Though Laura's sense of urgency made her yearn to press forward, common sense prevailed. It would be foolhardy to risk walking into a trap. If captured by comancheros, she wouldn't be much use to her son. Her only choice was to do as he suggested and trust him.

Trust him? Those words swam through Laura's mind repeatedly over the next two hours as daylight gave way to darkness and the only light came from a smokeless little fire no larger than Deke Sheridan's Stetson. So enemies could approach from only one direction, he had chosen a boxed-in draw as their resting spot for the night, a steep hill to their backs and both flanks.

A tiny stream not much wider than the length of her foot ribboned through the draw to provide them and their horses with water. Laura was ensconced on a blanket beneath a canopy of mahogany branches while Deke rubbed down their horses with handfuls of grass and then proceeded to do all the other necessary chores.

Her protests about not helping him didn't exactly fall on deaf ears, but his surly responses left no room for argument. She was to rest, and that was all he wanted her to do. Though she longed to prove she could carry her share of the load, Laura was afraid to ignore his orders. She had riled him a number of times today already.

Sitting idle gave her too much time to contemplate the coming night. As she watched Deke move about the camp, her thoughts turned to the inevitable moment when they would retire. When he crouched to lay a fire, her gaze became fixed on the play of muscle across his back and the way it stretched the chambray of his shirt taut. Even with the chill of night descending, he hadn't donned a jacket, and she wondered if he ever felt cold. To her, the wind had a bite, and it would undoubtedly get worse at this altitude as the night wore on.

Her gaze slid downward from his upper back to his waist. The man was built in a classic wedge, narrow of hip, broad at the shoulder. When the fire leaped to life under his expert coaxing, he twisted slightly to avoid the flames, seemingly relaxed in the crouched position, his thighs flexing under the faded denim to maintain his balance. A study of grace ... and wildness. Without the Stetson to cover it, his dark hair lifted in the breeze, then settled in a mahogany curtain around his shoulders.

Before it grew fully dark, Laura gathered a supply of clean rags from her saddlebags and made her way into the thick brush to seek privacy. Coward that she was, every unfamiliar noise made her start. She couldn't help but remember the mountain lion she had seen earlier that day. To complicate matters, her breasts were excruciatingly tender, which made expressing her milk a trial. Making short work of it, she hurried back to camp and Deke Sheridan's unnerving company. As frightening as he was, she found him preferable to ravening beasts.

After washing off his left moccasin, his reasons for which Laura didn't care to recall, and oiling his weapons, he prepared a simple meal of bacon, gravy, and skillet biscuits. Laura greatly enjoyed the coffee, but her stomach rebelled at the introduction of food. A little at a time, she pushed the bread and bits of bacon off the edge of her tin plate for Chief, hoping her tracker wouldn't notice who was actually eating her supper.

They were only a half day's ride from her cabin, not nearly far enough for him to discount the possibility of turning back. She couldn't let him know she wasn't feeling well. Her baby was out there, and she was going after him if she had to crawl the entire way.

"Ain't my cookin' fancy enough for you?" he asked when the meal was finished.

For fear he might guess the truth, Laura avoided meeting his piercing gaze. "My appetite is just a bit off. Weary, I suppose."

He picked up her plate, his movements abrupt with irritation. "Well, I'll warn you now. This is as good as it gets, Boston. Eat what's put afore you, or do without."

Before bedding down for the night, he walked some distance from their camp to a tall pine tree and tossed a rope over one of the limbs to suspend their food bags some ten feet above the ground. Laura watched him with mounting curiosity.

"Why did you hang our food in a tree?" she asked when he returned to the fire.

"Bears," was his curt reply.

Chapter 8.

*Laura inched closer to the flames and glanced uneasily over her shoulder. The shadowy world beyond the feeble glow of their little fire suddenly seemed ominous, and every sway of a tree limb made her pulse quicken. "Mr. Sheridan, did I understand you to say bears?" She gave a nervous little laugh. "That is not to say I was unaware they were in this country, you understand. But surely they don't venture near humans."

