She thought she saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Where I come from, men do that kind of anglin' with tradin' pitch."

"What?"

"Tradin' pitch. For startin' fires. It comes mighty dear to a Cheyenne women's lodge when the winters get long and wet." He checked the length of her left stirrup, then moved to check the right. "When I was young, I spent half my time lookin' for boles veined with pitch."

"Are you saying that Cheyenne women have so few morals that they..." The thought was so scandalous, she couldn't put it into words. "For pitch?"

"Most would rather freeze their asses off." He curled a warm hand around her calf to lift her foot into the stirrup. After a measuring glance, he did some readjusting. "But there's always the exceptions to be found if a man keeps liftin' lodge flaps. Mighty nice exceptions."

Laura gaped at him. He glanced up and flashed her a grin rife with mischief. "Can't hang a man for tryin', Boston. To my way of thinkin', there's a big difference between admirin' a filly and foreleggin' her."

"Forelegging?"

"Throwin' a loop and bringin' her down by the front feet," he explained. "It's not pretty, and likely as not, the filly gets her neck broke. But she's caught. Don't look to me like the Mex tossed you any loops."

Laura felt heat flag each of her cheeks. "That he made such a suggestion was indicative of a badly flawed character."

"Depends on how you look at it, I reckon. So if it's all the same to you, I'll hold off on a verdict till I size the poor sap up for myself."

With that, he grabbed the new mule's lead rope, seized her gelding's harness, and led the procession from the livery.

Their next stop was at the general store, where Deke Sheridan pounded on the locked door so hard, he shook the window glass. When the proprietor finally answered the wall-rattling summons, he snarled a greeting. Sheridan and his dog snarled back, and the intimidated shopkeeper allowed them entry. With painful slowness, Laura swung down from the horse and followed her tracker into the shop, more than a little horrified by the goods he was so quickly gathering into a pile next to the counter scales.

"Mr. Sheridan," she said softly. "Mr. Sheridan?"

He didn't have a shirt sleeve to tug, so Laura had no choice but to walk at his heels and lightly tap his arm. Because the red dog flanked her, she touched Deke Sheridan with even more trepidation than she might have otherwise, which was saying something. Evidently the animal had deemed her harmless, for he didn't growl or offer to leap at her. When at last frustration prodded her into abandoning good manners, she raised her voice and said, "Mr. Sheridan, we must have a talk."

He hefted a box of rifle cartridges as if to check its weight and shot her a questioning glance. "So talk."

"Not in here," she whispered fiercely. "Outside."

He tossed down the box and gestured that he would follow her. Once they gained the boardwalk, Laura hunched her shoulders against the cool wind and searched for words. The dog padded past her to lie in the dirt at the edge of the boardwalk. "You mustn't be buying things left and right."

"I don't take off into hard country without supplies, Boston. That's suicide."

Laura squeezed her eyes closed. "I might not be able to pay you back for all that stuff."

"I thought you said"

"I stretched the truth a bit."

"How much is a bit?"

She lifted her lashes. "I'm estranged from my father."

He nudged his hat back and surveyed her from beneath arched brows. "Can you talk English, Boston? More than one new word a day taxes my thinker." At her blank look, he clarified, "What in hell does 'estranged' mean?"

"He has disowned me."

"You sayin' he don't lay claim to you no more?"

Laura flinched. "Sort of."

"Shit."

"It's not as bad as it sounds. Now that my husband's dead, he'll probably forgive me. There's every chance he'll send me money. Really, there is. It's just that..." She waved her hands toward the store. "I don't want to get you into a financial bind if it should happen that he doesn't."

He planted his hands on his hips. "Let me get this straight. You've got three cents, and it's iffy that you can get more? I just dropped over a hundred dollars at the livery, I'm lookin' at spendin' another seventy or so here, and I'm hirin' on as your tracker. You ever heard of gettin' in so far over your head, you can't touch bottom, Boston?"

"My name's Laura, and I never intended to spend any money, if you'll recall. I told you I couldn't afford a horse and mule."

"You told me your daddy had money up his ass, that's what you told me."

Laura wrung her hands. "I know you have every right to be angry."

"Damn straight."

"I should never have implied that I could definitely get the money. But please, try to understand that it's my baby out there. I'd lie, steal..." Her gaze locked with his, and a horrible tightness clenched her stomach. "I'll do anything to get him back, Mr. Sheridan. Anything."

His mouth twisted. "We talkin' tradin' pitch again?"

The boards beneath Laura's feet seemed to lose substance. In her peripheral vision, the ground and surrounding buildings seemed to swell and recede. She had to force her next words up a paralyzed throat. "What am I supposed to do? Say, oh, well? I haven't got the means, so I'll just sit here and let them keep my baby?"

