering if you belong to me.”

She put a hand on his rough cheek where his heavy beard was already starting to grow back even after shaving so closely that morning. She liked the feel of it against her palm. “Who cares what other people think? All they need do is take one look at me while I’m looking at you and they’ll know I belong to you, Sloan Harper.”

He laid his hat on the ground then turned his face so his lips grazed her palm to kiss her there briefly, drawing the sweet scent of her flesh deep into his lungs. “All the same, I want you to wear my ring.”

Peyton smiled. “I will be honored to do so.” She slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled his face toward hers, parting her lips to him, inviting his tongue to slide into her mouth.

Sloan growled low in his throat and his arms went around her. He crushed to him as his cock leapt, pressing hard against the fabric of his jeans. He deepened their kiss and in one assertive move put one arm under her knees and lifted her into his arms--high against his chest as he stood up and carried her over to a soft patch of grass under a spreading tree.

Her heart was thudding strongly in her chest as he knelt down to place her on the ground. Her gaze followed him as he stood up to untie the leather strap holding his holster to his thigh before unbuckling the rig and draping it carefully on a low-hanging branch, keeping the firearm easily within his reach should he need it. She watched him as he quickly unbuttoned the cuffs of his gingham shirt then dragged the tail of it from his jeans. A slow smile formed on her expressive mouth as his fingers ran through the shirt’s buttons and he peeled it from his body, tossing it aside before he flipped the button of his jeans open and ran the zipper down over the taut bulge showing at the juncture of his muscled thighs. With a manly grace that made her heart swell with pride, he dropped to the ground to tug off his boots and socks before leaning back to shuck off his jeans, pushing them impatiently from his lean flanks. As the garment left his body, his heavy erection sprang up with a mind of its own.

“He looks to be an eager little man,” she commented.

Harper grunted. “Ain’t nothing little about him, wench,” he said as he held a hand out to help her up.

There had been a time when Peyton would have protested him dragging her gown over her head and pushing her chemise down over her arms, pulling it from her, easing off her half-boots and rolling her stockings down, tugging her bloomers from her legs.

“I didn’t even know Snake had these fripperies,” he complained as he laid the clothing aside.

“They belonged to your mother,” Peyton said. “They were in Miss Coronella’s trunk.”

“I’ll get you some decent clothes when we get to Tampico,” he said. “Pretty clothes fitting for a lady to wear.” He grinned. “Clothes I can strip off you when the mood hits.”

“Umm,” Peyton replied with the elevation of one brow.

Naked before him, she knelt there in the grass as he snaked his arms around her, molding her to him and once more claimed her lips. She could feel the heat of his firm body pressed all the way down the front of her, the jut of his ripe erection stabbing along her belly. He ground against her, his hips rocking as he thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. Her hands lifted between them to slide into his dark hair, reveling in the feel of her body imprisoned by his. When he pressed her toward the ground--lowering one strong hand to the grass to cushion their fall while the other held firmly to her back--she arched her head, sliding her lips from his, feeling his mouth trailing down her neck and onto her swollen nipple.

Once more her fingers entwined in his dark curls and she held him to her, her heart thundering beneath the point of his chin.

He fed from her, suckling her, licking that engorged peak, nibbling it until she was squirming mindlessly beneath him. She heard him chuckle, then felt his hand slipping over her thighs and between them, his fingers delving into the moist heat between her legs.

“God, wench,” he growled against her breast. “You drive me crazy with wanting you.”

His calloused fingers drove deep as he captured her nipple once more and drew hard upon it, grazing it with his teeth, stabbing at it with his hot tongue. He thrust rhythmically inside her--withdrawing, pushing deep, gently twisting his fingers before turning them upward to search for that mysterious protrusion he knew would drive her insane with desire. Finding the sponging elevation, he pressed it firmly and almost instantly felt the quiver of her vaginal muscles rippling around him.

“Sloan!” she yelled and bore down on his fingers, clutching his hair so tightly it brought tears to his eyes, but he did not move. He bit her nipple tenderly--clamping it between his teeth--as another wave of spasms shook her.

Peyton’s eyes were squeezed shut as the pleasure rocketed through her. She exhaled slightly when he slid over her, removing his fingers as the last intimate squeeze claimed her, nudging aside her thighs until he was seated between them, his cock pressing into the wet core of her.

She brought her legs up and encased him within their tight perimeter as he began a slow, long stroke that made her writhe under him. He was so big within her, stretching her so greatly that she thought her flesh would rip asunder beneath his firm assault, but he went deep, withdrew, went deeper still and his strokes began to speed up until he was slapping against her with abandon. Opening her eyes, she looked up at him. His head was back, his strong neck arched, his teeth clenched as he sought his own pleasure. Watching the muscles of his chest flexing, rippling as he took her sent her over the edge once more and another round of orgasmic pulses gripped her.

“Peyton!” he cried out as those little clenches rippled over his stony cock and he spilled himself into her--hard and thick, his cock straining inside her to spurt that one last drop of seed before he relaxed atop her, gasping for breath.

A fish jumped in the stream beside them. The waterfall made a lush, peaceful sound as it cascaded into the water. Harper’s horse snorted, pawed at the ground, then shook its head vigorously, the metal of its harness clinking.

“You know what I want?” Peyton heard her husband ask.

“What do you want?”

“A swim,” he said and in one lithe bound was on his feet, his hand out to her. “Want to join me?”

Peyton smiled and slapped her palm against his. “Aye, cowboy. I do.”

He hauled her up easily, drew her into his arms for a quick hug, then started toward the stream, pulling her behind him.

