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  She proceeded several yards downriver before she realized that Camilla was no longer following her. Annoyed, she turned to her companion with a tart remark that never left her lips. Camilla stood perfectly still, her head cocked to one side. It struck Geneva, not lightly, that the woman was listening for something.

  Camilla seemed to anticipate her question. She raised a finger in a request for silence.

  "A horse," she said quietly. "Comin' hard. Comin' this way."

  Geneva felt what little warmth there was leave her cheeks. "Quick!" she whispered. "Let's hide."

  Camilla frowned. "Why?"

  Geneva seized her by the arm and led her to a cluster of bushes.

  "Shh," she told her perplexed companion, pulling her down to a crouch. "I'll explain later. Stay down!"

  She heard the sound then. A dull, steady thrum. It grew louder, gradually overpowering every other sound except for the pounding of her heart. The unseen rider slowed to a trot, then a walk. A roan appeared from the trees, and Geneva could not restrain a small gasp: Kieran Macalester dismounted, pulling his brown Stetson down over his brow. She watched him crouch low over the ground, examining the footprints she and Camilla had carelessly left all over the landscape like pieces of a puzzle, and not a difficult one, at that. He was not dressed in a suit, or in the evening clothes he had worn at their first meeting in New York. On this occasion, he wore corduroy pants and a freshly starched black shirt with a dark kerchief at his throat. Her breath caught in her chest: He looked every inch the outlaw she knew him to be.

  She felt an urgent tug on her sleeve. "Who is he?" Camilla barely whispered.

  "Shh!" Geneva hissed again, and instantly Macalester's head jerked up. She held her breath as, for a moment, he seemed to look directly at the bush behind which they were hiding. She felt exposed. She did not move.

  Presently he straightened to his full height. He stared long enough for Geneva to envy him his clean, warm, dry clothing. To her amazement, he turned away, leading his mount back to the road. In another minute, she heard the horse depart at a canter, and the sound diminished against the fabric of noises in the awakening forest. Geneva sighed as though she had not drawn breath for several minutes.

  "Who was that?" Camilla repeated her earlier question in the same whispered awe.

  Geneva did not look at her. She felt compelled by the memory of his tall, hard form crouched down in the mud not ten feet from where she was hiding. Surely he had known of her presence. Why had he ridden away?

  "Listen to me." Geneva was panting, and she ignored the question again as she reached into her blouse. "That man is looking for me. Take this." She found the tightly folded wad of bills in her blouse and pressed it into Camille's hand. "He'll leave you alone, and I don't want him to have it. If we make it to New Orleans together, we'll split whatever's left. If anything happens to me, just keep it. Do anything you like with it. I'd be happier knowing he doesn't have it."

  Camilla's pretty face clouded with concern, but she seemed to sense that Geneva did not want to tell her any more. Without looking at the folded paper notes, she nodded and tucked them into her own dress. The gesture was, to Geneva, like the closing of a metal door.

  Macalester dismounted about fifty yards down the road and tied his snorting roan to a sapling. His relief at having located Geneva Lionwood was tempered by—there was no other word for it—his dread of what must surely follow. His head had stopped hurting him late the day before, but the lump had remained and would be a reminder to him, not only of his own treachery but of Geneva's determination. He had forgiven her in his own mind for dealing so harshly with him: After all, would he not have done the very same thing, in similar circumstances? In fact, he had done the same thing to Lennox, in Little Rock. He could forgive it, but he could not forget it, not if he valued his life and his freedom.

  He doubled back quietly on foot, his boots making little sound on the damp forest floor as he negotiated his way to the riverbank. He found a broad old oak tree behind which to conceal himself, and waited.

  He did not have to wait long. In minutes, he saw not one but two women, Geneva and a dark-skinned companion, as muddy and bedraggled as a couple of orphans, making their way awkwardly in cumbersome, clinging skirts and boots with impossibly tiny heels. Geneva's chestnut hair was matted and coming loose from its pinnings, and her lovely face was streaked with mud and lined with such determination as he had never before seen on anyone's face, let alone a woman's. Her clothing, or what was left of it, was utterly ruined.