"You could let a man know what he's bitin' off before he's got a mouthful." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a saloon across the street. "See them windows on the second story? Up there, a man can rent himself a woman for ten dollars. For fifteen, he can stay all night. No offense meant, honey. You're pretty enough to get most men's juices flowin'. But there ain't a piece of ass on earth that's worth a hundred and seventy dollars."

His dog thumped down on the boardwalk at his feet and, as if to second the vote, let out a mournful whine around the deer leg between its teeth.

"Do I look like a man who can afford to throw away that much money?"

Laura closed her eyes. "No. And it was never my intention that you should."

An image of Jonathan flashed inside her mind, so small, so soft and warm, so helpless. It was all she could do to keep her emotions in check. A horrible urge to laugh struck her. She had just offered herself to him. Offered herself, like so much baggage. And he was turning her down, flat. To add insult to injury, he had referred to her as a piece of ass. As though she were a thing and not a person. Not even a very tempting thing, from the sound of it. Humiliation brought tears to her eyes. To stoop that low, and then be turned down. And by the likes of him? She felt filthythe sort of filth that might never wash away.

Struggling for her voice, she said, "Just explain matters to the proprietor and put everything back. I shall take care of the livery stable owner. Surely he'll be reasonable." She swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze. "Please accept my apologies for inconveniencing you as I have."

Laura turned to step off the boardwalk. Sheridan seized her arm. "What're you plannin' now?"

Uncomfortably aware of the leashed strength in his grip, she glanced down at his hand. "I'm going to return the horse and mule. Don't worry. I'll be certain your account is credited."

"And then what?"

Surprised that she was able, Laura pulled her arm free. "I must find my baby."

He jerked his hat off and raked a hand through his long hair. In the time that had passed since he found her behind the livery, the moon had come up, and in the silvery shafts of light, his darkness and odd dress made him look all the more Indian. "Alone, you mean?"

Her voice quavery with emotion, Laura said, "As you've so eloquently pointed out, Mr. Sheridan, I haven't the funds to hire help." She stepped to the gelding and lifted her foot into the stirrup. Before pulling herself up, she looked back at him. "I really am sorry. I know it may not count for much, but I'm not given to lying very often."

"Wait a minute."

She hesitated, her hand clenched on the saddle horn. He came off the boardwalk with one long stride, then stopped near her to gaze at his feet. He slapped his thigh with his hat before looking up at her.

"You can't take off out there alone," he finally said. "Under the best of circumstances, you could get hurt or lost. And right now, with the Cheyenne in a dither..." His voice trailed away. Even by the dim light of the moon, she could see the corded tendon along his jaw bunch and relax with every clench of his teeth. "If they came across a whiskey-haired woman right now, there's no tellin' what they'd do. The only guarantee is, you'd wish you was dead by the time they finished doin' it."

"I appreciate the warning, but I'm well aware of the dangers. They don't factor into this very neatly."

"Meanin'?"

"Meaning I must find my baby, the devil take the consequences."

He caught her arm before she mounted the horse. "I'll take the job."

Laura froze and looked back at him. "Pardon?"

"Let's go in and get the supplies."

She glanced toward the store. "Butwhat about money?"

"I'll stake us."

"But what if I'm unable to pay you back?"

"We'll work somethin' out."

"Like what?"

His white teeth flashed in another slow grin. "Havin' second thoughts, Boston?"

Laura felt that awful, sick sensation again. But the way she saw it, she had no options. "My name is Laura, and no, I haven't room for second thoughts where my baby's life is concerned."

"Good. Then we've got a deal. Let's go get the supplies."

Chapter 5.

*Before leaving town, Laura's new tracker had to fetch his horse, packhorse, and gear. Then he had to make arrangements with his foreman to continue the cattle roundups and drives during his absence. While he did the latter, she waited outside yet another rowdy saloon with their horses. Oddly enough, none of the drunks going in and out of the building offered to pester her. One look at Deke Sheridan's mount seemed enough to discourage them.

Like its owner, the magnificent black stallion had an Indian look. Though its saddle was ordinary enough, the blanket beneath sported a gaudy Cheyenne pattern in the weave. The animal's harness was decorated as well, on the strap behind its left ear with a feather similar to the one Sheridan wore on his hat, and on the throat strap with a medallion, a cluster of animal teeth, and a string of cobalt beads. Distasteful-looking ornaments, she decided, very like the ones suspended on rawhide strips around her tracker's neck. But distasteful or no, they branded the horse as Deke Sheridan's, which for the moment seemed to be working in her favor. Apparently no one wanted to pester the man's traveling companion and risk his retribution.

Thus reassured, Laura no longer felt a need to have Tristan's rusty gun on her hip. The weapon was heavy and, because she couldn't tie the holster to her thigh, tended to flop about every time she moved. Glad to be rid of it, she unbuckled the gun belt and stowed it in one of her saddlebags.