"They can smell food from miles away, and they ain't shy when it comes to fillin' their bellies. If they come callin', I don't want to lose any of our supplies."

"Are you saying that bears might visit our camp?"

He glanced up from the dying fire. "No call to worry. You ain't on their menu of good things to eat, Boston." With the toe of his moccasin, he banked and spread the hot coals, extinguishing the last of the feeble flames.

"Shouldn't we keep the fire going?"

The red glow of the embers illuminated his face, revealing his slight smile. "A fire this size wouldn't scare off a mouse, honey, let alone a bear. But left to burn all night, it might draw two-legged critters. I'm more leery of the latter."

With that, he went for their bedrolls. Laura waited to shake out hers until Deke chose his spot. She laid out her own bedding on the opposite side of the fire pit, preferring to keep a safe distance.

The night wind quickly burned out the glowing coals. As Laura's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the moonlight seemed brighter, but not enough for her to distinguish one shadowy shape from another. While journeying west, she had always slept inside the wagon. Not that a barrier of canvas had been much protection, but at least it had been something.

It seemed to her that she no sooner got comfortableor as close to it as possiblethan a scream echoed eerily down the draw. She huddled deeper beneath her wool blanket. "Mr. Sheridan," she whispered, "did you hear that?"

"Yep."

Laura wondered why he just lay there. "I think a woman screamed."

In a deep voice laced with amusement, he replied, "That was a cougar, Boston. They sound like a woman sometimes."

Laura stared wide-eyed at the shifting shapes in the darkness. "A cougar? As in a mountain lion?"

"Some folks call 'em that."

"It sounded awfully close, didn't it?"

"Sound carries up here, especially at night. No call to worry. Cougars don't usually attack humans unless they're starvin'."

The only word in that sentence that Laura truly assimilated was usually. Oh, Lord. Her precious little baby was somewhere in these mountains tonight. So tiny and so defenseless. Tears filled her eyes, and she shivered. Was he warm? Had those horrible men thought to feed him? Would they grow impatient if he cried? And, most importantly of all, were they keeping close watch to protect him from predators?

Her concerns for Jonathan led in an unbroken circle back to herself, for without his mother to feed him, Jonathan was doomed. Her body stiff with tension, she strained her ears for unfamiliar sounds. She tried to reassure herself. Chief lay only a few feet away, and so did Deke Sheridan. The pair had probably slept outdoors like this a thousand times, and since neither of them appeared uneasy, she shouldn't be, either.

Deke watched Laura stare at shadows, first one, and then another, her face as pale as milk. Training of a lifetime had given him good night vision, but she obviously didn't have the same advantage. He knew she was fashioning bears and cougars out of stumps and bushes. Recalling his childhood, he also knew that those imagined shapes could seem to move if you stared long enough.

At first Deke believed she would wear herself out and eventually fall asleep. Not so. If anything, she became more and more fidgety, rolling onto one side to stare one way, then switching sides to stare the other. She was clearly too nervous to sleep. If she had been any other city woman, he might have been highly amused, but given Laura's physical condition, he didn't feel like laughing. She needed her rest. Tomorrow would be a long day, and she was already on the brink of collapse, whether she admitted to it or not.

When he saw her shiver with cold, the decision was made for him. All he needed was for her to take sick. With a sigh, he pushed to his feet. Grabbing his rifle and bedding, he moved around the fire pit toward her. At his approach, he heard her sharp intake of breath.

"What is it? Is something out there?"

"Nothin' that ain't s'posed to be."

"Then why are you walking around in the dark?"

Convinced she would deny being afraid and spring from her bed if she guessed what he meant to do, Deke didn't immediately answer. Laying his rifle within easy reach, he snapped his blankets and brought them floating down over her. As he unbuckled his gun belt and laid it carefully on the ground, he said, "I reckon you're just so temptin', Boston, I can't resist you." Before she could react, he stretched out at her back and slipped under the covers with her. "Why should a man freeze his ass off when he can spoon with a pretty woman and keep warm?"