  She was, nevertheless, the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.

  When the two women were within a few yards of where he stood, he came out from behind the tree and placed himself directly in their path.

  "Good morning, Miss Lionwood," he said gravely, but he could not prevent a smile from crossing his lips, both at her ridiculous state and at his relief that he had recovered her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The two women stopped short, each of them appearing to have taken root like one of the trees around them. For an instant, Geneva's wide eyes, greener than ever among the like colors of the forest, demonstrated fear. Then she seemed to notice his smile. She looked away from him, but made no move to run.

  "If you dare to laugh," she intoned, her voice low and shaking, "I will kill you."

  He'd had no intention of laughing, but her empty threat did induce a chuckle from his throat, hence a glower from her. Her eyes narrowed at him in an unpleasant expression. She gestured to her companion with an elegant sweep of her small, fine, dirty hand.

  "Camilla Brooks," she began by way of introduction, "Kieran Macalester, my kidnapper. Have I pronounced your name correctly?" Her polite tone was liberally laced with sarcasm. He bit his lip to prevent further laughter from escaping, hoping to ward off further abuse.

  "It'll do," he replied evenly, restraining himself from reaching for her mud-streaked cheek. "Come on. Let's get you some dry clothes. Oh. One more thing."

  He held out a gloved hand, his palm outstretched. She stared at him blankly.

  "The money," he prompted her.

  He was treated to a brief, derisive laugh.

  "Would I be wandering in the woods in my wet underclothing if I still had that money?" she scoffed, her hands on her hips.

  Macalester curbed his annoyance. It was Humble's money; he didn't really care about that. He could wire the millionaire for more from the next town. It was Geneva's display of temper that was beginning to play upon his nerves, and with everything else on his mind, he did not need a fractious woman working on his patience as well. He shrugged, feigning indifference, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt.

  "We'll be living lean for a while, then," he told her, hoping the news would sober her. "And you'll have to wear my extra clothes. Had your breakfast yet?" The two of them immediately took on expressions resembling those of hungry she-wolves. Macalester could not prevent another very laugh. "I guess not. Well, come on, then. I have some grub in my saddlebags, if you don't mind eating from a can." By the look of them, he doubted they would mind eating off of the ground.

  Macalester's clothes were an ill fit for Geneva. The trousers were too long, too tight in the hips and too big at the waist. Even his belt was too big, and had to be cinched and looped over itself The shoulder seams of his scratchy wool flannel shirt came down almost to her elbows, and the shirt itself was nearly long enough to be a shift. But the unlikely ensemble was warm and dry and clean, even if it did smell of the leather on the inside of Macalester's saddlebags. She was still wearing her ruined shoes, since her only other choice was to go barefoot.

  She had washed the mud off of herself and out of her hair, while Camilla, in her own petticoat, had worked on her orange dress. The gown would never be the same again, but it did look much improved, drying in the light breeze on an evergreen shrub. Geneva brushed her dark hair dry with Macalester's hairbrush and used a scrap of ribbon from her camisole to tie it back into a thick tail that fell to the
middle of her back.

  Macalester had disappeared nearly an hour before, leaving them his horse and a cheery fire. The idea of flight occurred to Geneva again, but she rejected it at once: She did not know how to ride a horse, and Camilla, too, had confessed to a fear of the animal. They were still a long way from Fort Worth. The opportunity to escape would surely arise again.

  "You're a half a day from Pine Bluff, Miss Brooks," Macalester announced upon his return, striding unexpectedly back into camp at last. "Just keep following the river."

  Geneva's heart sank.

  "Aren't we going to—"

  "I was in Pine Bluff last night." Macalester cut her off, his angular features grim. "There's a man looking for me." He did not elaborate.