The water was colder than she would have thought as they waded out into the stream. He didn’t let go of her hand until they were chest high in the rippling water and he arched up then dove beneath the water, striking out for the waterfall. She followed at a more leisurely pace, accustoming herself to the stream. When she reached his side, he was standing beneath the flowing water, plowing his hands through his wet hair.

“I could stay here all day,” she said, joining him.

For over an hour they frolicked in the water, but then Harper reluctantly suggested they get back to the cabin. There were things that needed doing before they could strike out for Tampico.

“I want to leave at daylight tomorrow. The new owners will most likely arrive around noontime to settle in,” he told her.

Wading back through the splashing water and drying off with Peyton’s sacrificed bloomers, they were soon dressed and back on Harper’s horse, her arms tight around his waist as they rode back to the cabin.

He rode out again just as the sun was setting, heading for the border and the money that had been his only legacy from his parents.

Chapter Four

Ten days on the trail tired Peyton out. Making roughly 25 miles a day before bunking down for the night seemed like 50 by the time she rolled up in her blanket, the cold desert air chilling her. Harper had purchased a mount for her from a farmer when she complained her side was bothering her from riding behind him, being jostled on his horse’s rump. Nervous on the animal, she had clung to it for dear life, constantly fearful she’d be thrown, her palms raw from clutching the reins so tightly. The nights of sleeping on the hard ground had made her stiff with a constant ache deep in her hip bones. Although the little roan mare was a gentle creature with soft brown eyes and a dainty step, Peyton ached all over when they entered the seaside town of Tampico just after sunset. The hustle and bustle along the docks and the ships bobbing at anchor drew her attention, but it was the raucous noise in the dockside taverns and the blare of lively music that helped to revive her.

“We’ll get a room at the hotel,” Harper told her and Snake. “Hopefully we’ll find a ship bound for New Orleans leaving in the next few days.”

Harper lucked out and found two rooms for them at the hotel then headed for the harbormaster’s office while Peyton took a leisurely bath in an oversized copper tub and Snake flopped across her bed to take a long nap before supper. When Harper returned, he had good news.

“There’s a ship sailing tomorrow morning,” he said as he came into the room he’d be sharing with Peyton. “I’ve booked passage for us."

Peyton looked around at him, her hand clutching a soapy cloth. “That was quick.”

“Luck is on my side for a change,” he said, unbuckling his gun belt. He draped the weapon on the headboard of the bed to have it close.

“Would you wash my back for me?” Peyton asked.

Harper smiled and began to unbutton his shirt sleeves, rolling them up his tanned forearms. “I would be happy to oblige you, wench,” he said, hunkering down beside the tub. He took the washcloth from her, chuckling at her exaggerated eye-batting and pursed lips. “Behave else I’ll climb in there with you,” he warned as be began dragging the rag over her smooth back.

Peyton sighed and closed her eyes. “What did I do before I had you, cowboy?” she purred.

“Dreamed of me, no doubt,” he countered and ran the cloth down to her rump. “You getting hungry?”

“I’m starved,” she said. “You want to take a bath before we go to supper?”

“Nah, I’m good,” he said. “I’ll just wash under my arms and put on a clean shirt.” He draped the wet rag over her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said sweetly.

“You’re welcome,” he responded and grunted as he pushed to his feet and began stripping off his blue chambray shirt.

Half an hour later, they were standing at Snake’s door, knocking. The old woman opened the door yawning.

Harper arched one dark brow. “You’re wearing a skirt?” he inquired.

“ ‘Bout time you brats got here,” Snake complained, ignoring his query. She wagged her fingers at them, shooing them back so she could exit the room. “A body could perish to death waiting for you two.”

Harper looked at Peyton and rolled his eyes. All the way down the stairs and into the dining room, Snake kept up a constant barrage of complaints until he pulled out a chair for her and leaned down to whisper in her ear to tell her to cool it.

“I’ve my opinions, boy,” Snake mumbled as she shook out her napkin and tucked it at her chin. “Don’t be telling me not to speak up.”

Harper sighed as he held Peyton’s chair for her then took a seat, casually scanning the dining room. “It’s rather crowded for a weekday night,” he commented. He didn’t notice the two men sitting across the room who were watching him closely.

Supper was spicy and enjoyable and Snake could find nothing that didn’t meet her approval. She finished every scrap on her plate and cleaned it with the last warm tortilla. When she swallowed the remaining morsel, she sat back, rubbing her stomach, hating the faded skirt and wrinkled blouse she’d forced herself to wear for proprieties sake. “That was damned good vittles,” she pronounced then yawned widely.

“I’ll settle the bill,” Harper said, scooting back his chair. “Why don’t you ladies go on up to the room.” He handed Peyton the room key.

“Who you calling a lady?” Snake grumbled. “You’d best watch your mouth, boy, a’fore I take a stick to your hinny.” She seemed pleased, though, that he held her chair for her again, twisting her head around to give him a lopsided grin.

After pulling Peyton’s chair back, he watched his two womenfolk leave the dining room, smiling to himself as Snake looped a hand around the younger woman’s arm and leaned against her. The sound of their laughter made his heart swell.

Harper paid the bill, sending his compliments to the cook and was heading for the stairs when a young boy came rushing up to him. He turned when the boy spoke.

“Senor Harper?” the boy questioned.

“Aye,” Harper replied.

“You are wanted at the shipping office, senor,” the boy said.

Harper frowned. “Now?”

The boy bobbed his head eagerly. “I was ordered to come get you.”

Annoyed, Harper nodded and started for the door, his jaw clenched. Worried there was a problem, his mind rambling over possible setbacks that might make it impossible for them to leave the next morning, he wasn’t paying attention as he walked out on the board sidewalk and headed for the docks. He never heard or saw the men waiting for him, didn’t know anyone was behind him until something heavy connected with the back of his head and the lights went off around him. He fell to the hard packed ground, unaware of the rough hands dragging him down an alley and to a third man lying in wait.

