"It's a cowpoke word for pushin' slow. If you round up some weak strays, you haze 'em back to the herd." He arched a dark eyebrow. "You and me don't even talk the same language half the time, do we, Boston?"

Laura chose to ignore that. "If the kidnappers will be traveling at a slower pace, I'd prefer to press our advantage."

He stroked his chin. "I can understand you bein' anxious, but trackin' takes a toll. I need to rest up before we start."

Laura could see that her present tack was getting her nowhere. "Mr. Sheridan, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it customary for the employer to decide when it's appropriate for an employee to rest?"

"Yep."

"Well, then? I really must insist that we leave immediately. I realize you must be weary. I'm feeling the strain myself. But surely you're not that exhausted."

He shrugged again.

"I am not going to lose six hours of daylight!"

Jabbing a thumb over his shoulder, he said, "I reckon you can go ahead without me."

"You know perfectly well I would become hopelessly lost."

"You're tellin' me? Honey, you couldn't find your ass with both hands if you had directions printed on both cheeks."

Laura stood there for a moment with her mouth hanging open. He was the most filthy-mouthed, outrageous, infuriating, disgusting, impossible individual on God's sweet earth. With great effort, she managed to ignore what he had said. "In view of the fact that I intend to pay you a great deal of money for your services," she reasoned, "it seems only right that I should decide when we stop."

"Nope."

"What do you mean, 'nope'?"

Ignoring her question, he sauntered across the yard to where he had laid his saddle. A quick glance told Laura that he had unsaddled her horse as well. While her attention was on her gelding, Sheridan stretched out on the dirt, tipped his hat down over his eyes, and pillowed his head on his riding gear. When Laura saw what he had done, she grew so furious, she could scarcely contain herself.

"Mr. Sheridan!"

He didn't so much as twitch.

"Don't you dare go to sleep!" She ate up the distance between them with shaky strides. "Look at me!"

No response.

"When I pay a man to do a job, the least he should do is acknowledge me when I address him!"

He shoved his hat back. "You keep bringin' up money. The way I recollect, you paid me what the little boy shot at."

"What the little boy" She broke off. "Can you clarify that, Mr. Sheridan?" At his blank expression, she added, "Clarify means explain, say more clearly, expound upon."

"Expound?" He looked disgusted. "Most little boys shoot at nothin', which is what you paid me, nothin'. That plain enough for you?"

Laura had never met anyone with such a knack for making her angry. So angry that she momentarily lost sight of how dangerous he might prove to be should she provoke him. "You are being deliberately obtuse. It's not as if you don't understand the principles of credit. I know you have an account at both the livery and general store. You charged over a hundred and seventy dollars last night."

"Don't remind me. Thinkin' about it gives me heartburn."

She chose to ignore that comment as well. "Our arrangement is no different. I am retaining your services on credit."

"No, you ain't. To get credit, you got to have income, and all you got is outgo. Come to think of it, you ain't even got that unless my outgo counts. I make it a standin' rule never to take an IOU from anybody who ain't a good risk. I get real ugly when I don't get paid."

"My father"

"Leave your daddy out of this."

"He happens to be a very important factor, my collateral, so to speak."

"He's a long shot is what he is."

"He's a very wealthy man."

"Boston, understand somethin'. You could promise me a million dollars, and it wouldn't count for shit." He gestured at the churned dirt in her dooryard. "If I go chasin' after twenty comancheros, I face a real good chance of gettin' gut-shot. It's a little hard to collect what somebody owes you when you're layin' tits up out in the middle of nowhere."

Never in all her life had Laura met anyone to equal this man. The sudden rush of anger had made her feel faint. Pressing her wrist to her forehead, she cried, "If that's truly how you feel, then why did you agree to take this job?"

"I thought we went over that last night," he said with a chuckle. "Tradin' pitch, remember? Now, there's somethin' I can collect on."

She dropped her arm to glare at him. "You are despicable."

"Despicable. Now, there's a word."

"Disgusting, is that plain enough for you?"

"If you think I'm so despicable, why'd you agree to take my services out in trade?"

"I was desperate! And only the worst kind of cad would take advantage of that."

"Then I reckon I'm awhat was that you said?"

"A cad."

"That's me. A cad. Right now, a real tired cad, and I'm gonna take a nap."

"After which, I suppose you intend to ravish me. God forbid that you should risk getting gut-shot before getting your miserable due."

He tipped his hat back down over his eyes. "Boston, you could wear a man out with that tongue of yours. As for me..." He lifted the Stetson again and grinned. "Ravish? You got a fancy word for every damned thing, don't you?"

Laura's hand itched to slap him. "Well? Is that or is that not your intention?"

The hat dropped back down over his face. "It'd take a mean-hearted man to ravish a woman whose south end is in as sorry shape as yours is. You walk like you're still sittin' on a horse." He repositioned his shoulders against the saddle to get more comfortable. "Why don't you just lay down and take a little nap? If you're still bent on me ravishin' you later, I'll see if I can muster it up. I ain't a man who likes to disappoint a lady."

For a moment, Laura was struck absolutely speechless by his audacity. "Me? Me, bent on it? Of all the arrogant, concei"

"A real charmer, ain't I?" He gave a low chuckle. "Just lay down, Boston. We got a lot of miles to cover."