  Geneva could not maintain his hard gaze. Where he had been so gentle and loverlike in Little Rock, he was now cold and nasty. She suddenly felt the annoying urge to cry. Oh, why had she allowed herself to fall in love with R. Hastings McAllister? Trust her, she thought miserably, to fall in love with someone who did not even exist.

  The time had come for her to part company with Brooksie, who had proven to be a prudent as well as courageous companion. The younger woman, her dress now cleaner and dry, seemed surprised when Geneva drew her close for a hug.

  "Keep that money," Geneva advised her in a whisper so Macalester would not hear her. "Use whatever you need. I'll look for you in New Orleans as soon as I c an. And if you hear of a man named Lennox, tell him that you saw us. Godspeed, Camilla."

  Camilla's large brown eyes filled with tears.

  "I'll be fine." She cast a glance in Macalester's direction. "You take care. I bet it wouldn't take much to charm that big old handsome fella to take you anywheres you want."

  Geneva did not answer her. She merely watched as Camilla headed down the path, following the river toward Pine Bluff Did she imagine it, or did the forest grow a little colder, in spite of the bright midday sun? Soon Camilla Brooks disappeared in the curtain of trees. She felt a gentle hand upon her shoulders and she turned, startled, to see Macalester before her, regarding her with a contrite expression on his undeniably handsome face.

  "I'm sorrier than hell about all of this, Geneva," he said, his dark eyes compellingly serious. "Maybe I should have been straight with you from the start." Geneva kept her features emotionless and glanced after Camilla, who was long gone.

  "I wouldn't have come along." She forced an indifferent tone into her voice. "I'm only sorry I didn't see through your plot. And, of course, I despise you for taking undue advantage of the situation. That in itself was unforgivable. Unspeakable, really. Still, one can't expect anything more from an outlaw and a liar, I suppose."

  She turned away from him, not wanting him to guess her own chaotic emotions.

  "I am both," he admitted, with no trace of pride or amusement in his quiet baritone. "But I swear I never meant to hurt you, Geneva. Your husband is a scheming old bastard, and I think he knew I was going to—that you and I would—oh, damn," he ended up finally, sounding flustered and completely disgusted with himself.

  "I can't imagine why Garland wants me back after all of this time." She elected to ignore his awkward apology. "But as I have been brought this far, I may as well go quietly the rest of the way."

  In a pig's eye, she thought, tossing her head.

  Geneva's legs, back and buttocks ached from endless hours bouncing on the back end of a horse without benefit of a saddle. She would rather have died than admit to Macalester either that she was terrified of horses or that she was in real pain, so she held tightly to his narrow waist and bit her lip to prevent herself from crying out. She was sore, as well, from the constant rubbing against the insides of her thighs, but Macalester did not stop. He did not even speak to her again until it was nearly dark and he finally reined the tireless animal to a halt.

  "We'll camp here for the night," he remarked, using the six words she had dreaded hearing. She had hoped for a soak in a hot tub, and a soft, warm bed in a cozy hotel, but it seemed the hard ground and a warm plate of beans were the best she could expect.

  Macalester held his arm out, and it was a moment before she realized he was trying to help her down. She took hold of the arm with both of her hands: It was like steel beneath velvet. She tried to swing her leg across the horse's tail, but the burning pain of the chafe was so sharp all at once that she cried out and let go of his arm. Her feet touched the ground and her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to the earth, feeling as though her legs were on fire.

  Macalester was by her in an instant, his handsome, angular features perplexed and concerned.

  "What's wrong?" he was asking her, and through the stars that danced before her eyes she was aware of a vague desire to strike him.

  "Go away," she managed to whisper, closing her eyes. "You have very nearly killed me today. I refuse to allow you to gloat over me, as well."

  But he did not leave her.

  "Damn," he muttered, and she felt his hands upon her legs. "You're bleeding, Gen. Bleeding bad. We'll have to get these clothes off Why didn't you say something?"

  He began to undo the belt that cinched her into the trousers. Don't touch me, she wanted to shout. She even tried to pull away from him, but the stars in her head grew brighter, and harder, and began to whirl, and it was easier to surrender to them that to fight Kieran Macalester's ministrations.