"Spoon?" she echoed.

Steeling himself for her reaction, Deke pressed close to her slender backside. "Don't tell me you ain't never spooned?" He bent his knees and pressed them against the backs of hers. "What does folks in Boston do for excitement?"

She leaped at the contact of their bodies. "Mr. Sheridan!"

"There, you see? Slick as two spoons in a drawer." After a moment, when she gave no sign of relaxing, he added, "Honey, I'm so played out tonight I couldn't rise to the occasion if you stripped off naked to do a shake and jiggle. Believe me, you're safe as can be."

As he fit himself more snugly against her, he felt her body go rigid. For an instant, he questioned the wisdom of joining her. After all, his aim had been to make her feel secure, not threatened, and he could accomplish that by simply making his bed next to hers. But then he felt her shiver again, and his doubts fled. It was colder than a witch's tit in these mountains after the sun went down.

Laura held her breath and squeezed her eyes closed. A shake and jiggle? Oh, God, oh, God. How had she ever come to be in this situation? If, by any stretch of the imagination, their bodies fit together like two pieces of silver, hers was of the teaspoon variety, and his was the size of a soupspoon. The heels of her shoes hit the fronts of his moccasins well above his ankles. Even through the layers of her skirt and petticoat, she could feel the searing heat of his hard thighs pressed against the backs of her legs.

Letting her air out in a shaky rush, she said, "Mr. Sheridan, I truly don't think this is a champion idea."

He looped a warm and heavy arm over her waist. "At least this way you don't gotta be scared of bears and cougars. I'm so damned ornery, they'd take one look and run the other way."

Ornery; now, there was a point to ponder. Suddenly things like bears and mountain lions were the least of her worries. "I shan't sleep a wink. This is highly improper."

"The neighbors out here ain't much for tongue waggin'."

He settled a hand on her midriff. Laura stared at the moon-silvered shapes that had seemed so frightening only a moment ago. Which presented more of a threat, a hungry cougar or Deke Sheridan? The size of his hand alone was intimidating, the heel resting directly above her navel, the side of his forefinger, from first knuckle to tip, pressing against the underside of her right breast. To make matters worse, the breadth of his shoulders exceeded hers by a goodly margin, and his body felt like a heavy blanket of vibrant muscle all around her.

Played out? He was accustomed to hard riding, and for far longer stints than what he had endured today. He was lying through his teeth! He could probably work his way through a whole chorus line of shaking and jiggling dancehall girls and never work up a sweat.

Tension constricted her throat, and she found it difficult to breathe. Even a gentle invasion so soon after childbirth would surely kill her, and she doubted Deke Sheridan knew how to be gentle.

His fingers flexed around her ribs, and she braced herself for an assault. "Relax, Boston. You're strung so tight, I could pluck notes."

Thankful she had two free hands, she grasped his wrist with one, and two of his leathery fingers with the other. To her horror, she felt his forearm tense against her. Then his thumb began to make light sweeps over the cloth of her dress, the forays harmless, yet terrifying. She had no illusions. He could easily subdue her and caress her in that fashion wherever he chose.

"Relax, honey." He gave a theatrical yawn. "I ain't exaggeratin' a bit. I'm flat tuckered. Ain't you?"

Her heart bumping against her ribs, Laura abandoned his fingers to grab his thumb. "Mr. Sheridan?"

His husky reply was once again laced with laughter. "Ma'am?"

She bit down hard on her lower lip. After a miserable moment of indecision, she murmured, "About our bargain."

"Bargain?"

Loath to bring it up, she murmured, "You know ... the trading pitch?"

"Ah, that bargain. What about it?"

She dragged in a bracing breath. "It's just ... well ... I think it's only fair to inform you that I'm suffering from a decided lack of enthusiasm."

"A decided lack of enthusiasm?"

"It's n-nothing personal, you understand."

