Shannon had grown up.
He slunk down into the rock, pulling his hat low over his forehead. She was still Shannon McCahy. The little brat who had been on his tail since he had first walked onto the McCahy ranch. She had fired at him that very first time, and she was firing at him still.
He smiled and leaned back.
He had kissed her once. To shut her up. They were all playing innocent when a Yank officer had come by the ranch, and Shannon, bless her sweet, sweet hide, would have gladly handed him right over.
And so he had kissed her.
It did seem to be the only way to shut her up.
But the kiss had been sweet. Her passion then had been that of anger, but passion nevertheless, and it had feathered against his senses until he had realized who she was, and what he was doing.
But now, tonight, he remembered that kiss.
He opened his eyes and clamped his teeth together. He knotted his fingers into fists and then slowly released them, suddenly aware that he wanted her. That he desired her, hotly, hungrily and completely.
Wanting a woman wasn't so strange, he reminded himself. Over the years, he had wanted a number of women, and, during the war, when lovers were quickly won and lovers quickly lost, many young women, like many men, were quick to seek the solace of the moment. The women he had wanted he had often had. The widow in Arkansas, the desolate, lonely farm woman in Kentucky, the dance-hall girl in Mississippi.
Once, it seemed like a long, long time ago now, there had been a girl he had loved. Ariel Denison. Ariel… He had even loved the sound of her name. They had been very young. The sight of him could bring a flush to her cheeks, and the warmth of her dark eyes upon him alone could bring forth all the ardor in his heart and soul. Her father had approved, and they were to have been married in June. They spent what May days they could together, hand in hand, racing down to the stream, daring to swim together, daring to come to the shore and lie naked in the sweet grasses, making love. He'd never known anything so deep, or so wonderful…
But by June, she was gone. A cholera epidemic swept through the countryside, and Ariel, smiling to the last, had died in his arms, whispering her last words of love with the last of her breaths. He had not cared then if he contracted the disease. He hadn't cared at all, but he had lived. Since then, he hadn't fallen in love again. He had given his passion to his land; his loyalty had been to his family and, once the war came, to the Confederacy.
He didn't remember much about love…
But no man lived long without desire. He was used to that. So it was strange to discover with what depth and fervor he desired Shannon.
The brat. His foremost enemy. The ardent, fanatical Unionist. The bane of his every trip to the ranch. Shannon…
"Hey!" came a sudden, loud shout. "Did you hear that?"
Malachi turned around, looking over the rock toward the camp. The guards by the horses were moving. Half the men had begun to settle down for the evening.
Now they were waking up.
Bear strode toward the guards. "What? What is it? I don't hear anything."
"There's something there. Something out in the bushes."
They had seen him. They had heard him, Malachi thought.
But they hadn't. The guard was pointing in the other direction.
"You scared of a bobcat or a weasel?" Bear sneered.
"It weren't no weasel!" the guard protested.
Bear paused, then shrugged. He looked at two of the men. "You, Wills, and you, Hartman, go take a look around. The rest of you, keep your eyes open."
Hell! Malachi thought. If they went snooping around too far, they would find the bay. He cursed whatever creature had been sneaking around the camp. If it was a weasel, he hoped some poor bastard ate the creature.
He sank against his rock. They weren't going to look for him there, not right beneath their noses. He was going to have to sit tight and wait. If they would just settle down for the night, even with the guards on duty, he would be able to reach Kristin. Once the camp was quiet, he would be able to circle around and come at her from the stream. He would have to kill the guards by the horses; he wouldn't have any choice.
Malachi frowned suddenly, feeling the earth beneath his hands. He lay against the ground and listened to the tremors of the earth.
Someone else was out riding that night. Not too far distant, a group of horsemen was coming toward them.
A Union patrol?
He thought they were still in Missouri, but they might have crossed over the border. They had really headed south as much as they had headed west. Not that it mattered much. Union patrols were everywhere.
But it could also be a Southern outfit, heading home.
Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it did.
He tensed, waiting.
Then a shrill and furious scream caught his attention. He swung around, looking into the center of the Red Legs camp.
"Son of a bitch!" he swore beneath his breath, staring. "If they leave behind just a piece of her, I'm going to skin her alive!"
Shannon had just been thrown into the center of the camp. Hartman and Wills had brought her, and with laughter and gusto cast her with force into the den of rogues.
Wills was limping, swearing away.
"She shot off my toe!" he howled.
"Thank God she can't aim," Roger said, chortling.
"I did aim, you stupid ass," Shannon said with venom. "If I'd have wished it, I'd have shot out your heart."
Wills went silent; even Roger went silent. There was a chill around them all, as if they knew her words to be the truth.
"Get down there, witch!" Wills swore savagely. He shoved her down, hard.
She landed on her knees. She had changed clothing, and wore tight black trousers, a gingham tailored shirt and a pair of sturdy brown boots. She'd worn a hat, a broad-brimmed hat, but now it lay several feet from her in the dust. Her hair had been pinned, but the pins were strewn around her, and her hair was falling, like a golden sunrise, in delicate rays down her back.
Malachi bit hard into his lip as she raised her chin to face Bear, all her heat and fury and passion alive in her eyes. She shouldn't have changed. The perfection of her form was even more apparent in the tight breeches and man's shirt, and he was not the only one to notice. The Red Legs were all rising, one by one, creating a circle around her.
"My, my, my," Roger Holstein drawled. He moved his tongue over his lips. "What have we here?" He stepped out of the circle, coming toward her. Shannon struggled quickly to her feet. Malachi tensed, watching the sizzle in her eyes.
"Don't be stupid, Shannon!" he muttered to himself. "Be quiet, be good, let them tie you up and I can get you out… don't be stupid!"
But she was going to be stupid. Roger reached for her, and Shannon moved like lightning, sinking her teeth into his hand. He screamed with pain, then caught her with his backhand, sending her spiraling into the dirt. "Bitch!" he roared.
The men laughed like hyenas. "Least she didn't shoot you, Roge!" Wills said.
Roger came forward again, sucking at his sore hand.
"Get away from her," Bear ordered, coming into the center of the ring.
"Oh, no, you don't," Roger said with hostility. "That one is for Fitz. Fine. This one is mine."
"I'll die first, I swear it!" Shannon hissed from the ground. She seemed to sense that her only hope was Bear. Holding her cheek, she rose and raced behind him. "I'll kill you—"
"Yeah, watch it, man, the little lady will bite you to death!" someone jeered.
"Get out of my way, Bear!" Roger howled. "She's mine!"
"No!"
"You've got Slater's wife—"