* * * *

Peyton glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice, her brows drawn together. It had been nearly an hour since she’d escorted Miss Coronella to her room and come back to her own. She was beginning to worry about her husband. Chewing on her bottom lip, she paced the confines of the room, a growing nervousness making the pit of her stomach ache. Her glance went to his gun belt and the anxiety surged up her throat.

“Where are you Sloan?” she asked aloud.

* * * *

At that moment, her husband was unconscious, draped over the saddle of a spirited chestnut gelding which took umbrage at having a human tied across his back. With his wrists tied together by a rope that ran under the gelding’s belly to lash his ankles, Harper was effectively immobilized.

“Better gag the bastard,” the man who had been waiting with the horses suggested. “We don’t need him bellowing when he comes to.”

One of the men from the hotel dining room nodded and untied the kerchief at his throat, rolled it into a tube then walked over to Harper and forced the gag between the prisoner’s lips, making quick work of tying it behind Harper’s head. “All set,” he said.

“Mount up and let’s ride, then,” the leader ordered. “I want to be long gone from here before Dalton’s daughter raises a ruckus and someone comes looking for him.”

Kicking their mounts into a trot then a full gallop, the three men rode out of Tampico, the leader holding the reins of the chestnut gelding upon which Harper was being jiggled.

“Why the hell didn’t you come get me sooner?” Snake demanded as she stepped into her denim pants and jerked them up to her thin waist. “Hell, them Rangers most likely got a good hour on us, girl!”

“You believe they were Rangers?” Peyton asked. She had borrowed a pair of Snake’s pants and felt very comfortable in the snug fitting garment. The borrowed shirt was too tight across her bosom, but that couldn’t be helped. Around her hips, she had slung Harper’s six-shooter, much to the amusement of the older woman. “You gonna wind up blowing off a toe if you don’t watch it,” had been Snake’s comment.

Snake shot Peyton an irritated look. “Who the hell else would it be? He’s a wanted man and them Rangers don’t think twice ‘bout coming ‘cross the border after their man.”

“It could be bounty hunters,” Peyton said as Snake started for the door, buttoning her shirt as she stomped. “Or some of my father’s men.” That last thought made her blood run cold.

“We’d best hire us that tracker you mentioned,” Snake said. “Neither one of us is gonna be able to sniff out their trail and especially not in the dark.”

As they hurried down the stairs, Peyton thought back to what the man in the dining room had told her about what he’d overheard, about the conversation between her husband and the young Mexican boy. A messenger sent to the docks had returned to tell her Harper had never arrived and that no one had sent word to him that he was needed at the harbormaster’s office.

“Looks like your husband has disappeared,” the messenger commented. “It happens. We have many pirate vessels that come to our shores, but I checked with a man who would know. Senor Harper is not on any ship in our harbor.”

“Then where could he be?” she asked fretfully.

Accompanied by the helpful messenger and the man from the dining room who took it upon himself to be her escort, Peyton and the men had gone to the constable who--upon learning who the boy was who had come to the hotel to speak to Harper and had sent a man to question him--discovered what had obviously been a ploy to get Peyton’s husband alone.

“Senora, it seems your husband might have been abducted by three Norte Americano hombres,” the constable had pronounced. He had eyed her sternly. “Perhaps he has enemies from your country?”

Not daring to tell the law officer her husband was wanted on the other side of the border, she had shaken her head. “I need to tell his grandmother. She is traveling with us.”

“I will send my men in search of him but ….” The constable shrugged. “A trail at night is difficult to follow unless someone saw something. Was he carrying a lot of money?”

“No,” Peyton said. She was trembling by then and backing toward the door to the constable’s office. “I have to …. I must ….” She looked beseechingly at the man from the hotel.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel, senora,” the man--who she learned was named Roberto Sanchez--said, slipping a hand under her elbow.

Not giving the constable a chance to ask any more questions, Peyton left with Roberto and the messenger, her teeth chattering together despite the humid air wafting over her.

“If you need a tracker,” Roberto said, “I know a good man who will not cheat you. He is a Texan.”

“Would you contact him for me?” Peyton had asked. “Just in case?”

“Certainly, senora,” Roberto had agreed.

Peyton spied the tall, lanky man leaning against the hotel registration desk as soon as she and Snake stepped into the lobby. His pale eyes beneath the brim of a sweat-stained Stetson raked over her then leapt back to her face. He straightened up, swept off his hat and came toward her.

“Mrs. Harper?” he asked, rolling the hat between his calloused hands.

“Yes,” Peyton said. “Are you the gentleman Roberto recommended.

“I am,” the man replied and his gaze shifted to Snake. “How do, ma’am. I’m Jack Starnes.” He smiled slightly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Snake’s eyes narrowed. “I never forget a man I’ve tumbled and you ain’t one of ‘em.” She swept her attention down him. “But you look familiar.”

“Don’t guess there’s any reason you’d remember me,” Starnes said. “I was one of the young fools who came up for the Yukon rush. When I could afford it, I visited your place in Dawson City.”

The old woman smiled. “And damned sure got your money’s worth, I’d say.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Starnes agreed. “I always did.” His gaze shifted once more to Peyton. “Is this your granddaughter, then?”

“My grandson’s wife,” Snake stated. “She weren’t one of my sporting gals and neither was her ma. She’s quality folk.”

Starnes just nodded to the statement. “So Harper is Anna-Lucia’s son. How is she?”

“Dead,” Snake said.

The tall man winced. “Sorry to hear it. She was my ….”

“Let’s stop this jawing and get down to it, Jack,” Snake interrupted. “My grandson is out there and may be in dangerous hands.”

