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  "A garter snake," he explained curtly, looking around as though expecting important visitors at any moment. "Harmless. And I'll bet half of Arkansas knows we're here now."

  He tossed the creature back into the grass and eyed her with annoyance. She felt the small hairs rise on the back of her neck, and she made herself as erect as she could.

  "I would like to know how I am to be expected to know the difference between a snake that is harmless and one that is not. It is roughly the equivalent of someone expecting you, as an outlaw, to sing the role of Rigoletto. One finds few snakes of either variety on the stage of the Academy of Music. Although I must confess that my recent education in snakes of all types has been rather enlightening."

  "We have to move now." He ignored her remark, looking around again. "Lennox is probably close enough to have heard you."

  Geneva sat down on her blanket, folding her arms across her chest and raising her chin in defiance.

  "Mr. Lennox is your problem, not mine," she pronounced with a lift of her nose. "I refuse to get on that beast again."

  "You won't have to." Macalester, staring down at her with his thumbs hooked in his gun belt, was laconic. "I've rigged a litter for you. We can't be more than a few miles from a little town called Camden, where we can find you a doctor. You need some kind of salve for those legs, not to mention some decent clothes. I can't take you back to Humble looking like some half-dead squaw, now can I?"

  "And you plan to steal the money for all of this?" She mustered as sarcastic a tone as she could, ignoring his implied disparagement. He grinned at her infuriatingly. "No, I plan to wire Humble for more."

  He bent down and, to her astonishment, scooped her easily into his arms, blankets and all, and earned her to the makeshift litter lashed to the horse's saddle and ready to go. He set her on her feet. She was annoyed that the effort seemed not even to have winded him.

  "How much is my husband paying you for my return?" she asked in a quiet voice, staring squarely into his frank, unsmiling brown eyes.

  Macalester did not answer her right away. In fact, for a moment while he stared back at her, she thought he had not heard her question. His gloved hand reached for her face, then he seemed to think better of his gesture, for his hand returned to his side.

  "It isn't the amount so much as it is the conditions." His tone was far gentler than his earlier remarks. "I need amnesty from the governor of Texas, and Garland Humble has the kind of power to guarantee that. Besides, your husband is holding my friend Deal hostage. If I don't bring you back, he claims he'll turn Billy in for the reward, and Billy'll spend twenty years at hard labor."

  Macalester sighed, unable, it seemed, to meet her gaze any longer.

  "It looked so easy when he laid it all out." The outlaw's rugged features were thoughtful. "When I agreed to it, I never expected you to be so—" He stopped, pursing his wide mouth as though wanting to prevent further words from escaping without his permission. "Get on the litter." His eyes grew empty of emotion. "It'll be a bumpy ride, but—"

  "Macalester." She seized the lapels of his brown flannel shirt, sensing that he might, in this unguarded moment, be vulnerable once more to her charm. "Kieran. Don't take me back! I don't know what Garland wants, but it can't be good. I—I'm afraid of him. Please, just let me go! I'll give you—"

  Macalester's strong hands suddenly covered her own, so tightly that she cried out.

  "You're good, Geneva," he told her in a hoarse whisper, his eyes burning into her. "You're very good. But this has to be my way. You got away from Garland Humble once; you can do it again. If I can help you, I—"

  "You fool!" Her frustration at last overwhelmed her patience. "Garland knows more ways to cheat and to steal than you or I have ever dreamed! He moves people about to suit his whims like pieces in a game of chess! If you imagine he'll ever let you and your Billy Deal go—"

  Kieran's mouth covered hers unexpectedly with a bruising strength that nearly suffocated her. She clutched his shirt, wanting, for a wild moment, to remain in his arms forever. His kiss consumed her, made her feel as though the ground had fallen away beneath her feet. He released her, and she nearly fainted as his strength and warmth withdrew from her like a receding wave. He held on to her arms again, and her surroundings stopped reeling. In his dark eyes, she read an infinite sadness that was like a blow to the stomach.

  "I'll help you any way I can," he repeated, his voice a shadow of itself.

  She had failed. She beat upon his chest with her fists, weak with frustration and despair.

