"You have a choice!"

"No ma'am," she said stubbornly. "I don't. We's so in debt to the Barclays our children wil never be able to leave this land, and God knows, my babies ain't gonna grow up heah, not if I can do somethin' about it."

"Babies," Grace said weakly. "You're pregnant?"

"No, I'm not. But one day I'l marry and I wil be. When that day comes I'l have the money I need to get outta heah. Besides," she said defiantly, "I listen to Rawlins. Sometimes after a few whiskeys he talks open even to me. Tonight he had some friends stoppin' ovah. I heard them talkin' about what they plan to do. They's gonna make another lesson outta one of us, Miz Grace. They wanna win the fal elections and end Republican rule forever. They's real tired of the Yanks tel in' 'em what to do. Ain't nothin' gonna stop 'em this year, they said, not even if they have to kil half us coloreds and half the carpetbaggers to do it."

"Oh God," Grace said, "we'l have to get federal troops."

Clarissa didn't respond.

The back parlor of the Black Heel Saloon was completely private. Once the gentlemen who had booked the room were al comfortably settled, absolutely no one else was al owed in, except for the one waiter who freshened drinks and cleaned out ashtrays. By midnight smoke usual y hung thick and heavy, despite the massive overhead fan. Unlike the front room of the saloon, where the hum of conversation and laughter, the whirring of the roulette wheels, and the melody of the piano made a constant cacophony, the back room was invariably soundless. And unlike the front room, where the beautiful hostesses charmed potential customers, absolutely no women were al owed in the back.

Rathe was losing consistently. He couldn't concentrate on his cards. An image of Grace grabbing her skirts in one hand, lifting them to bare her slender ankles, and jumping off the raft to wade to the riverbank, assailed him. And he smiled.

His smile faded as the memory continued. Her skirts had clung to her long, beautiful y curved legs. For probably the thousandth time, he thought of Grace's sensual body, tal and slim with her voluptuous breasts, and felt an instant stirring in his groin. He thought of her lying beneath him, spread-legged, warm and wet, and an untimely erection was his reward. Then he recal ed the latest development in the saga of never-ending crises Grace seemed to thrive on, her having substituted for Al en at the public school. His gut tightened. She was a fool. She was going to get herself kil ed if she kept on like that.

"Rathe, where the hel are you?" Tilden Fairbanks asked.

Rathe threw his cards on the table. "I'm out."

George Farris grinned. "You having a few problems tonight?"

Rathe's gaze was calm. "A few."

The door opened, but no one paid attention as the waiter came in with a trol ey of drinks and clean ashtrays. Then, from behind him, a smal dark body catapulted into the room, past the waiter. The bouncer, McMurty, appeared, panting. "Stop that kid! You, kid, you can't go in there!" He began cursing eloquently, red-faced.

Startled, the card play ceased as Geoffrey ran right into Rathe's arms. Rathe held him for a moment, then squatted, holding him by his shoulders, seeing that the boy was crying. "What now, Geoff? Is it Grace?"

"Yassir," he choked. "I fol owed my sister to Missus Harriet's. She was lookin' for Miz Grace. But then they left, and they had a gun. They's gonna get whupped!" He started crying helplessly.

"Where are they heading?" Rathe asked grimly.

Shantytown."

Tilden Fairbanks spoke. "Hey Rathe, are you the only white man in this heah town who doesn't know what's happening tonight?"

He turned on his friend. "Spit it out, Fairbanks, now."

"They're just gonna teach a few niggers a lesson, just in case anyone decided to listen to the Republican voter-man who's been in town al day."

Rathe cursed and was gone before anyone could blink.

"Shal we make an example of him?" Rawlins cried, sitting astride his horse.

There were seven night riders, four mounted and flanking Rawlins, and two on foot holding a terrified Negro named Henry. "Yeah," came their roar of agreement.

They had rounded up a dozen frightened Negroes, forcing them to watch. "This is a lesson. You don't listen to your Yankee friends, 'cause if you do, you won't have any hide left at al ," Rawlins stated. "Start whipping, Frank."

It was too much for Grace to bear, even though she was shaking from head to foot with fear. She sat atop Mary in the woods fringing the clearing where the flogging was about to occur. "How do I get this jackass to move?" she whispered to Clarissa, who was on the ground, trembling and crying soundlessly.

"Kick it," Clarissa said.

Grace kicked furiously. Mary craned her head around and gave her a look. Clarissa hit her in the flank. Mary bolted from the woods right toward the group of men as the hapless Negro was being tied to a stake.

