If only Rathe were here!

The drumming of the horses' hooves was so loud that they had to be outside her window. She heard the snorting of horses, the clanging of bits, the creaking of leather. Stunned, Grace ran to the window, to see several mounted men holding six riderless horses right beneath her on the street.

As the thought came, they're coming for someone here, in the hotel, she heard the banging footsteps of men racing up the stairs and she shrank, stunned, against the window.

Her door flew open, kicked off of its hinges, and she stared at six men crowding the doorway, dimly outlined by a raised lantern.

"Bragg ain't here," someone said with satisfaction.

Horrified, Grace numbly recognized the speaker as Sheriff Ford.

"I told you, he's in the saloon," someone responded.

"Howdy, gal." Ford grinned, showing yel owish teeth.

Grace couldn't move.

"I'l get her." Rawlins shoved past, unsmiling.

With a frantic cry, Grace whirled and slammed the window, which was slightly open, al the way up. They were on the second floor. Below her was a slanting shingled roof, then nothing but the dusty street. She threw one white leg over the sil anyway, panicked, but Rawlins' arms closed around her, dragging her back, and she screamed.

He slapped her harshly across her face, silencing her. "Shut up, teacher."

Grace barely had time to register the pain when he was hauling her across the floor by her waist, like a sack of potatoes. She began to twist and writhe, fighting with her legs, trying to break free.

"Little hel cat," someone observed.

"Little nigger-lover," Rawlins spat.

"I don't know," a young voice said nervously, "a woman..."

"A fancy Yankee whore." Ford chuckled, yanking her through the door. "Hey, you think you want to whore for us, teacher? Think you can a handle what I'm gonna give you?" He mauled at her breast.

Grace leaned over his arm and sank her teeth into his forearm as hard as she could.

He howled, pul ed her ful y upright and backhanded her so hard she saw stars, then blackness.

He made no sound.

Ahead of him, the horses thundered north of Natchez, through the woods.

Rathe ran silently and effortlessly. Violence seethed in his blood and in his brain. In his mind's eye he saw one thing, and one thing only-Grace in her nightgown being dragged out of the hotel and thrown over someone's horse. She had been inert, lifeless.

He was going to kil tonight.

His strides came long and easy, despite his boots, which were not meant for running. In his hand he held George's pistol. He ran with a stealth learned in a childhood spent outdoors under the Texas sun, taught by his half-breed father. Not a twig snapped. Not a leaf rustled. It was dark, but he didn't stumble. It had been ages since he had run like this, not since the War, and then he had been the hunted. Now he was the hunter.

He heard them stopping, heard the drift of voices, excited, angry, arguing. Perspiration covered his body, causing his breeches and shirt to cling wetly to his skin. He paused, crouching behind shrubbery. He looked into the clearing, and the sight made every muscle in his body go rigid; and for the first time he made a sound-a sharp, indrawn breath.

Grace was on the ground on her hands and knees, shaking her head groggily, her long hair spil ing al around her. Ford reached down from horseback and in a lightning movement ripped the nightgown from her. A stunned male silence fel , and then it was broken.

"Christ," someone gasped, "look at those legs."

"And those tits."

Ford laughed, the sound carrying in the night. Rawlins leapt to the ground and hauled Grace to her feet, pul ing her back against him, grinning, one hand crudely squeezing her breasts. He opened his mouth to say something. It never came out.

The knife landed in the back of his neck. He stiffened, eyes widening, and crumbled.

"Run, Grace," Rathe shouted, standing and showing himself, and then he fired. The man standing closest to Grace fel before he could even react.

Grace was confused. She was slow to respond. She started to move moments too late. A barrage of gunfire was being returned, and Rathe was trying to meet it. He saw Ford leaping for her, spun to shoot him, taking his eyes off the fray. As he fired a bul et grazed his side, and he missed.