“All right,” Starnes said, sweeping a hand toward the lobby settees. “Why don’t we…?”

“Why don’t we talk about this while we’re shaking the dust of this town off our backsides?” Snake snapped.

Starnes’ eyebrows shot up. “You two are coming with me?”

“We sure as hell are,” Snake said and started for the door.

* * * *

For a man who had been a tracker for the U.S. Cavalry before deciding one day he’d had enough being yelled at, Jack Starnes was good at what he did. It didn’t take him long to discover the smudged earth where Harper had fallen, the drag marks left by the toes of his boots, the tracks of the horses and the trail they led out of town.

“There are three of them like the boy said and they’ve got Harper on a fourth horse. My gut tells me they knocked him out and he’s slung across his mount,” Starnes said as he pushed up from the ground where he’d been kneeling. He settled his hat my firmly on his head of salt and pepper hair. “He won’t be a happy fellow when he comes to.”

They had gone to the livery and though Harper had sold their horses to the man there in anticipation of leaving, managed to buy back Peyton’s and Snake’s steeds. Before long, they were riding beside Starnes who now had the full story of Sloan Harper.

“I imagine you’re right, Miss Peyton,” he had said. “These are most likely your father’s men sent to fetch Harper. Rangers wouldn’t have knocked him out.” His eyebrows slashed together. “My question is why they didn’t fetch you, too.”

Peyton had wondered the same thing and as they galloped across the Mexican countryside, following a well-used trail that led to the border, she couldn’t help but fear for Harper’s safety.

* * * *

His head swimming and aching unmercifully, Harper hit the ground hard as he was dragged off the horse, landing flat on his back. He growled behind the gag, glaring at the man standing over him.

“Getting more’n your taste of dirt tonight, ain’t you, Harper?” the man inquired with a snort.

Reaching up with his bound hands to pull the gag from between his throbbing jaws, Harper had little moisture in his dry mouth, but he wasn’t going to give his captors any satisfaction in cursing them. He worked his chin back and forth to relieve the ache. If the man tormenting him had been closer, Harper would have lifted his bound feet and kicked out at him, but the man was keeping his distance.

“You gotta have more balls than smarts kidnapping Dalton’s old maid daughter,” the man quipped. “Gonna pay richly for it, too.”

He’d known the moment he came to that it wasn’t lawmen who had him, but he’d figured it was bounty hunters. Hearing they were Dalton’s goons made his blood run cold. That they hadn’t brought Peyton along with them concerned him.

“Where’s my wife?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Dalton didn’t want her. Went and cut his ties to her,” the man replied with a careless shrug. “Guess he don’t want your leavings, huh?”

That news disturbed Harper. There would be no going home for Peyton if this went bad--and it looked as though it was going to. Although he knew Snake would take good care of her, knowing her father had disowned her made him feel guilty. He had set out to ruin her life and it appeared he had.

“We’re gonna take you up to one of Dalton’s line shacks,” the man informed Harper. “He wants you where no one is going to interfere if they hear you screaming when he starts in on your stupid ass.”

The other two men chuckled at their leader’s remark. They were cinching their saddles, taking a break, letting their horses drink from a small stream.

“Almost caught your ass up in Brownsville,” the leader said. “Did you know that? Kitterling saw you at the bank and recognized you. He came running to tell us, but you was already galloping outta town. Trailed you back across the border, but you gave us a slip there for awhile. Luckily them greasers heard tell you were heading for Tampico else we might have missed you. Made it there a’fore you and was waiting for you to show.”

Harper was afraid to ask after the Villareals, the family to whom he’d left the cabin. He hope these men hadn’t harmed them. Thinking how close he’d come to having them take him in Brownsville made his belly clench.

“What’s the matter, Harper?” the leader inquired. “You look like you’re gonna be sick.” He looked to his accomplices. “Get him up and astride the horse,” he said.

“How’s he gonna ride with his legs tied?” one of the men asked.

The leader turned his head and hawked up a glob of yellowish phlegm and spat it out. “Do I gotta tell you everything, Hendricks?” he snarled. “Untie his fucking feet and then toss him up on the nag.” He pointed a grubby finger at his men. “But watch him. He thinks he’s a sly one.” He drew his gun and aimed it at Harper. “I’ll take out a kneecap if you so much as look at my men the wrong way.”

Knowing he wouldn’t have a chance to get free, Harper made no move to fight the men as one plopped a foot down on his belly, pinioning Harper’s hands, while the other man put a boot on Harper’s shin to hold his legs down as his ankles were untied.

“Hurry it up,” the leader ordered. “We ain’t got all night. And it’s a long ride to Texas.”

Stepping back quickly, the men took hold of Harper and dragged him to his feet, hustled him over to the horse.

“Get your ass up there,” one of the men hissed.

Lifting his foot to the stirrup, Harper reached his bound hands up to the pommel and swung into the saddle. He would have kicked the beast into motion if the other man hadn’t been holding the reins securely.

As they sprinted across the dark desert beneath a slice of a moon, Harper knew he was screwed. Without a gun, his hands tied, he was helpless and was beginning to taste fear in the back of his throat.

Jack Starnes glimpsed at the old woman and marveled at her stamina. Though she wobbled in the saddle from time to time, she refused to allow him to stop except to water the horses.

“We’ll stop when we’re closer to them varmints,” she’d thrown at him as she reluctantly slid down from her mount so it could drink.

“They’re making good time, Miss Coronella,” Starnes said. “We won’t catch up to them that easily. We’re gonna have to rest and let the horses rest.”

“And we know where they’re going,” Peyton said quietly.

“I suppose old man Dalton will be sweet as molasses to the boy once they get him up there, huh?” Snake spat at her. “They won’t hurt him none at all.”