Grace bounced wildly, trying to hold the reins, guide the mule, and point the gun threateningly at the same time. For the first time in her life she wished she knew how to ride. But maybe it was better that she didn't. At the sound of the charging, braying animal, heads swiveled toward her. Their horses shifted uneasily. Mary had the bit between her teeth and was in a mad gal op. Grace clung with her legs and one hand, maintaining her seat out of sheer terror, the reins trailing like streamers behind her. She found herself riding straight for Rawlins, and managed to keep the rifle pointed directly ahead.

"What the hel ," Rawlins shouted, reining back to get out of her way.

Mary swerved, almost clipping Rawlins' chestnut. Rawlins fought to keep his frightened mount stil . Grace started to slip sideways. To better right herself, she shifted her upper body. At that moment Mary stumbled. The gun exploded.

The shot came perilously close to Rawlins' chestnut, which screamed and bolted, running through the line of four riders, causing utter chaos.

The dozen Negroes forced to watch scattered and fled.

Grace landed on the ground in an ignominious heap.

Mary stopped abruptly and began munching weeds.

Rawlins regained control of his chestnut, whipping it around. "Get those niggers back here," he shouted furiously.

Grace was on her feet, leveling the rifle at him. She was shaking. "No!" she shouted back. "Anyone makes a move and he's dead!" The line, right out of a penny dreadful, sounded foolish even to her own ears.

But it worked. The night riders froze, waiting for orders from their leader.

He was incredulous. "You're not going to shoot me, girl," he leered.

"I almost got you the first time," Grace panted. "The mule made me miss. This time I'm not on some mule."

Rawlins hesitated.

"What should we do?" Frank asked, stil standing by the tied man.

Anger flooded Rawlins' face. "No piece of nigger-lovin' Yankee trash is going to dictate to me," he said, spurring the chestnut into a trot-right toward her.

Grace prayed the gun had more bul ets in it, and raised it higher. "Stop right there, Rawlins," she cried. "I mean it!"

He grinned and the chestnut picked up speed.

Grace swal owed. He'd been thirty yards away. Now he was half the distance and closing. He laughed. Grace summoned up al her resolve and squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Rawlins whooped and reached for her. His arms went around her just as a shot sounded. For one instant, Grace was trapped by the man against the chestnut's sweaty side. Then she felt him tense, heard his cry of pain, and he released her. She fel onto her knees.

"Try it, Rawlins," Rathe drawled from the shadows. "Pul that gun."

Rawlins froze. His shoulder was bleeding profusely, turning his sleeve red. For an instant everyone held their breath waiting for Rawlins to draw.

But he must have realized the utter insanity of it, for Rathe had his gun leveled as cool as you please and couldn't possibly miss.

Contempt in his voice, Rathe said, "Get the hel outta here-now!"

The four riders broke first.

Rawlins held his ground, eyebal ing Rathe furiously. "You're gonna be sorry, Texas boy. I'm gonna see to it."

"I'l be waiting with anticipation."

As Frank and the third man mounted, Rawlins leered pointedly at Grace, now standing and cradling the empty rifle. Rathe fol owed his glance with its implied threat and went rigid. Rawlins saw and his grin widened. Then he yanked his chestnut around and the three went gal oping off.

Grace started for the tied man. One curt phrase from Rathe stopped her in her tracks. "Halt right there."

She froze.

Negroes materialized as if by magic out of the trees and two men began cutting their friend down. Clarissa came running. "You al right, Miz Grace?"

Grace squared her shoulders. It wasn't easy, due to the violent trembling assailing her body. She managed to nod to Clarissa, al the while listening to Rathe's horse approach, until she felt the heat of the lathered animal at her back. "Good question," Rathe said in that same icy tone. "Why don't you answer it, Grace?"

The sentence, although clipped, came out as rough and gravel y as sandpaper, and Grace knew he was enraged.

Her mouth was dry. "I'm fine," she said, intending to speak in a clear, loud voice. It came out as a fragile squeak.

"Is that man al right?" Rathe said.

"Henry, you okay?" Clarissa asked.

"I'm fine, suh," Henry said, coming forward and rubbing his chafed wrists. "Ma'am, I done got to thank you."

Grace was too apprehensive to feel any pleasure, but she managed to give Henry what she hoped was a smile. Then Rathe hauled her unceremoniously onto his lap, sidesaddle. She found herself looking as his taut, clenched jaw. She opened her mouth to protest. Rathe said, not looking at her, "Don't push me."

Her mouth closed.