  A small but cheery fire greeted Geneva's eyes when she opened them. The tiny flame crackled and shimmered and laughed at her. There was a small tin cup set upon a rock near the flame. She felt warm, and the pain she remembered so clearly had eased somewhat. She did not want to move.

  The object beneath her head was neither hard nor particularly soft, but it was not uncomfortable, either. There was a blanket beneath her body and a blanket on top of her, and between the two, except for the shirt that did not fit, she was naked.

  She drew in a deep, shuddering sigh. She had been through too much in the last week to feel any embarrassment. She was thankful to be still, not to have a powerful, relentless beast beneath her like an ever-rolling ship. She wanted never to move again. "Feeling better?"

  It was Macalester. His voice was quiet and gentle. She turned her head slightly, surprised at the effort it required, and saw him sitting on the ground just across from her. One long leg was stretched out before him, the other crooked at the knee, supporting his elbow. In one hand he held a tin cup. He appeared to be relaxing against a rock, or a cluster of rocks. His hat was gone. His handsome features were sharply defined in the orange glow of the small fire, and they were etched with worry.

  "Uh huh." She was surprised, even amused, at the weak quality of her voice.

  With a small grunt he got up from his repose. She watched as he retrieved the cup that had been warming by the fire and brought it over to her. She tried to sit up, but was reminded sharply of the reason why she lay there in the first place. Macalester, seeming to sense her discomfort, knelt beside her and, without a word, gently lifted and supported her head as he offered her the beverage in the cup.

  She drank. It was warm, and that was good, but it was also bitter. After a few swallows, she grimaced and refused more.

  "You make terrible coffee, Macalester," she told him, feeling a little stronger.

  She heard him chuckle, that deep, rumbling sound that warmed her even more than the fire, or the coffee. He gently lowered her head again.

  "That's what Billy always tells me. I guess that's why he usually makes it."

  Billy Deal. She was reminded, unpleasantly, of her situation, and with whom she was conversing. She tried to turn her body sideways, but a shaft of pain from her knees to her back convinced her that the effort was not only unnecessary, but foolish as well. She breathed a small sigh in lieu of a cry of pain.

  "I guess this is God's punishment to me for lying in Roanoke," she said, half to herself.

  "What do you mean?"

  In spite of her condition, she relished the proof that he had been compl
etely deceived by her performance in Virginia.

  "I wasn't sick at all. I just wanted to get off of the train for the night."

  But I needn't tell you why, she added to herself, a sin of omission rather than commission. She heard him laugh once, a harsh and hollow sound.

  "If this is how God punishes liars, then I guess I'm in for a heap of trouble," he declared under his breath.

  Geneva did not answer him. The stars in her head were beginning to pulsate again.

  When Geneva next opened her eyes, it was daylight. Not bright, but light enough for her to realize that the sun was probably up, somewhere beyond the cool morning mist of the Arkansas woods. A single songbird sang high up in the tree above her head. A lark? A bluebird? She did not know. She could not tell one bird from another, except to look at. Nearby a twig snapped, and she turned her head. It was Macalester, up and about, tying something to the saddle of that enormous red monster that had been the source of her wounds the day before.

  She caught a slow, shimmering movement in the grass out of the corner of her eye. Curious, she concentrated her attention upon it. In a moment, watching the long gray band slide through the grass and early fallen leaves, she realized it was a snake.

  Her scream echoed in the canopy of trees like an alarm, and she jumped up from her makeshift bed, clutching her blanket about her, unable to take her eyes from the terrifying sight. Macalester bounded through the clearing as quick as the wind, carrying a shotgun.

  "What is it, Geneva?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

  In reply, she pointed with a trembling hand to the spot where the reptile had been.

  "A sn—a snake," she gasped. "It was—it was right in my face!"

  Macalester poked the ground with the barrel of the shotgun like a baker testing a huge cake for doneness. He reached down into the grass and brought up a wriggling rope about two feet long.