  "Damn you, Macalester!" She sobbed. "I hate you!"

  She wept in silence as she was bumped relentlessly along in the litter behind Macalester's roan. The gremlin apparently had no liking for the woods, for he was nowhere in evidence.

  Chapter Twelve

  Macalester's heart rode to Camden, Arkansas, in the heel of his boot. His chest hurt where Geneva had struck him, although the blows had not been hard. He was glad she was not riding with him: The feel of her arms around him would be more than he could bear. With Geneva on the litter, he was able to put her behind himself literally as well as figuratively and, through his own bitterness, concentrate on keeping them both out of the hands of Lennox.

  By midday, traveling at an excruciatingly sluggish pace, they reached the town. It was a modest assortment of clapboard structures: houses, stores, saloons, a bank, a livery, a telegraph and post office, a jail, a small hotel, a whitewashed church and, blessedly, a doctor. Macalester was aware of the stares that his odd little procession drew, but he did not acknowledge them. His policy had been, for some time, to hide, as it were, in plain sight. So far, it had worked for over two years. He saw no reason to alter the strategy here.

  Macalester dismounted from the roan, and as he tied the reins to the hitching post, a young man emerged from the low building, coatless, the sleeves of his starched white shirt held in place by a pair of black garters. He removed his spectacles and ran his slender, smooth, white hand through his curly brown hair. Macalester noticed all of this while completing the task of securing his horse.

  " 'Afternoon," the man offered in a congenial tone, shoving his hands into the pockets of his gray pinstripe trousers. Macalester touched the brim of his dusty brown Stetson. " 'Afternoon," he replied. "You the doc?"

  "That's me."

  Macalester glanced down the street. He was looking for Lennox, and was relieved that he did not see any evidence of the bounty hunter. He approached the young physician, adjusting the brim of his hat against the glare of the midday sun.

  "My wife," he began, effecting a sheepish and unsophisticated demeanor, "she's hurt. Can you take a look at her?"

  The younger man scrutinized him for a long, hard moment. Then he nodded and went into the building, leaving the door open behind him.

  Macalester approached the makeshift litter. Geneva was asleep, or unconscious, but she was gripping the side of the litter with whitened knuckles. Her hair was strewn about her captivating face like fallen leaves. Gazing down at her, he was stricken by a painful feeling he did not care to name. Crouching down beside her, he whispered, "We're here, honey. Put your arms around my neck."

  She did not answer him, but she did hold onto him as he lifted her and the blankets into his arms and followed the doctor into his infirmary.

  It was quiet and clean inside, and it smelled of some pungent antiseptic. The doctor, scrubbing his hands in a washbowl, motioned to one of two empty, white-sheeted beds. When Macalester laid Geneva down upon it, he realized, mortified, just how dirty and neglected she looked. He uncovered her as the doctor approached.

  "What in the name of God has this woman been doing?" he demanded in quiet outrage.

  Macalester did not answer him right away. He watched as Geneva half-opened her eyes. He could not swear to it, but he thought he saw her smile. A wicked smile.

  "Riding," he answered the doctor's question at last, preparing his speech and his accent. "She's a city gal, Doc; you know,
you can't tell them nuthin'. Thought she could ride bareback all the way from Fort Smith. She ain't a complainer, though, thank God, sol didn't know a thing about it till last night. Well, I couldn't go nowheres till mornin', so I rigged that litter and moved her as soon as it got light."

  The doctor glanced at him critically, rolling up his sleeves. "Where's her horse?"

  He sounded skeptical. The doctor, Macalester realized grimly, was no fool. Dutifully, the outlaw issued a self-shaming grimace.

  "I was so mad when I saw what happened," he lied smoothly. "I up and shot the sumbitch. It was stupid, I know," he went on with a wave of his hand. "Waste of a good horse. But I couldn't help it."

  He moved closer to the doctor, who took a half step backward in return. "I'm plum crazy about that woman, Doc," he wound up just above a whisper. "It would kill me if anything bad happened to her."

