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  Hope felt his thoughts as though they were her own. The hand on his brow turned to caress his cheek, her eyes softly searching. “Don’t get defensive on me now, Drake. I’m here because here is where I want to be. I want to be in your arms. I—” Her voice cracked and she turned her face away. “I just never thought you—that any man would ever want me. I’m... I’m not—”

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered huskily, covering her hand with his own. He planted a soft kiss in her palm. “Every single inch of you.”

  Hope swallowed hard, her smile waning. “When you say that, I can almost let myself believe it.”

  “Believe it. I don’t lie.”

  “But—”

  “I said I don’t lie.”

  As he spoke, his fingers trailed a path down her back. Hope’s breath caught as she waited for his reaction. There was none. His expression didn’t change, the intense emotion reflected in his eyes remained. Was it possible her scars truly meant nothing to him? There was a way to find out, though she was reluctant to try it.

  Sighing, Hope dropped her head back to his chest. His flesh felt warm beneath her cheek. She savored the bittersweet sensation. She tried to memorize the sound of his heart drumming its gentle rhythm beneath her ear, terrified this might be the last time she would ever feel his body pressed intimately against her own. Say it and get it over with, Hope, she told herself. It’s the only way you’ll ever know for sure.

  Fifteen minutes turned into twenty; twenty into thirty.

  Tubbs fingered the jug, his eyes bright with cruelty. The tip of a fresh cigar glowed as he pushed himself to his feet. He stretched the tightness out of muscles that were stiff from his cramped position.

  Anticipation pumped through his veins as he leaned over and picked up the jug. The contents sloshed against the glass, soaking into the cloth that corked the bottle. Peeking around the tree, he assured himself that there were no witnesses to his presence before he stepped from his hiding place.

  He’d waited an extra ten minutes hoping the drizzle would subside. Instead, the light shower had turned into a downpour. It didn’t matter. There was enough kerosene in the jug to set most of Thirsty Gulch on fire. Another two-bit mining town burning to the ground wasn’t unusual in the Mother Lode. It wouldn’t draw much attention. And if it did, who cared? By the time the first question was asked, Tubbs would have rounded the Horn, be halfway to Boston.

  The sharp point of a rock worked its way through the crack in the sole of his boot as he stealthily approached the cabin. He took perverse pleasure in the slight pain.

  A rumble of voices echoed through the walls of the cabin as Tubbs slipped soundlessly through the shadows. He pressed his back hard against the rough-hewn sides, waiting for the cry of alarm that would warn him his presence had been noticed.

  The seconds stretched out for what seemed like an eternity, and no cry of warning came. Confident, he pulled the cork of cloth from the jug. The pungent odor of the kerosene hit him at once. He’d have to be quick before the stench worked its way inside.

  Spurned by that thought, Tubbs started pouring a line of the foul-smelling liquid around the cabin. It took only a few short minutes to round all four sides. The jug was still half-full. He poured most of what remained on the front step. Creeping to the back, he dumped the rest at the foot of the back door. The hens squawked as they saw him dart around the far side of the house, heading for the trees.

  Running now, he ripped the cigar from his mouth and threw it at the back door. The kerosene there burst into flames, working around the sides of the cabin in simultaneous lines of fire.

  He reached the trees just as the first cry of alarm rang out behind him. His breath was coming in long, hard gasps as he plucked up the rifle from where it leaned against a thick maple trunk. He’d tethered the horses so that the leather straps were freed with a quick flick of the wrist.

  Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he took swift aim at the back hooves of one of the horses. Skittish already, they needed no more prompting to bolt toward the row of cabins.

  His arm still ached from the sharp recoil as he primed the weapon again and released the shot at the clouds.

  “Indians!” a woman screamed, as she ran from a cabin whose roof had caught fire from one of the many sparks dancing through the sky. “Help! We’re being attacked by Indians!”

  Tubbs grinned as he reloaded the rifle one last time and trained the barrel on the panic-stricken woman. Indians! Sure wish I’d thought of it, he chuckled derisively as he pulled the trigger and watched her fall into a clump of bloodied calico.