Ford dragged Grace aside, holding her in front of him, yel ing for everyone to stop shooting. His men, crouched behind rocks and trees, obeyed.

Rathe leaned against an oak, ignoring the warm trickle of blood at his side, watching Ford with Grace, wanting to kil again.

"I got your little lady, Bragg," Ford shouted. "Put down that gun or I'm gonna put a hole in her nice white skin."

Sweat trickled from his temple and into his left eye. The sight of Grace naked and vulnerable and being held by Ford threatened his control and his sanity.

"I mean it, Bragg!" Ford yel ed.

Rathe tossed the gun out.

"Get it," Ford snapped. "An' get him."

Rathe stepped out from behind the tree and was promptly grabbed by two men. He al owed them to lead him into the torchlight. His insides clenched at the red mark on Grace's face, starting to turn purple, the flesh swel ing. Then he saw Ford touch her breasts, and he went berserk. He struggled wildly, insanely, against the two men holding him and broke free. Ford's laughter died abruptly. Rathe felt an immense pleasure as he leaped for the man's throat, instants away from tearing it out with his own two bare hands. Grace's scream was the last thing he heard as an immense pain exploded in the back of his head, and everything went dark.

The water was warm. He choked as it streamed over his face and into his mouth, and then realized that it wasn't water but whiskey. Waves of pain coursed through his head, and with it, understanding and anger and fear. He struggled through the blackness as more liquor came cascading like a slap against his face. He sputtered and coughed and opened his eyes.

"Don't want you to miss the show, Bragg," Ford purred.

He met the man's gaze with hatred.

"First your little lady friend and then you."

Rathe's body convulsed against the ropes binding his wrists; with his powerful legs he pushed himself up to his feet. His eyes had already found Grace, tied face-down to a cross, naked and shaking. Horror almost incapacitated him, but when he spoke, his voice was very quiet and very calm. "Don't do it," he said, tearing his gaze away from her white body. "It's me you want. Not her."

Ford laughed. "We're only gonna hurt her a little," he said. "Enough so she packs up her bags and never thinks of comin' back. But you..." He stepped close. "You're gonna watch her pretty hide turn red. Then you're gonna watch me fuck her. Then you're gonna die, Bragg, long and slow, and no one in Natchez is gonna even care."

"She's a woman."

"She's your Yankee whore," Ford leered, laughing when Rathe jerked his arms impotently against his bindings. Ford reached out and shoved him back hard. Rathe fel onto his hands and buttocks, his head slamming back onto the ground. Pain coursed through him and he saw red and black. For a moment he lay stunned, fighting waves of dizziness and nausea. He heard Ford ordering someone to revive him. He couldn't pass out now. He had to save Grace. He shook his head to clear it as whiskey again splashed in his face. This time he was dragged to his feet by two men. When they released him he swayed precariously, and Ford snapped out another order. "Hold him, Frank, I don't want him to miss a minute."

"Get started," he said to the man standing by Grace with the whip.

It was like slow motion. Rathe saw her body tense, gleaming white in the torchlight, saw the man's arm drawing back, slowly, then coming forward, just as slowly; he saw the snake of leather thong unfurling toward Grace, taking an eternity to reach her. He heard a scream and was startled-it wasn't Grace's cry but his own. The whip flicked casual y across the ivory skin of her back leaving a trail of red in its wake.

Grace's entire body contorted. Rathe pul ed free of the man holding him. Ford laughed and another lash struck Grace again. This time she whimpered and sagged face-down against the cross.

A shot rang into the night. Al heads turned, including Rathe's. The darkness was thick, but not thick enough to hide several riders just past the line of oaks. Another shot rang out and someone cried out in pain. The night riders ran for cover, Ford shouting futile orders. Rathe found himself abandoned.

He fel to the ground, rol ing as gunfire echoed and was returned. He twisted to see Grace, afraid she'd get caught by a stray bul et. He forced himself to his knees amidst panicked, fleeing riders.