Peyton felt tears gathering in her eyes, but she said nothing, lowering her head from Snake’s angry glower.

* * * *

The three men who had captured him rode through the night then into an outlaw hideout that welcomed them with open arms late the next morning. The horses were winded, sides heaving, when the leader--Harper learned his name was Trace Elliott--bartered for four fresh ones.

“Don’t think we’re being followed, but just in case,” Elliott told the outlaw boss, “I’d be much obliged if you’d take care of the matter should any trackers happen this way.”

“Sure thing, Trace,” the outlaw replied. He fondled the gun slung low on his hip. He nudged his chin toward Harper. “You taking him in for the bounty?”

Harper looked up from the place where he was sitting on the ground. He didn’t think he knew the man and thought it was just a guess on the outlaw’s part.

“In a manner of speaking,” Elliott answered. “Fucked with a rich man’s daughter and Papa’s gonna bore him a new one, I’m thinking.”

“Where’s the daughter?”

“Left her fat ass down in Tampico,” Elliott said. “She’ll most likely be in one of the whorehouses next time you get there.”

Fury radiated from Harper and he dug his fingernails into the palms of his bound hands. Hearing Peyton spoken about in such a way made him want to kill Elliott even more than he already did.

“You gonna ride out again?” the outlaw asked, surprised when Elliott’s men began saddling the new mounts. “You look as tired as a one legged clogger.”

“Can’t be helped. Can’t take the time to sleep right now,” Elliott said. “Just in case we are being shadowed. We’ll stop tonight.”

Rain came later that afternoon, forcing them to stop. They’d made good time up until then, but the weather was just too harsh and the riders too tired. Harper had nearly fallen from his own horse a couple of times.

Hobbling their captive’s ankles, making sure he was bound tightly enough so he couldn’t escape, Elliott and one of his men hit their bedrolls while the third man kept guard.

Harper lay on the ground without the benefit of a blanket and stared up at the ceiling of the cave in which they’d taken refuge. His bonds were so tight his fingers were losing feeling, but he didn’t think they’d accommodate him by loosing the rawhide thongs. The only compassion--if you could call it by so gentle a name--they showed him was when he had to piss. It was difficult to relieve himself with his wrists tied, but he’d gotten fairly good at it. He hoped the late morning meal of beans and tortillas they’d shoved at him wouldn’t start working on him any time soon.

He closed his eyes, wondering what Peyton and Snake were doing. He knew they’d try to follow him, thinking--as he had--that it had been Rangers who’d taken him, hoping to somehow free him. By now, he was sure Snake would have reasoned it wasn’t a lawman, but Dalton who had had him snatched. That the old woman would attempt a rescue, he had no doubt and that worried him. He drifted off to a restless sleep thinking of Peyton riding hell bent for leather toward him, her face filled with terror.

* * * *

Peyton took aim at the rattlesnake and blew its head off, easing Harper’s gun back into the holster before turning to Starnes. “Didn’t you hear it whistling at you, Jack?” she asked.

Starnes peeled off his hat and armed the sweat from his brow. “Yes, ma’am, I heard it. You beat me to the draw.”

“Lucky shot,” Snake guffawed.

Once more Peyton took the gun from the holster, pointed it at the arm of a cactus and blew away the top of the spiny appendage. She holstered the gun and kicked her mount into motion. “Lucky shot my foot,” she commented.

Snake gave an unladylike snort and drummed her heels into the sides of her own mare. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that, girl?” she shouted, but Peyton was already too far ahead to hear.

Starnes let the women get a bit ahead of him before nudging his gelding to catch up to them. He glanced at the path that led to Swift Albert Hancock’s hideout and hoped the women didn’t notice it. There was no way he’d ride into that den of thieves and murderers with two females in tow though Al was a nodding acquaintance. The trail they’d been following most likely led that way, but he was fairly sure the men and their captive were long gone before now. The rain that had caught him and the women would have stopped the men holding Harper as well and washed out tracks Starnes no longer needed to see. Like Harper’s wife said, they knew where the men were headed.

They stopped at night fall of the fourth day on the trail and had a plate of beans and a few bites of jerky. The coffee was so strong you could have dissolved a knife blade in it, but it helped to revive them as they sat around their campfire. Pushing their horses as they were was beginning to worry Starnes and he had it in his mind to get fresh mounts in the next village they came to. Glancing across at Peyton, he smiled slightly. The woman had started off at Tampico as a concern to him for it was obvious she was not a horsewoman, but now, she rode the little roan as though she’d been born and bred in the saddle. He wondered how she’d do with a sturdier, bigger animal.

“What you thinking, Jack?” Snake asked him.

“I been considering that we need to change up on our horses,” he replied and saw Peyton look around at him. “We can’t keep up this pace without harming the beasts.”

“I was considering that, too,” Snake said. “Seems like a wise decision to me.”

“You gonna be all right with that, Miss Peyton?” Starnes asked.

“I’ll have to be, don’t you think?” Peyton countered.

“Good woman,” Snake complimented then stretched out on her bedroll and pulled her floppy hat down over her face. “Ya’ll be quiet now. An old woman needs her beauty sleep.”

Starnes laughed soundlessly, winking at Peyton, then leaned back against his saddle to finish up the cup of coffee in his hand.

After awhile he heard Peyton say quietly, “I don’t think they’ll take Sloan to the ranch. He wouldn’t want anyone to know about him.”

“Especially not the law,” Snake grumbled.

“So where do you think they’ll take him?” Starnes asked.

Peyton had obviously been contemplating that. She lay on her bedroll facing him, propped up on her elbow, her hooded eyes staring at the blanket. “My guess would be one of the line shacks along the southern part of Papa’s land. It’s the most remote and there’s less chance of anyone happening by.” She glanced up at him. “I once heard a ranch hand telling another one that Papa took someone out there to have a long talk with him.” She shuddered and looked down again. “I don’t think talking was really what was being done.”

