"Ain't I what?"

She clenched her teeth for a moment to keep from saying something she might regret. "Are you Mr. Deke Sheridan?"

"Drop the 'mister,' honey, and I'm your man."

Laura shifted her weight, and at the movement, the dog's growls rose an octave. She forced her fists to uncurl. Sheridan thumped the snarling animal with the soft toe of his moccasin. "Shut up, Okema. The lady'll think we ain't sociable."

He said the word lady as though it didn't sit well on his tongue, and the hostility in his gaze when he looked back at her was unmistakable. Laura pressed her lips together, uncertain how to proceed. Then she blurted, "Mr. Sheridan, I need your help."

"What kinda help?" He raised one dark eyebrow. "My gun ain't for hire, if that's what you're after. You'll have to save your own ass from the murderin' Cheyenne."

Even though she hadn't expected this to be easy, Laura was starting to feel panicky. Apparently Deke Sheridan had taken an instant dislike to her. "My son has been kidnapped. Early this afternoon sometime. Some horrible men ransacked our cabin and took him. I need to hire a good tracker, and the sheriff recommended you. He says you're the best in the territory."

His mouth twisted into what she surmised was a smile. "Tell him thanks for the brag, but I ain't interested."

With that, he turned back to the bar as if to dismiss her. Laura reached out to touch his arm. When she did, the dog sprang at her, teeth bared. In the nick of time, Sheridan managed to catch the animal by its ruff. "Goddammit, Chief. Sit your worthless ass down before I give it a swift kick."

Thanking the Almighty for Deke Sheridan's quick reflexes, Laura grabbed the edge of the counter. She stared down at the wild-eyed dog, not at all certain she trusted its owner to keep a firm grip. The animal's snarls had drawn curious stares from some of the other customers. "He's vicious," she said weakly.

"Nah, just a little cantankerous around the edges." Still bent at the waist, he slanted her a glare from under the brim of his Stetson. "What d'ya expect when you start to make a move toward me?"

Laura heard the faint tinkling of piano keys. Before she could reply, the tinkling became an earsplitting rendition of Julia Ward Howe's "Glory, Hallelujah," to which several male voices picked up the chorus, more than half of them off key. She raised her volume to compensate. "I only meant to tap your arm and get your attention."

"Well? Now you got it."

She stared down at him, wishing the brim of his hat didn't make it so difficult to read his expression. "Mr. Sheridan, please, you're my only hope. Won't you help me find my son?"

Pressing a hand to the dog's back, he forced it to lie back down, his touch firm but not unduly rough. Judging from the way the dog hung its head, Laura suspected that Sheridan wasn't always so gentle. Her sympathy went out to the animal, vicious though it was. She knew how it felt to be bullied.

"I mean it, you ornery cur. Bite the lady, and you'll be toothless come mornin'." His expression still threatening, Sheridan straightened. "Mrs.what'd you say your name wasClancy?"

"Cheney."

He touched a finger to the brim of his hat and nudged it back. "Look, I'm real sorry about your kid. But I got too many irons of my own in the fire to tend anyone else's. Come sunup, I gotta hit the trail again. A lot of rustlin' goin' on lately. I can't afford to leave my cows out there to graze and have half of 'em get stole. I'm movin' 'em to high country for the summer. You understand? Nothin' personal. I just can't help you."

Somehow Laura couldn't believe it was nothing personal. Every time Sheridan looked at her, his eyes seemed colder.

"You tried Isaac Holmes or Pete Brassfield?" he asked. "They're both fine trackers, and one of 'em might not he as busy as me."

"I'll pay you," Laura tried. Before seeing the sheriff, she had visited the Methodist church. The pastor there had given her the nine dollars and ten cents she needed to send a ten-word dispatch to Boston. Pray God her father would answer her wire and send her some funds. "Any amount you name. I can get money, lots of it."

He gave her clothing another once-over. "I don't doubt it. But money ain't the issue. I'm a cattleman with a ranch to run. It ain't like I'm the only man in Denver good at trackin'."