Laura noticed that although she didn't suffer the attention she had before, men stared at her as they passed. She drew herself erect in the saddle, ignoring the discomfort in her nether regions. What were they thinking when they gaped at her that way? She didn't like the possibilities that came to mind. That she was Sheridan's woman, perhaps? Her reputation would be in shreds the instant she rode out of town with him. People would whisper, scandalized that she had kept company with him. Not a Cheyenne, but as close to it as he could get. Everyone knew how those savages treated white women.

Laura's mind stumbled on that thought. She tightened her grip on the saddle horn. What in God's name was she about to do? She peered through the darkness toward the edge of town. Within minutes, she'd be out there in that vastness with a man who admitted to being more Cheyenne than white. What if this was all a ghastly trick? What if he had no intention of helping her but was luring her out of town to get her alone? Memories of the two women on the wagon train flashed inside her head. Their screams, the evil laughter of the braves who raped and mutilated them.

The buildings along the boardwalk went into a slow rotation. Laura rubbed her throbbing temple, afraid she might faint. Her thoughts trailed to Jonathan. He was all that mattered. No matter what happened out there in the wilderness with Sheridan, at least she would know she had tried.

A sudden shout made Laura turn. In the moonlit darkness, she could barely discern the shape of a man running up the street from the edge of town.

"They're attacking!" he screamed. "Sweet Jesus, they're coming this way, hundreds of them. In a flat-out run!"

A woman somewhere along the street wailed in terror. Within seconds several other female voices took up the lament. Men spilled from doorways, jerking on their boots and jackets, loading rifles as they ran. A child began to screech. Laura stared in befuddlement. Who was coming? She tried to see, but beyond the town there was only moonlight and shadow.

"Off the streets! Run to the shelters!" "Every available man, go to the armory!" "Son of a bitch, I don't got a gun!"

The frenzied voices pelted Laura from all sides. Gritting her teeth against the pain it caused, she twisted in the saddle to see better. A man in trousers and a long-sleeved white undershirt came running up to her. As he jerked up his suspenders, he yelled, "You deaf? Get to a shelter!"

Laura gaped at the women who seemed to have come from nowhere to cut frantic paths up the street. Most dragged children in their wake. One young mother carrying a baby tripped on the hem of her skirt and crashed to her knees. Her terrified sob caught at Laura's heart. Bathed by light from the windows, another woman sped along the boardwalk, struggling as she ran to shove a cork into the mouth of a small bottle. Her hands shook so violently, the white granules within spilled out and powdered the front of her bodice.

Suddenly Laura heard a distant thundering sound. Hooves. Hundreds of them, pounding the earth, the sound coming toward town.

"Run, honey!" a matronly woman called to her. "Run for your life."

Growing truly alarmed, Laura started to slide off the horse, only to be stopped by a hand on her knee. She looked around. Deke Sheridan stood beside her gelding. Even in the dim light, she could see the distant expression in his silvery eyes as he scanned the horizon. He cocked an ear to listen.

"Wh-Who's coming?" she asked.

"Cheyenne," he replied. "Or so the damned fools think."

At the word Cheyenne, Laura jerked. He tightened his grip on her leg. "Cheyenne? Oh, dear God. We must hide!"

"Most of the buildings here is wood. If it's Cheyenne comin' this way, they'll torch everything in their path."

Another woman ran by, waving a small bottle so her female friend might see it. "Did you bring yours? We'll need enough for the children!"

Laura saw Deke stiffen. Then, before she guessed his intent, he darted into the street and caught the woman by her arm. In a voice braided with urgency, he said, "Don't go givin' any of that to your kids, lady. You understand? Not until the last second."

The woman fell back. Her scream was weak but eloquent. If the devil himself had grabbed her, he couldn't have elicited a more horrified reaction. As though the touch of her were suddenly contaminating, Deke let go of her.

"It ain't the Cheyenne comin'," he called after her. "You hear me? Give that to your children, and you'll regret it."

Harkening to the terrified shouts resounding around her, Laura slid off the horse and broke into a run, her one thought to escape with the others. Sheridan snaked out an arm, caught her at the waist, and lifted her half off her feet. She spun into a steely embrace that crushed her to his broad chest. Though she struggled, she couldn't extricate herself from his hold.

"Trust me. It ain't Cheyenne comin'."

He drew her back toward the horse. Her feet didn't connect solidly with the ground until he deposited her where he wanted her, between him and the animal's front shoulder. Only then did he release her. Gaze fixed on the end of town, he swept off his hat and looped the bonnet string over the saddle horn. "There ain't a Cheyenne alive stupid enough to attack a town this size with that much warning."