  Macalester was sorry as soon as the words left his lips: the doctor looked more doubtful than ever. The irony of the situation, Macalester realized, bitterly amused, was that it was the first remotely true thing he had said to the man. He glanced at Geneva, who bestowed a loving look upon him, a look that had trouble written all over it.

  "You promised me a sugar cake," she intoned in a fawning whine, aping his own feigned accent. "Go get me a sugar cake, Sugar Cake. And some coffee. Not that awful stuff you make. Some real coffee."

  Macalester hesitated. He needed to send a wire to Humble for more money, and he couldn't very well take her with him. But he hated the idea of leaving her behind with the very suspicious doctor. He looked from Geneva to the doctor and back again. Geneva said nothing more but continued to smile in a double-edged way that made him want to choke her. Damn you, Geneva, he thought, smiling back at her. Well, if she could take advantage of a situation, so could he.

  "Behave yourself, Honey Bunch," he murmured, bending over her for a kiss. "I mean it, Geneva," he whispered, hating the feeling of helplessness she had forced upon him. But there was nothing for him to do but leave her in the skilled hands of the doctor, and leave himself in the treacherous hands of Geneva Lion-wood.

  Outside, Macalester moved quickly. The telegraph office was a short way down the street. A tersely worded message to Garland Humble in Fort Worth from R. Hastings McAllister regarding diminished funds was, he was sure, sufficient to the moment. Confident of Humble's prompt response, he informed the telegraph operator that he could be reached at the doctor's office when the reply came. He then proceeded to the livery across the street, where he stabled his roan and picked out a gentle old mare for Geneva and some tack. He could pay with cash when Humble contacted the bank.

  His stomach growled. He stood in the street fishing in his pockets and came up with a dollar and forty-seven cents. He could buy himself a steak dinner at the hotel for a dollar, he was sure, but he was reluctant to leave Geneva alone with the doctor that long. It was with no small regret that he detoured to the general store, where he bought tins of tea and hash and a packet of tea biscuits to share with Geneva. He slipped a couple of small apples into his pockets on the way out, feeling only a little guilty about his petty larceny. If he remembered, he would leave the store an extra nickel after he got the money from Humble.

  He did not knock when he returned to the doctor's infirmary; he merely opened the door and admitted himself to the ward. The doctor, whose name, Macalester realized with some embarrassment, he still did not know, was mixing a concoction in a tall beaker with a long glass rod. He looked up from his medicines, his gaze still critical. What had Geneva told him?

  "How's my wife?" Macalester offered by way of greeting, searching the man's face for any sign of betrayal.

  "Remarkably well, all things considered," was the doctor's terse reply. "She's soaking in a tub. Go on back. Maybe she needs some more hot water. The kitchen's through there."

  Macalester nodded and took a step in the direction the doctor had indicated.

  "When will she be able to travel?" He risked the question.

  "She shouldn't ride until those sores heal up. I wouldn't even want to see her in a wagon. But I expect you're in a hurry, aren't you?" The man sounded as though he'd heard those words before, more than a few times. Macalester, annoyed, felt his face grow warm. He refrained from another lie, though, not knowing what tales Geneva might have already spun for the doctor, true or otherwise. Instead, he merely stared at the younger man and nodded mutely.

  The doctor smirked. "Never knew of anybody passing through Camden that wasn't in a great big hurry to leave it. They always have someplace more important to go."

  His remark did not demand an answer, so Macalester gave him none. Satisfied that there was no nervousness or deceit in the doctor's demeanor, Macalester removed his hat and hung it on a peg on the wall behind him before continuing on back to the closed door at the end of the narrow hallway.

  He entered without knocking. Geneva lay motionless in the small tub, her bare feet dangling out of the end of it and her wet head pressed against its curved back. Her slender white arm hung limp over the side, her fingertips barely touching the floor. Her eyes were closed and her rose-petal lips were slightly parted for her shallow, regular breaths. Looking at her, Macalester could hear his very blood coursing through his veins. He closed the door behind him and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

  "I have never been so sore in my entire life," Geneva remarked in a light, quiet voice, without moving. "And I've never heard a more preposterous tale than the one you told Dr. Thorpe."