  Taking a deep breath, Hope shifted, looking up until she was captured by his questioning gaze. “The debt’s been paid,” she said finally. The words came out as a ragged sigh. “What happens now?”

  Slowly, Drake’s lips curled into a rakish grin. “Are you trying to get rid of me, sunshine?” His timbre hardened, but his eyes remained softly teasing. “If that’s what you’re up to, I might as well warn you it won’t be easy. Or did you forget I still own a piece of your claim?”

  Hope stiffened and pulled away from him. The movement was so quick he had no time to stop her as she sat up. “I didn’t forget. But I was hoping you had.”

  A hen squawked outside. Hope ignored it. Reaching for her chemise, she pulled it from underneath her wrinkled dress and slipped it over her head. It floated to her hips like a white cloud. She pulled the tangled mane of hair from beneath the cotton in one angry motion and was in the process of reaching for the crumpled remains of her dress when she was stopped by the steely grip that wrapped around her forearm like a snake.

  “Don’t do this, Hope. It isn’t fair to either one of us.”

  “What isn’t fair?” she asked through a fog of tears. Good God, for a woman who hated crying, she’d sure done a lot of it since she’d met this man! She tried to pull away, but Drake refused to let go. She glared at him. “I’m paying my debts,” she spat, as she wiped the hair away from her face. “You saved my brother’s life and now you’ve been paid for it. What’s so unfair about that? Isn’t that what all this is about? Paying debts?”

  “There’s more than that between us, Hope Bennett, and you damn well know it,” he barked.

  “Do I?” she turned toward him, angrily brushing away a tear as it fell off her cheek. Goddamn worthless tears! “Then prove it, Drake. Prove it! Call off the rest of the deal. We’re so close to making it now, just give us a chance, for God’s sake!”

  Scowling, Drake dropped her arm, accepting her into his embrace when she collapsed against him. He stroked the long satin strands of chestnut hair, and as her tears soaked into his skin he whispered comfort in her ear.

  “I don’t want your money, Hope,” he said, when her sobs had finally subsided. “I don’t need it and I don’t want it.” She pulled away from him, her eyes half-filled with the need to believe him, and half-filled with doubt. “Haven’t you figured that out by now?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked cautiously. “I thought the money was the reason you agreed to fight in the first place. And why are you looking at me like that? What’s so funny?”

  Smiling, Drake tapped his index finger against her frowning brow. “Think, sunshine. You said you have a brain in there—use it. What was my first demand? Before a cut in the take, before the money.”

  “You wanted—” Her frown deepened and she shook her head in confusion. “But I thought—?”

  “Wrong. You thought wrong.” Tipping her chin up with the crook of his finger, he lowered his mouth to hers. “I think I like you best when you don’t think at all,” he whispered seductively against her lips.

  A shiver coursed through her, but it was one completely devoid of passion. “Drake!” she cried, her voice crackling with panic as she pulled away and reached for her dress. “Do you smell it? It’s—oh my God, nooo!”

  “Smell wh—?”

  Two gunshots cut the early evening air, stopping his words cold. Drake was tugging on his
trousers as the third rang out, followed immediately by the frantic shriek of a woman outside.

  Hope stumbled outside, her knees weak with fear as she watched the flames greedily devouring the cabin. Smoke burned her eyes, stinging her nostrils as she tripped over her own feet and almost landed in the mud. Drake’s strong hand steadied her, but all too soon it was gone.

  Bare-chested, he ran into the yard, scooping up the wooden bucket as his feet propelled him forward in one smooth movement. Muscles rippled in his shoulders and upper arms, the rain-damp skin glistening in the vibrant flow of crackling firelight.

  One of the walls had burst into flames by the time Hope joined Drake at the pump. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks and neck. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dilated from pure terror as she groped for his arm.

  “Help them, Drake,” she pleaded. The words were raw, town from her lungs, thick and cracking with emotion. “Please God, my family is in there!”

  Shaking off her arm, Drake ran with the now full bucket and splashed the contents on the rapidly spreading flames. The pungent odor of kerosene was strong here, and Drake’s nostrils flared with the scent of it as he spun on a bare heel and ran back to refill the bucket.