"Please. No one else will help me. They're all afraid that the Cheyennes might" She broke off and moistened her lips. "There's a threat of Indian attack."

"So I've heard."

"All the other men feel they're needed here to defend the town."

"Except for me?" There was no mistaking the bitter edge to his voice. He raised his hands, the conversation clearly at an end as far as he was concerned. "I ain't available, lady. I can't make it much plainer. Find yourself another man."

Laura balled her hands into fists and watched as he took another swig of his whiskey. "My child's life is at stake."

"I got cattle to move, I told you. Go ask Holmes or Brassfield."

Laura had taken all the kicks in the teeth that she intended to for one day. Men! Every last one of them was bent on keeping women in their place, subservient, pregnant, and helpless. Yet where were they when emergencies cropped up? Off somewhere frying bigger fish. Rage reached a flash point inside her so quickly that she didn't take time to consider her next move; she simply acted. With no memory of having drawn it from the holster, she somehow had Tristan's gun in her hand. The piano music and singing stopped short.

"To blazes with your miserable cows. My son could be dying while you sit there nursing that stupid bottle, and I can't waste precious time hunting up another man. Unless you want your hide aerated, you'll come with me peacefully."

Deke had never heard the word aerated, but when he saw the Cheney woman's gun from the corner of his eye, it wasn't difficult for him to get her gist. In his thirty-one years he had found himself at the wrong end of a pistol more times than he cared to count, and his usual reaction was to slap leather. His speed had saved his life more than once. But this was the first time a white-faced, trembling female had ever pulled a gun on him. Taken aback, he was a split second slower on the draw than normal, and in that second, he managed to control his reflexes. In the next heartbeat, he was damned glad of it. The silly little fool didn't even have the hammer cocked.

Even if she pulled the trigger, which he seriously doubted she would, the weapon would fail to fire.

Acutely conscious of the pall of silence that had fallen over the saloon, Deke slowly turned his right hip in to the bar, placed a moccasin across Chief's back to keep him down, and then rested an elbow on the counter. His relaxed stance belied the anger that welled inside him. He might have shot her. Didn't she realize that? If he had, both of them could have lost their lives, she with a slug in her chest, he at the end of a rope.

Riled up against the Cheyenne the way they were, Deke knew the men in this town would string him up and ask questions later if he killed a white woman. Especially one like her. Despite the sorry condition of her clothing, she had the unmistakable look of a lady, an impression that became magnified every time she opened her mouth. He'd never heard such an eastern twang.

Where the hell was her husband, anyway? She needed a good paddling for doing something so stupid. Deke narrowed his eyes, wishing he could do the honors. He'd be crazy to lay a hand on her. But, by God, that didn't mean he couldn't teach her a lesson she'd never forget.

She obviously couldn't tell a gun's ass from its nose. He nodded at the weapon she held in one shaking hand. "It might do a better job of aeratin' my hide if you cocked it."

Under any other circumstances, the horrified expression that swept across her face might have made him laugh.

"Cocked?" She held the gun as she might have a rattlesnake, her right arm extended straight out from her body, her white-knuckled hand choking the butt.

"That tit stickin' up on top," he directed helpfully. "You gotta pull it back for the firin' mechanism to work."

Bringing up her other hand to help hold the weapon, she crooked a small thumb over the hammer. Her arms shook with the effort she expended to draw it back. Even from where he stood, Deke could see the mechanism was badly rusted and in sore need of oiling. None too worried that she'd get the gun cocked until well into next week sometime, he made no move to interfere.

With all his attention fixed on her and what she might try next, Deke finally saw past the smears of mud to note the amber color of her eyes, accentuated by hair almost exactly the same shade. The first comparison he drew was to the color of an expensive brandy that went down smooth and warmed a man clear through. The second was to rotgut whiskey, the kind he used to drink when he couldn't afford better, quick to intoxicate and hell on slick runners when he woke up the next morning.