  Macalester did not answer her. He was thinking about the parts of Geneva Lionwood that he couldn't see. On the stove, a kettle hissed a warning. "That's my hot water." She yawned, then stretched a little in the small tub. "Do you think you can pour it in here without scalding me?"

  Macalester found his tongue at last. "That depends on what you told Dr. Thorpe." He forced a casual tone. He put his parcels on the sideboard and, using a dishtowel, seized the handle of the hot vessel.

  Geneva sat bolt upright in the tub, and as he carried the kettle of boiling water toward her, he was wickedly amused by her look of undisguised terror. "Mac, you wouldn't!" She gasped, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Her green eyes were wide as she edged away from him.

  He knew he would never do such a ghastly thing to anyone, let alone her, but he thought it just as well, for the moment, that she was not privy to the same information. He smiled, standing directly over her.

  "Well?" He took perverse pleasure in her obvious anxiety. "What does Dr. Thorpe know about Mr. and Mrs. McAllister?"

  He saw her gulp.

  "Mac, please—" she begged in a whisper.

  "This pot's getting awful heavy, Gen," he teased, shaking his head slowly.

  "I didn't say anything, Mac; I swear it," she babbled, her green eyes filling with tears.

  The sight made him deeply regret his empty threat, although he did not recant it.

  "I hardly spoke to him," she went on quickly. "He was more concerned about my injuries than he was about us. I just repeated what you said. I swear. Mac, please don't…"

  Macalester set the kettle down upon the floor. He kneeled beside the tub, steeling his gaze to hers.

  "Do you really think so little of me as to believe me capable of such a thing?"

  Tears had worked their way from the corners of her emerald eyes, and he felt them burn him as they crept down the curve of her cheeks.

  "I thought I knew you in Memphis," she told him, her voice a faintly whispered reproach. "But I was wrong. I don't know what to believe anymore. I only know I can't afford to make the mistake of trusting you again."

  Her words were like sharp arrows delivered to his vital organs from velvet bowstrings. The only answer he could give was to pour the water slowly and carefully into the tub to warm her.

  A night in a soft, warm bed, free from the fear of being set upon by marauding insects and other unnamed creatures, was like a night in heaven. Geneva realized, with some grim amusement, as she s
tretched in the small bed, that little more than a week ago she would have turned up her nose at such mean accommodations. But today was a different day, an entirely different universe from that time. Then, she had had San Francisco, the gem of the Pacific, at her feet, and New York and London in the palm of either hand. She wondered idly, watching the dust particles form a beam of light from the sunshine brightening the small room, if any of them—Blaine, Maple son, Audrey, Abbey—any of them, cared about what might have become of Geneva Lionwood.

  She thought of Camilla Brooks, on her way to New Orleans with three hundred dollars in her bosom. She thought of Garland Humble, waiting in his Fort Worth fortress for her return.

  A shadow crossed before the window, erasing the beam of glistening dust and shattering her reverie. Kieran Macalester: outlaw, abductor, charlatan, abuser and savior; the charismatic, enigmatic man of both her dreams and her nightmares of late, entered the room bearing a small wooden tray covered with a checkered napkin and a large bundle wrapped in brown paper under his arm.

  "Bought you a present," he announced in greeting, adroitly balancing the tray with one hand while tossing her the bundle with the other.

  She was amused by her childlike sense of anticipation as she pulled at the strings of the package. Macalester set the tray down upon the table beside her and sank his long, muscular frame into the small wooden chair by the bed. He smelled of horses, and leather, and faintly of the smoke of a wood fire. The combination of scents was arousing.

  Inside the package was a black broadcloth riding habit, a crisp white linen blouse, stockings, undergarments and a pair of supple leather riding boots with matching gloves. Stunned, she held up each item, amazed by the quality and detail, and surprised that each garment seemed to be very nearly perfect in size.

  "Humble wired the bank," Macalester offered conversationally. "We have enough to finish the trip. But just enough. As soon as you eat breakfast, we'll be on our way. I'm sorry to rush you like this, you not being healed up yet, but—"