"Get away from her, boy," the stranger commanded Zeke. His voice was deep, rich. He spoke softly, but the sound carried. It was the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
"Who's gonna make me?" Zeke snarled.
It was a valid question. After all, he was surrounded by his men, and the stranger was alone.
The man tipped his hat back from his forehead. "I'm telling you one more time, boy. Get off the lady. She doesn't seem to want the attention."
The sun slipped behind a cloud. The stranger suddenly seemed no more than a silhouette, an illusion of a man, atop a giant stallion.
Zeke made a sound like a growl, and Kristin realized that he was reaching for his Colt. She inhaled to scream.
She heard a sound of agony rend the air, but it wasn't hers. Blood suddenly streamed onto her chest. In amazement, she realized Zeke had cried out, and it was Zeke whose blood was dripping down on her. The stranger's bullet had struck him in the wrist.
"Fools!" Zeke shouted to his men. "Shoot the bastard."
Kristin did scream then. Twenty men reached for their weapons, but not one of them got off a shot.
The stranger moved quickly. Like double flashes of lightning, his six-shooters spat fire, and men fell.
When the shooting stopped, the stranger dismounted. His guns were back in his gun belt, but he carried a revolver as he walked slowly toward her.
He tipped his hat to Zeke. "I don't like killing, and I do my damnedest not to shoot a man in cold blood. Now, I'm telling you again. Get away from the lady. She doesn't want the attention."
Zeke swore and got to his feet. The two men stared at one another.
"I know you from somewhere," Zeke said.
The stranger reached down and tossed Zeke his discarded Colt. "Maybe you do." He paused for just a moment, arching one dark brow. "I think you've outworn your welcome here, don't you agree?"
Zeke reached down for his hat and dusted it furiously against his thigh, staring at the stranger. "You'll get yours, friend," he promised softly.
The stranger shrugged in silence, but his eyes were eloquent.
Zeke smiled cruelly at Kristin. "You'll get yours, too, sweetheart."
"If I were you," the stranger said softly, "I'd ride out of here now, while I still could."
Furiously, Zeke slammed his hat back on his head, then headed for one of the now riderless horses. He mounted the animal and started to turn away.
"Take your refuse with you." The stranger indicated the dead and wounded bodies on the ground.
Zeke nodded to his men. A number of them tossed the dead, wounded and dying onto the skittish horses.
"You'll pay," Zeke warned the stranger again. Then his mount leaped forward and he was gone. The stranger watched as the horses galloped away. Then he turned to Kristin and she felt color flood her face as she swallowed and clutched her torn clothing. She stumbled to her feet.
"Thank you," she said simply.
He smiled, and she found herself trembling. He didn't look away gallantly. He stared at her, not disguising his bold assessment.
She moistened her lips, willing her heart to cease its erratic beating. She tried to meet his eyes.
But she couldn't, and she flushed again.
The day was still again. The sun was bright, the sky blue.
Was this the calm before the storm?
Or had some strange new storm begun? Kristin could sense something in the air, an elusive crackling, as if lightning were sizzling between them. Something tense and potent, searing into her senses.
And then he touched her, slipping his knuckles beneath her chin.
"Think you might offer a drifter a meal, Miss —"
"McCahy. Kristin McCahy," she offered softly.
"Kristin," he murmured. Then he smiled again. "I could use something to eat."
"Of course."
She couldn't stop staring at him now, searching out his eyes. She hoped fervently that he couldn't feel the way she was trembling.
He smiled again and brushed her fingers with a kiss. Kristin flushed furiously, suddenly aware that her breast was almost bare beneath her torn chemise and gown. She swallowed fiercely and covered herself.
He lowered his eyes, hiding a crooked smile. Then he indicated Samson, who was just coming to in the doorway. "I think we should see to your friend first, Kristin," he said.
Delilah stood up, trying to help Samson. "You come in, mister," she said. "I'll make you the best meal this side of the Mississippi. Miz Kristin, you get in here quick now, too. We'll get you some hot water and wash off the filth of that man."
Kristin nodded, coloring again. "Shannon?" she whispered softly to Delilah.
"Your sister's in the cellar. Things seem to be all right. Oh, yes, bless the heavens, things seem to be all right."
The stranger started toward the steps, and Kristin followed, watching his broad shoulders. But then she paused and shivered suddenly.
He had come out of nowhere, out of the dirt and dust of the plain, and he had saved her from disaster and despair.
But Zeke Moreau had ridden away alive.
And Zeke Moreau would surely ride back, once the stranger had ridden on and she was alone again.
It wasn't over. Zeke had come for her once, and he would come again. He wasn't fighting for Missouri, for the South, for the code of chivalry. He was in this to loot, to murder, to rob — and to rape. He would come back for her. He sought out his enemies when they were weak, and he would know when she was weak again.
They would have to leave, she thought. This was her home, the only home she could remember. This land was a dream, a dream realized by a poor Irish immigrant.
But that immigrant lay dead. Gabriel McCahy lay with his Kathleen in the little cemetery out back. He lay there with young Joe Jenley, who had tried to defend him. The dream was as dead as Pa.
She couldn't just give it up. She had to fight the Zeke Moreaus of the world. She just couldn't let Pa's death be in vain.
But she had fought, and she had lost.
She hadn't lost, not this time. The stranger had come.
Kristin straightened, squared her shoulders and looked after the tall, dark man who was moving up her steps with grace and ease. The man with the set of six-shooters and the shotgun.
The man who had aimed with startling, uncanny precision and speed.
Who was he?
And then she knew it didn't matter, she just didn't care. Her eyes narrowed pensively.
And she followed the curious dark stranger into her house.
CHAPTER TWO
A fire burned warmly against the midmorning chill in the enormous kitchen. Even with her head back and her eyes closed, she could imagine everything Delilah was cooking from the aromas that surrounded her over the rose scent of her bath. Slab bacon sizzled in a frying pan along with hearty scrapple. There would be flapjacks, too, with melted butter and corn syrup. Delilah was also going to cook eggs in her special way, with chunks of ham and aged cheese. They were usually careful about food these days. If Quantrill's raiders didn't come looking to steal horses and cattle — or worse — the Union side would come around needing supplies. Kristin had long ago been stripped of all her illusions about the ethics of either side. There were men on both sides who claimed to be soldiers but were nothing but thieves and murderers. This wasn't a war; it was a melee, a bloody, desperate free-for-all.
It was amazing that the family still had enough to eat. There was the secret cellar, of course. That had saved them many a time. And today it didn't matter. Today, well, today they all deserved a feast.
The stranger deserved a feast.
The kitchen door was pushed open, and Kristin sank deeper into the bubbles that flourished in the elegant brass bathtub, an inheritance from Kristin's mother, who had dragged it all the way over from Bristol, in England.