While Laura Cheney continued to wrestle with the corroded gun, he took in details about her that he had ignored earlier, mainly because he never gave a white woman a second look unless she earned her living on her back. A burgundy satin skirt caked with mud clung to her hips and slender legs. A matching velvet jacket that showed little wear finished the outfit. He was no expert on women's duds, but he recognized elegance when he saw it, even if it was badly soiled and a size too small for its wearer.

Laura Cheney had either gained weight recently or she had stolen another woman's clothing. Since she was sure as hell no thief and, in his estimation, couldn't afford to lose an ounce of the feminine softness that padded her fragile figure, he could only suppose she had been painfully thin in the not so distant past.

When she finally managed to get the stubborn hammer cocked, Deke took a deliberately slow swallow of whiskey, regarding her along the length of the bottle. He heard everyone else in the saloon scatter for cover. Deke didn't bother. He was willing to bet Laura Cheney had never fired a revolver in her life, and that she wouldn't start now. For one, he doubted a weapon so corroded with rust and dirt would fire right even in experienced hands. Secondly, the look in her eyes told him she didn't have what it took to kill a man.

Trembling so violently that he feared she might drop the gun, she aimed the wavering muzzle in his general direction. "I mean it, Mr. Sheridan. Come with me, or I shall shoot."

Deke, warming to the game more by the second, managed not to laugh. "If you aim to hit me, you'd best hold your hands steady."

In a gallant attempt to do just that, she locked her elbows and closed one eye to sight in. Deke wondered how in hell she thought she could miss when she stood less than three feet away. He plucked the weapon from her grip, pointed it at the floor, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

"Most guns shoot better when they're loaded, too."

Except for the streaks of mud and those arresting amber eyes, her face went absolutely colorless. Then the fight drained out of her, and she bent her head. As Deke laid her gun on the bar, he noticed that she was swaying slightly, as if all that kept her on her feet was sheer grit. With her head at a different angle, he spotted some dried blood at her hairline. His cocky grin faded, and he started to feel a little ashamed.

Now that they knew no bullets were likely to fly, the other brave souls inside the saloon began to emerge from their hiding places like roaches from mopboards. One man hooted and yelled, "Hey, baby. I got a loaded pistol, primed and cocked. You wanna put it to some good use?"

At the gibe, Laura Cheney looked up, her amber eyes unfocused and bewildered. Deke doubted she understood what the bastard meant and figured that was just as well. She took a faltering step backward. Then another. He watched as she spun and fled from the saloon.

Silence. He glanced neither left nor right, the taste of well-executed vengeance bitter at the back of his throat. Vengeance for what? That was the question. When he turned back to the bar and took another swig of whiskey, the liquor no longer had a bite. He stared past the shelves of bottles opposite him at his reflection in the mirrored wall. His washed out blue eyes stared back at him. Blue, not brown. With hatred for the Cheyenne running so high in town and spilling over onto him, he sometimes forgot who he actually was, Deke Sheridan, not Shakeka S'ski-sicoh', Flint Eyes.

Even so, he owed the Laura Cheneys of this world nothing. Under any other circumstances, she would have walked two blocks out of her way to avoid him on the street. He could spot her sort from a mile away, noses always in the air, afraid of him and trying to hide it, too good to breathe the same air he did. To hell with every damned one of them. It took some nerve for one of her kind to come seeking him out when her luck ran sour.

He upended the whiskey bottle and took several big gulps. The blast of fire that hit his guts reminded him that even Mon'gehela could make a man sick if he guzzled too much of it. He set the liquor aside. Down the bar from him lay a neatly folded newspaper. Determined to put the Cheney woman's face out of his mind, he grabbed the paper and spread it open. Using a blunt fingertip to keep his place, he worked his way through the groups of letters, mouthing syllables, imagining the sounds until he got each word figured out. A slow process, reading, but he was self-taught and damned proud he knew his letters.

The first thing he read was an advertisement for Dr. Tumblety's Pimple Banisher, only one dollar per bottle, one of its many attributes being that it could make old faces look young and beautiful. Deke wondered if it would help skin that had gone tough as saddle leather from too much sun.