His arm was iron around her waist. The black's trot was nothing like Mary's, and even though she was firmly anchored on Rathe's lap, she couldn't -didn't dare-relax. In fact, as she sat ramrod straight, trying to avoid al contact with his upper body, periodic tremors swept her. If Rathe noticed, he said nothing. The tension she felt in him terrified her.

He did not turn his stal ion toward Upper Street where Harriet Gold's boardinghouse was. Grace was afraid to ask where he was taking her. Her eyes widened when they arrived at Silver Street, then turned left toward the cliffs. As if sensing her confusion, his grip tightened. Rathe pul ed up in front of the Silver Lady Hotel. Grace stared, ful of dread.

He slid to the ground, then pul ed her down as if she were a sack of grain. For some reason her knees were very weak and they buckled the instant her feet touched down. Rathe was there, his steely arm going around her waist, and he held her in such a way that she had no choice but to walk with him as they entered the hotel.

"Rathe..."

"Shut up."

He led her up the stairs and to his suite. He didn't release her as he produced a key, and opened the door on the beautiful y appointed rooms she had seen the other day. Grace found herself pushed inside. She stood unsteadily on a thick Aubusson rug, looking around, thinking, This is insane. Then she heard the door lock and her head whipped around. Her anxious gaze found Rathe's. He was so grim and cold she took a step backward. "I'm going home," she quavered.

"Just who in hel do you think you are?"

"I'm going home now," she managed, and started past him.

He grabbed her, spinning her back around. She was in his arms. His entire body felt like a tightly coiled spring. "Does facing death excite you, Grace, is that it?"

She shook her head weakly, mortified with the knowledge that at any moment she was going to start bawling like a newborn infant.

"Do you even care if you die?" he demanded.

She choked on a huge sob.

"I brought you here to beat the hel out of you," Rathe rasped. "But I've never laid a hand in violence on a woman in my life!"

The words weren't even out of his mouth when he was lifting her and carrying her to the huge, canopied bed.

The sob blossomed uncontrol ably in her chest, rising upward inexorably.

The bed sank beneath her body's weight, Rathe coming down on top of her. His hands caught hunks of her hair ruthlessly, anchoring her head, hurting her scalp. She tried to fight down the rush of tears. One of his thighs jammed crudely between hers. And then his lips came down, hard and hot.

He forced her lips open, and shoved his tongue thickly into her mouth. She tried to turn her head, and found herself trapped by his hands. His mouth ground ruthlessly on hers. He was already hard and huge against her bel y. She knew beyond a doubt that he knew he was hurting her, that for some reason he was trying to prove his mastery over her-in the only way left to him. And she knew he was going to take her tonight whether she wanted him to or not.

The knowledge meant nothing.

He was warm. He was man. He was strong-he was life and safety. She had faced violence and terror, but she was secure in Rathe's arms. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging fiercely.

He buried his face in her neck, hugging her desperately.

Grace choked out loud on the first sob. The second sob was inhuman, sounding more like an animal in great pain. On top of her, Rathe went stil .

And she started crying-completely, hysterical y, pitiful y.

For one more moment Rathe froze, then he closed his eyes and rol ed over, gathering her even more tightly against him. She wept then, against his linen-clad chest. "Grace," he said raggedly, "it's al right now."

She moaned, shaking, clinging. He held her, stroked her, rocked her. She wept uncontrol ably, trying to burrow into his skin. When, a long time later, the tears rol ed to a jagged stop, she found herself utterly exhausted, in his arms and between his thighs. His shirt was partial y opened, and her cheek was somehow against his bare chest, wet from her tears, in a nest of surprisingly soft brown curls. One of his large hands was on her waist, sliding gently up and down from her hip to her rib cage. The other held the back of her head. Her braid had long since come free. The feel of him stroking her hair was exquisitely reassuring. She gave a long, drawn-out sigh.

"Better?" he asked, and she thought, although she wasn't sure, that his mouth grazed the top of her head.

She was so tired her answer was barely audible. She was so tired that she didn't care how she lay, not even the way her hip nestled intimately in his groin. She rubbed her face more ful y into his chest, and immediately fel asleep.

The next morning when she awoke, she was stil in his bed and stil in his arms.

Chapter 16.

Rathe woke up first. He didn't move. His entire body was burning with the same uncontrol able lust it had burned with al night. Never, in his entire life, had he slept chastely with a lush woman. And there was no doubt that the woman in his arms was lush.

They were on their sides, her back wedged into his front. Her soft buttocks cradled his throbbing groin, his swol en organ nestled deliciously and agonizingly in the warm val ey she provided. He had his arms around her. Her breathing was steady and slow; his was harsh and loud. Cautiously, he raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her.