  A movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Drake turned in time to see a darkly clad figure disappearing behind the line of bordering trees. Not breaking stride, he continued running for the pump. But the memory remained planted in the back of his mind as he thrust the bucket beneath the rusty spout.

  Hope forced the pump lever up and down in frantic motions. The water splashed into the wooden bucket in rhythmic gushes as she screamed to terrified neighbors who had left their own cabins to bring her more pails.

  Except for the ones who had their own fires to fight, most complied in an astoundingly short time. In less than five minutes, they had formed an assembly line, with Hope on one end, frantically pumping water into empty pails, and Drake on the other, trying in vain to douse the fire.

  As she worked the pump, Hope’s eyes eagerly sought each bedraggled face, praying to catch a glimpse of one of her own. She doggedly questioned any new man who arrived, asking if they’d seen any of her family alive.

  Although it seemed like hours, in reality it took less than ten minutes for all four walls to catch in white-hot flames. She kept pumping, glaring at those who shook their heads sadly, passed on the bucket, then turned away. The assembly line shortened. People drifted back to their own cabins—the cabins the rain had saved. Hope hurled angry accusations at their retreating backs and kept on pumping.

  Exactly when she began to refill buckets that were already full, she didn’t know. Numbly, she kept working the pump. When people drifted away, she picked up their pails and threw water onto the roaring flames herself. The heat of the fire seared her cheeks as she turned to run for more.

  She picked up empty buckets as she ran back for the pump, sliding in the mud more times than not. She filled two, sometimes three pails at a time, carrying them all at once. The rain pouring down from the heavens helped, but not a lot. The cabin continued to burn with alarming speed.

  “Stop it, Hope,” Drake growled. He reached out an arm, catching her around the waist in mid-stride.

  She kicked and screamed like a wild woman at the unwelcome restraint. “Let me go! I have to get them out!”

  “It’s too late, Hope. You did all you could, but it’s too late.”

  “No!” She shook her head vigorously, her wet hair slapping her cheek like the tail of a whip. Frantically, she lashed out at the golden head with an empty bucket. Her voice trembled with a sob as one of the walls gave a mournful groan. “It isn’t too late. It isn’t! Help me, God damn you!”

  She tried to break away from his grip. Drake held strong.

  Another shot ripped through the night, and Drake heard the bullet whistle close to his ear. “Son of a bitch!”

  Without a second thought, he scooped a squirming Hope under his arm, carrying her as he reached out to grab the reins of a bolting horse. The move would have sent a lesser man toppling to the ground. As it was, Drake had his hands full between balancing them both and yanking the skittish horse to a stop.

  He set Hope down but gave her no time to pull away as he hugged her close to his naked chest and swung them onto the saddle.

  “No!” she screamed, fighting the steely grip around her waist in an attempt to slide off the animal’s back. “Stop! Let me down! I have to save my family!”

  “It’s too late to save them, Hope,” he bellowed in her ear as he urged the horse in the direction of the cabins that still stood. “You have to save yourself.”

  The reality of his words hit Hope so hard she felt like she’d just been punched in the gut. “No,” she sobbed weakly, collapsing against his rain-slickened chest. “No.”

  Another shot rang out. Hope felt pain explode in her heart a split second before it exploded in her shoulder. Fingers of black velvet reached up to claim her. The numbness was a relief, and she surrendered to the painless, yawning gap.

  Chapter 9

  I want to die!

  Through all the pain, through all the muffled voices and bone-jarring movement, that was the one thought that remained constant.

  Twice Hope had come close to losing herself to the all-consuming, blissfully painless darkness. Both times, a husky voice and a sea of green had penetrated the agony that enveloped her, forcefully pulling her back when she would rather have slipped quietly away.

  Her mood shifted between numbness and pure terror. She dreamed of her father, and Luke. When the nightmares came, she tried to run from them, tried to hide. But she never went far before a firm arm would pull her back, and a husky voice would demand she stop fighting. Eventually, she gave up and slipped back into the dark, healing oblivion.