“How many shacks you talking about?” Snake asked from beneath her hat.

“Four, five,” Peyton said with a listless shrug. “Maybe more. But there’s one in particular I have a feeling is where they’ll take him. Papa took me out to it when he was teaching me how to drive a buggy. It’s secluded, at the very end of the property.”

“We’ll look there first, then,” Starnes said.

“And hope we ain’t too late,” Snake was heard to whisper.

Chapter Five

With only three hours of sleep, Starnes woke the women and told them they could possibly make up at least an hour on the lead Harper’s abductors had on them. “We’ll stop at the next village to change horses and get a hot meal if we’re lucky.”

“Fried eggs would sure hit the spot,” Snake said as she began saddling her mount.

Peyton was quiet as she went about the same chore. She had refused Starnes help in lifting her saddle, telling him she had to learn to do it on her own.

Before long they were riding out, the chill of the morning air refreshing them and helping to keep them awake. There was another hint of coming rain so they picked up their pace, hoping to reach shelter before the deluge started.

* * * *

Harper grunted as the boot connected with the small of his back. He rolled over on his belly to avoid another vicious hit. His ankles were untied, but lack of food, sleep, and laying on the hard ground had worn him down so he didn’t have the energy to attempt running.

“Get the hell up,” Elliott ordered.

It was barely light, but the outlaw leader was enraged that he and his men had overslept. He had found the guard dozing and that had further pissed him off. A brutal jab had punished the transgressor and that man was sullenly saddling Elliott’s horse for his lack of diligence.

Within fifteen minutes the quartet of horses were galloping away from the campsite, the first few sprinkles of rain slashing at Harper’s face as he rode. The others had slickers and had donned them before saddling up, but he had nothing--not even a hat--to protect him from the sting of the water hitting him. Before long, his shirt was plastered to him and he was miserable, shivering in the cold morning air. It was all he could do to hold onto the pommel with his bound hands, leaning low over the horse’s neck.

Because of time lost, they were only twenty miles ahead of Peyton, Snake and Starnes--an easy day’s ride for fresh horses.

* * * *

Peyton eyed the big black gelding and shrugged. “I can ride him,” she said, “but getting the saddle up on his back ….”

“I’ll do that,” Starnes broke in. “How ‘bout you and Snake fetching us the chow while I see to the horses?”

Nodding her agreement, Peyton headed for the cantina where a disgruntled proprietor had awakened to Starnes’ loud knocking. The man’s grossly overweight wife was busy making tortillas that Snake had insisted would be good filled with scrambled eggs and shredded spiced pork. Coffee was already brewing and the rich aroma of it lured Peyton into the dim interior of the cantina more than the thought of food at that time of morning. She sat down at one of the greasy tables and leaned back in the chair. She felt like the weight of the world were crushing her shoulders and her fear for Harper’s safety sat like a rock in the pit of her stomach.

“Senora?” the woman making the tortillas called out.

Peyton looked around. The food was ready and she sighed deeply, pushing wearily to her feet to thrust her hand into the pockets of her jeans to fish out money. “Gracias,” she told the woman and accepted the hot tortillas that had been laid in a long wicker basket. Unwilling to sit at the dirty table to eat, she took the basket outside, hitching her chin toward the interior when Snake glanced her way. “Wanna get the pot of coffee and cups for us, please?”

Snake didn’t reply, just went inside the cantina, coming back a few moments later with three tin cups hooked around the fingers of her left hand, coffee pot in the right. “Smells edible,” she pronounced of their breakfast fare.

Peyton had no appetite, but managed to down one of the egg and pork-filled tortillas. She drank two cups of coffee and was ready to hit the trail when Starnes had finished gulping down six of the tortillas, chewing the last one vigorously as he strode to his mount.

“You gotta have faith, girl,” Snake said as she pulled her creaking bones into the saddle. The old woman groaned for a moment, but straightened up, squaring her shoulders to sit ramrod tall.

“Aye,” Peyton said, unaware she’d used her husband’s word of agreement.

Snake and Starnes exchanged a look before the trio put heels to their horses and left the grimy cantina.

* * * *

Elliott pulled him down from the horse for the last time and Harper staggered, barely managing to keep his feet. He was bone-tired, aching all over and he had a vicious headache that made his vision blur at times. Nausea lurked at the back of his throat, signaling the headache would be a migraine of note. He stumbled as he was shoved toward the rickety line shack.

“End of the line, you little prick,” Elliott told him. The grip he had on Harper’s upper arm was brutal as he escorted his prisoner into the shack.

One of the men who had ridden back to Texas with them had gone to inform Dalton of their arrival. Elliott ordered the other man to see to their horses as he took Harper into the shack.

Harper was beginning to lose what little hope he had when he saw the chains hanging from the bare rafter of the shack. Dark stains on the wall ahead of him were rust-colored and there was no doubt in his mind what had caused the irregular splatters blotting the unpainted wood boards.

Elliott expected his prisoner to balk and as soon as he felt the tension in Harper’s body, he knew the younger man was about to try to make a break. He didn’t give him the chance, drawing his pistol and slamming the butt of it against the side of Harper’s head.

Pain exploded in his temple and Harper went to one knee, his bound hands hitting the rough floor, the edges of his palms scraping against it to lodge a splinter in the flesh. He couldn’t stop the retching that shot from his parched throat and he knelt there gagging for a moment, trying to catch his breath, trying to push the enveloping darkness away. His head was filled with so much agony, he didn’t have it in him to fight Elliott as the man jerked him up to lash his hands to one of the chains hanging from the rafter. With a groan, he was hoisted up until his feet left the floor.