"Doan move, Mistah Rathe," a smal voice said behind him.

"Geoff!" Rathe gasped. "Can you cut me free?"

The little boy, as black as the night, had a knife and slashed through his bonds. Rathe was barely free before he was stumbling toward Grace through the last remaining riders. In the corner of his eyes he saw Ford cantering past and knew he would kil him soon. He reached Grace just as an eerie silence fel over the glade. "Grace? Grade?"

"I'm al right," she gasped, a hoarse, raw sound.

He had his hands, which were trembling, on her white, unmarked shoulder, but he was sick at the sight of her bloodied back. Geoffrey was cutting her down with his knife, and Rathe took her into his arms. He didn't know where he found the strength to hold them both up. Then he was aware of George throwing his jacket over her, and Al en Kennedy saying, "We'd better get these two to a doctor."

Chapter 24.

"I have to see him," she cried, trying to sit up.

"The doctor's with him. Just relax," Harriet soothed, trying to hold onto her hand.

Grace felt the threat of impending tears. Al she could focus on was Ford's statement of how he was going to kil Rathe. "Oh, Harriet, please."

"He's out cold and wouldn't even know you were there," Harriet said firmly. "Stop moving about so or those nasty welts won't have a chance to heal."

Grace sank back down onto her stomach, cradling the pil ow beneath her head. She was so utterly exhausted, and stil so afraid. There was so much blood-and al of it Rathe's. She felt Harriet's hand on her head, stroking down her hair to her nape. Her eyes fluttered closed. "Promise me," she whispered, "if he needs me you'l cal ?"

"I promise," Harriet said.

Grace fel into the calming embrace of sleep.

His head throbbed. His first conscious thought was, God, what did I do? Drink myself under the table? Then came ful , blunt awareness. His eyes flew open and he tried to sit up. Pain tore through his side and through his head.

"Good morning," Harriet said cheerful y, bearing a tray.

"Grace."

"She's fine, stil asleep. Poor thing is tuckered out. Lie back down, boy," she admonished.

The effort to sit up was too great, so Rathe obeyed. He realized he was at Harriet's then, not at the Silver Lady. "Is Grace here too?"

"Yes, it was closer to bring you here." Harriet reached out and touched his forehead. "No fever. The doctor says you have the constitution of an ox.

Says you should stay in bed al week, from the size of the egg on your scalp."

He grimaced rueful y. "Is Grace al right?"

"She'l have a scar or two."

Anger flooded his features.

"She's fine," Harriet soothed. "And it could have been much, much worse."

He did not have to be told. "I want to see her."

"You're not getting out of that bed."

"I have to see her," Rathe said, trying to sit again. Out of sheer perversity, he did.

"If I have to turn you over and thrash your bottom," Harriet said, "I wil . But you're staying in bed like the doctor said."

Rathe had to smile, just a little. "Fess up, Harriet," he said, unable to resist. "You're just dying to get an eyeful."

"Oh," Harriet said, but she was smiling. "You are irresistible. However did your mama manage?"

The grin was ful -fledged this time. "As I recol ect, she had a tad of trouble."

"Rathe," Harriet said, sobering. "They burned the colored's church."

"When?"

"Last night sometime."

He felt more anger, deep in his gut. "Does Grace know?"

"No one's told her. Al en and I agreed she's been through enough. Now's not the time for more bad news."

At Al en's name, Rathe imagined him with Grace while she was recuperating. He couldn't help the smal spark of jealousy, but it was outweighed by other, stronger emotions. "When you see Al en, can you ask him to stop by?"

"Too late," Al en said, from the doorway. "I'm already here."

Rathe looked at him directly. "How is Grace?"

"She just woke up," Al en said. He looked at Harriet. "Have you told him the rest?"

Harriet shook her head.

"The rest of what?"

Al en grimaced. "Able Smith-that sailor-is dead."

"What happened?" Rathe demanded, his jaw tight.