Next he scanned the lurid details of the Huntgate massacre. Governor Evans was calling upon "patriotic citizens" to volunteer for militia companies. Another article claimed that since the massacre, some of the women in Denver and outlying towns had started carrying small bottles of white powder. Strychnine ... so they could avoid fates worse than death in the event of Indian attack. He pictured Amanda Carrington, one of the snootiest bitches in town, walking to Sunday services with a bottle of strychnine tucked between her breasts. He grinned at the thought and wondered what it would take to scare her into snorting a little of it.

His smile faded as his thoughts doubled back to Laura Cheney. Did she carry a bottle of strychnine? She had been terrified of him from the get-go; he had read that much in her expression. And he wasn't even a true Cheyenne. It amazed him that she had actually risked drawing a gun on him. If she had been told about his tracking skills, she must have heard about his reputation with a gun. That meant she was desperate enough to try almost anything.

What if she was right, and Holmes or Brassfield wouldn't help her because of the Indian threat? If she had been fool enough to risk her life by confronting him with an unloaded gun, she might get it into her mind to search for her child by herself. If she did, she'd better have herself a bottle of that white powder handy. Cheyenne tempers were hot. If, in that mood, they came across a lone white woman, God only knew what they might do.

"It ain't my problem." Deke glanced down at his dog. "Right, Okema?"

Chief, whose name translated to Okema in Cheyenne, ceased gnawing on his bone. He offered no comment, yea or nay, not that Deke had drunk enough whiskey to expect one. Yet.

He patted his breast pocket in search of his tobacco pouch, then forgot what he was doing as he once again pictured Laura Cheney's pale face.

Damn it to hell. Earlier when he had come into the Elephant Corral, his plan had been to wash the trail dust from his throat with several slugs of whiskey, take a long, hot bath, and then partake of an accommodating woman and a good night's sleep, in that exact order. Come morning, he had to get his saddle-weary ass back on a horse again. He deserved one night of leisure. The last thing he needed was a frantic, amber-haired woman with more courage than sense to throw a hitch in his get-along.

And wasn't that the problem? When it came to white women, there wasn't a whole lot Deke found to admire. But, then, it wasn't often he ran across one who dared to draw a gun on him. Of all the things he had been taught to value as a kid, courage ranked high on the list. He had to hand it to Laura Cheney. She might not be the smartest thing to ever come down the pike, but she had guts.

He shoved away from the bar, picked up the fool woman's gun, and glared at his dog. "Don't say one goddamn word, you mangy, good-for-nothing cur. She spells trouble. I know it, and you know it. But what else can we do?"

With a woebegone expression, Chief secured the deer leg between his teeth and lumbered to his feet. Sometimes, particularly when halfway finished with a jug of Mon'gehela, Deke could swear the animal understood him. Together, they left the saloon. Once on the boardwalk, Deke scanned the street.

"I wonder where in hell she went."

At the question, Chief lowered his nose closer to the ground and took off toward Front Street. Deke fell in behind him.

"If you're followin' the trail of that little shepherd you was shinin' up to earlier, I'll kick your butt, you randy old coot. There ain't no way you're gettin' some if I don't."

Chief stayed with the scent. At Front, he hung right. When he reached Wazee, he cut left. Deke saw a livery stable up ahead. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "If she ain't plannin' to leave town, why does she need her horse?"

To Deke's surprise, Chief didn't stop in front of the stable, but circled around behind it. Once the dog gained the yard out back, he dropped to his belly and went back to gnawing on his deer leg. Deke approached a little more cautiously. Good night vision and sharply honed senses made it easy for him to pick out Laura Cheney from the shadows. Head bent, body sagging, she stood with one arm draped over the swayback of her horse. He had never seen anyone look quite so down at the mouth.

Chapter 4.

*"I ain't never in all my life seen a sorrier-lookin' pair."

The deep voice coming from the shadows made Laura jump. Holding on to her old mare's saddle horn for extra support, she turned slightly and peered through the moonless gloom.

"From where I'm standin', I can't tell if the horse is holdin' you up, or the other way around."