“Knowed you was gonna try that,” Elliott said with satisfaction before holstering his gun and plowing a savage fist into Harper’s gut.

* * * *

Peyton could hear the meaty thuds coming from the shack and it was all she could do not to leave her hiding place and run into the building. Her father’s buggy stood at the hitching post beside four other horses. One man stood in front, rolling a smoke so she knew two others were inside with her father and Harper.

“We need to draw them other two out,” Starnes said softly.

“Yeah,” Snake agreed, “before they beat the boy to death.” She pretended not to notice Peyton’s pallor and haunted eyes.

“I’m going to slip around the side, draw the guard’s attention and take him out,” Starnes said. “I’ll signal you when the bastard is down. Then I’m gonna call out for help. At least one of them will come to see what the problem is.”

It worked perfectly. Starnes handled the guard, yelled for assistance and was rewarded by the appearance of two men Peyton didn’t know rushing from the shack. They were armed and heading around the side of the building when she calmly took aim and shot them both through the back of their head so quickly neither knew what had hit them as they slumped to the ground.

“Holy motherfucking shit,” Snake whispered. “Girl, where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Elliott?”

Peyton tensed hearing her father’s voice. She had her husband’s gun up and trained on the doorway, hoping her father would come through. She didn’t know if she could kill him, but she sure as hell could put a hole in him.

“Elliott?” Dalton’s voice held a slight tremor.

“Texas Rangers!” Starnes called out. “Your men are down. Come out with your hands up!”

There was a brief moment of silence then Dalton yelled back. “How do I know you’re who you say you are? How do I know you aren’t a friend of Harper’s?”

“You don’t,” Starnes answered, “but Harper’s wanted and I aim to take him in. If you get in the way, you’ll join your men.”

Elliott came out of the shack, his hands empty and above his head. “I don’t want no trouble with the law,” he said, turning his head from side to side as he sought the Ranger’s location.

“Move away from the building,” Starnes said.

Peyton saw her father look in that direction, lower his hands to his sides. She watched as he snaked his right hand behind him under his coat and knew he was going for a weapon. She took aim at his right thigh, but never had a chance to fire for Snake’s Colt roared beside her and a black hole appeared in the back of Jacob Dalton’s coat. As her father pitched forward, Peyton slowly turned her head to look at the old woman.

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun, girl,” Snake said in a soft voice. “And I couldn’t let you shoot your own kin, fucking bastard though he was.”

Peyton stared at the body of the man who had been her father and was surprised to find she had no feelings about his gruesome death. She felt detached, removed from the situation and all she could think of was Sloan and getting to him. With heavy feet, fearful of what she’d find, she started toward the shack.

Starnes sprinted around the side of the building, his eyes wide as he took in the three dead men lying almost in a row side by side. He tore his gaze from them and gave the women an open-mouthed, stunned expression. He snapped his mouth shut then skirted the carnage, the first one into the shack, Peyton close on his heels.

Harper was unconscious, but alive, his body swinging slowly from the chain. His shirt had been cut or torn from him and his upper body was already starting to show livid bruises. Elliott had worked him over pretty good by the time the young man’s rescuers arrived, but no lethal damage had been done. His face was devoid of any of the punishing blows that had obviously riddled his chest and abdomen.

Peyton reached a trembling hand toward her husband, her lips quivering. “Get him down, Jack. Get him down!” she sobbed, tears streaking down his face.

Carefully lowering the chain, Starnes let the two women support Harper, easing him gently to the floor. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he told the women. “Get back across the border before someone comes looking for Dalton. All we need is to be arrested for four murders.”

“It was vengeance, Starnes,” Snake growled.

“It was murder. Pure and simple,” Starnes stated. “Let’s call a spade a spade, lady.”

Snake threw out a dismissive hand. “I ain’t gonna argue with you. Pick him up and take him out to the buggy,” Snake ordered. “Seat’ll be a mite small for him, but he can’t ride like he is. Watch out for his ribs.”

Starnes didn’t balk at the take-charge demands of the old woman. He simply bent over and plucked Harper from the floor, wincing as he heard the gasp of pain from the young man and watched Harper’s eyes flutter open for a moment before closing again. “I’m being as easy with you as I can, son,” he said as he turned and left the shack. He glanced at Snake.

“Hitch one of our horses to the back of the buggy, girl,” Snake told Peyton. “When he’s able to ride, he’ll need a mount. Shoo the other horses off. Somebody’ll find them.”

Peyton hurried to do as she was ordered, running to get their mounts. She heard Starnes telling Snake he would hop up on the buggy horse to control it since he couldn’t ride in the conveyance.

“Fine by me,” Snake agreed.

Once Harper was situated in the buggy, a blanket rolled under his head, his body cinched in with a rope Starnes had found in the shack so the injured man wouldn’t roll off the seat, Peyton took the lead away from the shack, heading for the Rio Grande and the border twelve miles away. Now and again she would stare back at the buggy and the look on her face was filled with worry.

“He’s a tough one, Peyton,” Snake yelled at her, but the old woman’s words were lost in the rush of the wind as they galloped.

Long after they’d crossed the border--taking a different trail than the one they’d come up on--Peyton dropped back until she was riding beside the buggy, her gaze rarely leaving her husband’s gaunt face.

Hang on, Sloan,” she said. “Don’t you dare die on me now.”

Epilogue

The rolling hills and lush heather around Hearthridge was the most beautiful Peyton had ever seen. She stood at the opened window of the master’s bedroom and breathed in the scent that came flowing over her. The wind billowed her silk gown around her legs and she let her head fall back, her eyes closed as she experienced the slight chill that washed around and over her.