She felt his breath stir the wispy curls at the nape of her neck. A slight shift of his hand on her midriff nearly made her heart stop. "Mr. Sheridan, please."

Keeping his palm securely anchored on her ribs, he shoved up on his other arm and leaned over her. In the darkness, he was a black, hulking shape that emanated male strength. Laura wasn't certain what to expect. She only knew that her pitiful little paring knife, which had served so well to discourage men in the past, would provide her with scant protection. Deke Sheridan probably picked his teeth with a blade that size.

Memories rushed at Laura of all the times on the wagon train when Tristan had gotten in over his head playing poker and offered other men a night with his wife as compensation for debts he couldn't pay. She would never forget the sound of canvas being swept aside, of heavy breathing, as those drunken visitors climbed clumsily into her wagon, determined to get their money's worth out of her. No wasn't a word they had been willing to accept until she had emphasized the message with the prick of her knife, and even then, she had been roughly handled during the struggles more times than she could count.

"Please, don't hurt me," she managed in a thin voice.

Though she couldn't he sure, she thought she heard him sigh. "You know what I do at times like this, Boston? I say 'what the hell' and just let whatever's gonna happen happen. When you're outflanked, it's the only thing you can do."

"Outflanked?" she squeaked.

This time there was no doubt; he did sigh. He tried to move his hand, and Laura's grip turned so frenzied, she embedded her nails into his flesh.

"Why do I got the feelin' this could go on all night, with neither one of us gettin' a wink of sleep?"

"If you're unhappy with the accommodations, why don't you move back into your own bed?"

"Because we're layin' under it, and because you're scared and freezin' cold, that's why."

"I am not scared. And I'll grow warm after a while."

"Damned right, 'cause I ain't movin'." He flexed his fingers. "Honey, I'll have to amputate that thumb come mornin' for lack of circulation. You reckon you could lighten your hold a hair?"

"If I do, you'll touch me someplace."

"I'm touchin' you now, and you ain't dyin' from it."

"You're only touching my ribs."

"And you think the reason is that puny little grip of yours?" So quickly it startled her, he flicked his wrist, turned his hand, and captured both of hers in a steely grip. "If I have it in mind to touch that breast, I don't reckon anything you can do is gonna stop me."

Angling a thigh over her hip, he rolled her onto her back beneath him and pinned her legs. With the same horrifying ease, he drew her wrists above her head and held them there, firmly anchored to the ground. So terrified she could scarcely think, Laura stared up at the dark shadows of his face. Moonlight glanced off the stubborn thrust of his jaw and shimmered like diamonds in his eyes.

"Just that easy," he informed her silkily.

To Laura, the next seconds seemed endless. Even in the dim light, she saw his white teeth flash in a smilea feral, taunting smile that chilled her blood. Transferring her wrists into his right hand so he could elevate himself with the same arm, he used his free hand to toy with the top button of her jacket.

"So what d'ya think?" he demanded.

What did she think? She was inches away from being raped, that was what she thought.

With deft fingers, he slipped one of her jacket buttons from its loop. "You ain't holdin' my hand no more, right?" His teeth flashed at her in another smile. "Fact is, I'd say you're as helpless as a snubbed, hobbled, and tail-twitched mare."

Horrible images crawled into Laura's mind. Though she had never witnessed the breeding of horses, Tristan had once told her how mares were rendered helpless and immobile so a stallion could mount them easily.

"I am not a mare, Mr. Sheridan."

"No, and I ain't a stallion that needs help gettin' the job done. So what's stoppin' me?"

The tendons along Laura's throat felt paralyzed. "N-Nothing, I suppose."

"You suppose?" He unfastened another button. "Honey, I've wrestled calves bigger than you and had 'em trussed in three seconds. There ain't no suppose to it." Inserting his finger through a button loop, he tugged lightly on her jacket. "Anything I want, and it's mine to take. You sure as hell can't stop me."

Her body straining to he free, Laura angled her face away from his and gulped down a sob. "Just do it then. I won't beg, if that's what you're after."