Laura recognized that silky voice. Since she couldn't see its owner, she felt at a distinct disadvantage. Listening for footfalls, she tensed to run. Her heart skipped when his looming figure stepped out from the shadows less than five feet away.

"If you followed me to have more fun at my expense, Mr. Sheridan, I've concluded your entertainment for the evening. Please go back to your bottle and leave me alone."

He never broke stride. As everything else about him did, his soundless walk unnerved her. She saw that he held Tristan's gun in his left hand. She didn't believe for a minute that he had come after her to return it. The nearer he drew, the larger he seemed. Much taller than he had back at the saloon, much broader at the shoulder. She remembered how quickly he could move. If he meant to cause her grief, she was in big trouble.

Exhaustion made her limbs feel heavy. Her every instinct urged her to flee, but, God help her, she didn't think she could. When he drew to a stop, he stood close enough to touch her, and it seemed to Laura that the darkening air was filled with man. Tall, dark, braided with muscle, he intimidated her with every breath he took. Her frightened gaze shifted to the heathenish medallions that decorated his chest, representative of a people as brutal as the land from which they came, rapists, mutilators, murderers of women and children. She leaned more heavily against the horse, accepting with numb resignation that whatever he had in mind, she was too spent to fight him.

"Where in hell's your husband?" he asked. "At a time like this, he oughta be here."

The question came so suddenly that it made Laura jump. Terrified to admit how completely alone she actually was, she said, "My husband is otherwise occupied."

Sheridan looked none too pleased to hear that. "Well, since he ain't here to say it, I will. Never aim a gun when you don't plan to shoot. And until you get practiced up, it'd be smart to choose targets that won't shoot back. You came just that close to gettin' your cute little ass shot off."

"Excuse me, but as I recall, I asked for your help, not advice."

"Yeah? Well, advice ain't the only thing you didn't ask for that I've a good mind to give you."

Already on edge, Laura grew truly alarmed at the subtle threat in his voice. She straightened and slipped her hand into her pocket, her numb fingers groping for the hilt of her kitchen knife. "Since you obviously have no intention of helping me, why don't you be on your way, Mr. Sheridan?"

He shifted his weight to one foot, the change of position throwing one lean hip outward. After following the path of her hand down to her pocket, he riveted her with those silver eyes. "Sweetheart, there's two things you maybe oughta learn, and the quicker the better. The first is that you can't stir a hornet's nest without gettin' buzzed by a bee. The second is that you're bound to regret it if you do what you're thinkin' about doin'."

When she spoke, her voice sounded thin even to her. "How can you possibly venture a guess as to what I intend to do?"

His firm mouth slanted into a slow grin. "I got ten dollars that says you have a knife in your pocket." The gleam in his eyes turned feral. "And I got fifty that says I'll take it away from you, slicker than greased owl shit, if you pull it on me. I think you'd best leave it right where it is. You've bellied up to trouble one too many times tonight as it is."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"I ain't sayin' you should be. I'm just sayin' I'm liable to get outa sorts if you pull a knife on me."

Laura kept a firm grip on the knife handle. "You don't care to be threatened. Neither do I. You expressed an intent to harm me, and I've made ready to defend myself. Shall we leave it at that?"

Moving a bit closer, he pressed a leathery fingertip to the underside of her chin and lifted her face slightly, the touch so light, it was more a caress. The raw power that emanated from his body forestalled Laura from doing anything that might set him off. She imagined that hand curling around her throat as Tristan's had so often done.

"Honey, I don't threaten. If I had meant to harm you, it'd be a done deed. Pullin' a stunt like that could've got you killed. You don't march into a saloon, walk up to a strange man guzzlin' whiskey, and pull a gun on him. Most times, he swaps lead first and asks questions later."

With that, he nosed Tristan's gun into the holster on her hip. Then he stepped back, giving her a bit more room to breathe. Laura could feel him looking her over. After doing so at his leisure, he turned slightly away and regarded her pack mule.

"Where'd you get these critters, from a slaughter pen?"