She thought of the hateful old woman who had come to demand they leave the estate of her deceased husband. She thought of the insults that pompous bitch had flung at Sloan.

“Don’t you talk to him like that!” Peyton heard herself saying again as she faced the widow of Edward Ferguson, the Duke of Warenstone. “This is Sloan’s home and he is master here. You will show your respect for him or you will leave his home, never to darken these rooms again! Is that clear?”

Both Sloan and Snake had stared at her as she had faced down the woman who had been a thorn in Sloan’s side for many years, who had tried to take the hunting lodge from him while he’d been America, but thanks to Sloan’s London solicitors, she had been unsuccessful in her ploy to rob him of his grandfather’s bequeath.

“What are you thinking about?”

Peyton turned to look at her husband, stretched out on the bed they had shared his first night home in Scotland. “You,” she replied.

He patted the coverlet and she padded over to him, crawling up on the high bed to lie beside him, snuggling into his strong arms, her thigh over his. She smiled when he laid his chin atop her head and smoothed his palm down her arm.

“Well, stop thinking, wench,” he said and used his free hand to cup her chin and lift her mouth to his.

It was impossible to think when his lips were plying hers and he knew it. His body stirred beside her, his erection thick and insistent as it leapt against her thigh. As his tongue invaded her mouth, she groaned and pressed her thigh against his shaft, reveling in the growl of hunger that erupted from his throat.

Harper rolled her over, dragged the hem of her gown up until her lower body was bare to him then moved over her, wedging himself between her legs, nudging them farther apart with his knees. His cock pulsed at her entrance, demanding access.

Peyton drew her legs up to give him what he wanted and he seated himself deeply inside her, filling her, stretching her, pushing against her very womb. She writhed beneath him then lifted her legs to trap him close to her.

His strokes were slow--withdrawing almost all the way out then thrusting deep and holding. He slid his hands beneath her rounded rump and lifted her to him, smiling down into her eyes as she sighed deeply.

“Like that, do you?” he asked and his thrusts increased a bit in speed.

“I could learn to crave it, milord,” she told him, giggling at his rolled eyes, for the servants insisted on applying the respectful title to him despite him asking them not to.

Harper ground against her and breathed in the musky scent of her honey as it coated his shaft. It was a smell that made him rock-hard and set his blood to racing. He knew he would never get his fill of it or the woman whose body created such delight.

Lowering his head to take her mouth once more, he slid his tongue between her lips even as his cock slid in perfect syncopation. He could feel her moistness clutching him, her heat enveloping him in such perfect pleasure it brought tears to his eyes.

This was his woman, his wife, and she had saved him from a fate he feared would have been an agonizing one at the hands of her father. She had journeyed through a brutal ocean voyage at his side and she had stood up to the most formidable woman in the Scottish Highlands, faced her down and practically threw her from their home. He was so proud of his woman he feared his heart would burst.

Peyton sensed his mind wandering. “What are you thinking about?” she asked him.

“You,” he was quick to reply and stole another breathtaking kiss before pushing into her as deep as he could go.

“Well, stop thinking, cowboy,” she said and forked her fingers through his dark curls, anchoring his head so she could plunder his mouth as he so often plundered hers.

His thrusts increased in tempo and he rolled his lower body upon hers, exalting in the hard grip her thighs had on his hips. He drank in the sigh of pleasure that came from deep within her and felt that first faint gripping that let him know he was giving her the delight she needed.

Her hands shifted to his shoulders then to his back and her nails dug lightly into his flesh, spurring him on. He felt her legs tightened and knew her passion was about to become full blown, her release only heartbeats away.

“Sloan!” she cried out, and the tremors--those precious little pulses, those wondrous, thrilling squeezes--rippled around his cock and she arched her hips up higher for his hard thrusts.

“That’s it, wench,” he said, his lips at the hollow of her throat. “Take your man. Take all of him.”

With one last hard plunge into her hot, moist channel, he spilled himself into her, shuddering with the intensity of the pleasure that undulated through his entire body. He grunted like an animal in rut and when his hips stilled, when that last spurt of fluid left his straining cock, he lay still on her, careful not to squash her with his weight, delighting to the feel of her arms enfolding him and holding him to her. As his breathing grew less ragged and his heartbeat slowed, he eased off her, rolling to his back and drawing her with him, planting a soft kiss on her brow.

“Aye,” she said. “I could really learn to crave that, cowboy.”

He chuckled softly and pushed his knee between her legs, settling her as close to him as he could get her, never wanting to ever be without this spirited woman.

As he lay there with her in his arms, her breath soft of his shoulder, Peyton stared up at the intricately wrought ceiling and smiled with utter contentment. He had set out to capture this sweet woman, and with her grace and humor and steadfastness she had wound up capturing him, incarcerating him in a velvet prison from which he never wanted to escape.

“I love you,” he heard her whisper.

“I love you, too, wench,” he returned.

“Did you get it, Sloan?” she asked him.

He shifted his head so he could look down at her upturned face. “Did I get what?”

“Your vengeance.”

He laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “It might have started out that way, Peyton, but none of that matters now. Dalton took everything I held dear away from me, but in the end, he gave me something even more precious.” He touched his lips to hers for a brief moment then pulled back to lock gazes with her. “I have all I could ever want right here in my arms.”

She settled her head against his shoulder again. “Good, because I’m never going to let you go, cowboy.”

“I have a feeling if I ever tried to escape, you and Snake would come after me,” he laughed.

“You can count on it,” she said and lightly pinched his nipple for emphasis.

“Don’t do that unless you want to be flat on your back once more,” he warned.

She arched her head back to look up at him and grinned saucily, her fingers tightening on his pap. When he arched one dark brow and put a hand to her shoulder, Peyton Dalton Harper knew her craving was about to be satisfied again.

The End