  Drake reached out and fingered a chestnut curl that clung to Hope’s sweat-dampened forehead. The fever still raged, and her skin felt close to boiling as his hand brushed against her moist brow.

  Sighing, he let the strand of hair fall back into place as he took a rag from a bowl of rainwater. Squeezing the moisture from it, he ran the cloth over her forehead, her cheeks, the long taper of her neck. He took special care to be gentle as the passed the lump of bandage wrapped around her shoulder. After he had finished sponging the alabaster skin on her front he carefully rolled her on her side and did the same to her back.

  Once the chore was completed, the rag was tossed back into the bowl. He rubbed her skin dry with another strip of cloth. A soft moan escaped parted lips as he tenderly covered her body with a tattered old comforter.

  There was no chair on which to sit in the close confines of the wagon, so Drake scrunched down in what little space was free on the floor. His legs were drawn up to his chest, his elbows pillowed atop his knees as his hands dangled helplessly between his calves. His backrest was a fifty-pound sack of flour.

  She was quiet again, he thought as he watched the thick fringe of ebony lashes flicker against a deathly pale cheek. For now. Who knew when she’d call out again, when she’d throw the comforter to the floor and try to run from the wagon, as she had just now?

  He’d been lucky. So far Hope’s fits, as he’d begun to call them, were confined mostly to the night hours. That gave Drake time during the day to drive the ox and wagon he’d bought. Considering the circumstances, he’d made good time. In the two weeks since the fire, he’d put the worst of the journey behind them. The Mother Lode was nothing more than a memory, a ragged outline of jutting mountains in the distant horizon. Ahead stretched the dry, flat plains.

  Drake let his chin sag to his chest. Driving the ox and caring for Hope by day, coupled with snatching a few catnaps between fighting her fits at night, was taking its toll. Even his teeth felt tired.

  Not for the first time did he wonder at his reasons for bringing Hope along. At the time it seemed a rational thing to do. Now, however, when he had one foot in the waking, and one foot in the sleeping world, he wasn’t so sure.<
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  He could never have left her in the dirt to bleed to death. That decision went without question. But why had he brought her up on the horse with him in the first place? He’d recognized Tubbs immediately, and he knew the vile creature’s bullets were meant for himself, not Hope. On the ground she would have been safe. He could just as easily have mounted the horse alone and ridden for safety without her.

  But he hadn’t. He’d scooped her unwilling body up in the saddle with him, and had gotten her shot in the process. If she died from the infection that raged through her body, it would be his fault, no one else’s.

  Except Tubbs, his mind insisted. Tubbs! He’d kill the scrawny little reptile if he ever had the misfortune to meet up with him again. And if Hope died....

  His hands tightened into fists. If Hope died, he’d make finding Tubbs his life’s goal. And after he’d squashed the life out of him, Drake would turn his sights on his brother. Surely any man who employed a man like Tubbs to do his dirty work deserved no better than to die the same agonizing death as his hireling.

  Again, Drake’s thoughts turned to Hope.

  I should have left her behind, where she was safe. Why didn’t I? As his eyelids wearily blinked shut and his head rolled back to be cushioned by the sack of flour, Drake found he was no closer to an answer now than he had been two weeks ago.

  Hope’s mouth felt like the inside of a ball of cotton, her stomach like a yawning, empty pit. Her eyes stung as she slowly opened them.

  She tried to lift her arms, to wipe the sleep from her eyes, but the pain that shot through her shoulder stopped her cold. Relaxing, she squinted and took her first real look at her surroundings.

  On closer examination, what she had first thought to be a murky gray sky turned out to be canvas stretched taut over the arched, skeletal ribs of a wagon. The interior was cramped, the pegs on its sideboards holding everything from a rifle to a skillet. Sacks of nameless foodstuffs were strewn wherever space allowed. Beside the straw mattress on which she lay was a table made of three pieces of wood, crudely nailed together. The top of it was dark with water stains. The shelf-like fixture was nailed to the floor and the bottom was crammed with half-filled jugs of water, a few rags, an empty bowl, and a pile of white cloth that had been cut into strips, then neatly folded and stacked.