At a loss for anything else to say, Laura whirled and walked toward a tree a safe distance awayif any distance from a man of his caliber could be considered safe. "I shan't be able to sleep a wink! Not a blessed wink. I hope you enjoy your rest while I sit here staring at you!" Gingerly she lowered herself to the ground and braced her back against the cottonwood trunk. "And for your information, the proper grammatical usage is lie, not lay. I lay my bedding upon the ground, and then I lie on it."

"Do it however the hell you want. Just take a goddamned nap."

Deke heard nothing more out of his new boss. He could usually sense when someone was staring at him, and he didn't have that feeling. After a few minutes, he inched the brim of his hat up. She was still sitting with her back braced against the tree trunk, but her head had lolled to one side, and judging by the way her spine was curling, it wouldn't be long before she toppled. Out like a snuffed candle.

Grabbing his bedroll, he pushed silently to his feet and walked toward her. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of cottonwood leaves and dappled her pale face with flickering shadows. Her eyelids were stained blue with exhaustion. Deke shook out his bedroll, then bent to move her. She murmured in her sleep as he lifted her onto the pallet. He drew his wool blanket over her, surprised when she murmured again and turned her cheek against the back of his knuckles.

He jerked his hand away. Damn her to hell. He wasn't about to let her get under his skin. Only a fool got himself tangled up in barbed wire twice. And he wasn't playing the fool again, not for her or anyone else.

Chapter 7.

*Laura awoke to pain, not in any specific place, just an all-over ache that started in the top of her head and radiated to her toes. Startled by the realization that she had not only slept, but that Deke Sheridan had covered her with a blanket, she jerked to a sitting position, terrified he might have left her. When she saw his horse grazing nearby, she went limp with relief.

She regretted sitting up so suddenly. The tenderness across her lower back had become excruciating. When she turned her head, a complementary pain exploded behind her eyes. She squinted to block out the glaring sunlight. Her skin felt hot and dry, yet she wanted to shiver. Sick, she was horribly sick.

No! her heart protested. I can't be ill. Jonathan needs me! Mustering all her determination, she pushed to her feet and battled away a nauseating dizziness. Deke Sheridan was hunkered near the horses repacking his saddlebags. She noticed that his hair looked slightly damp, as if he might have bathed, that his jaw no longer sported whiskers, and that he wore what appeared to be a fresh shirt, another blue chambray with ragged armholes.

With his every movement, the braided muscle in his upper arms bunched and rippled under his glistening bronze skin. For a moment, Laura stood there and stared at him. Had she truly laced him up one side and down the other, or had she dreamed it? She had to curb her tongue with him. If she didn't, he might use one of those massive fists to shut her up. No Tristan he, with fine-boned hands and more temper than strength. If Deke Sheridan decided to physically retaliate, she would find herself in big trouble.

She bent to roll up his bedding; then found it nearly impossible to straighten. She wondered if perhaps she had strained some muscles in her back yesterday while digging on the well. The long winter and her pregnancy had made her unaccustomed to such heavy outdoor work.

Yes, she assured herself, that was it. As for feeling hot and shivery, she'd been lying in the sun and covered with a wool blanket. She probably had become too warm, and now she was exposed to the cool breeze blowing down off the mountains. She wasn't ill. She couldn't allow herself to be. That was all there was to it.

She turned and walked toward Deke Sheridan on unsteady legs. At her approach, he glanced over his shoulder, his startling, washed-out blue eyes intent on her face. That look made Laura miss a step, and she sincerely wished she could throw the bedding to him rather than move closer.

Hopefully he had meant what he said about his lack of interest because of her condition. Not that she would bet her last three cents on it. From the stories she had heard, Cheyenne braves enjoyed inflicting pain on the white women they raped, the more viciously the better, and after they finished, they played torturous games with knives until their victims expired. Sickened at the thought, Laura drew up her shoulders. Deke Sheridan had no intention of raping her. If that was his plan, what was stopping him? Nothing, unless he meant to wait until they were well away from here.

"Looks like that little bit of sleep put some color back in your cheeks."

Gathering her courage, she handed him the bedroll. "I'm ready to ride."

As he pushed to his feet, he gave her an assessing look. Laura gazed back, acutely aware of how he towered over her. Trading pitch? Just the thought made her heart skitter. Yet even now, in the light of day, she could think of no alternatives to the decisions she had reached last night. Jonathan was all that counted.

"Is your back painin' you?" he asked.

Dismayed that she had been so obvious, Laura drew her hand from her tailbone. "It's bothering me a little. I pulled some muscles yesterday while digging on the well. It's nothing I can't work out by moving around a bit."

He continued to study her. "You sure that's it? You ain't feelin' poorly, are you?"

"No. What gave you that idea?"

A speculative gleam came into his eyes. Laura straightened her shoulders, afraid that he might guess how awful she actually felt. He wouldn't allow her to accompany him if he thought she might be sick, and if she couldn't go along, there would be little point in his going. Jonathan might be able to get by on nothing but gruel and broth until he reached an Indian camp or was rescued, but he couldn't survive a return journey on the same inadequate diet.

Ignoring the pain that knifed behind her eyes when she looked at the sun, Laura managed a bright smile. "We couldn't ask for more perfect weather. Not a cloud in the sky!"

He followed her gaze. "Enjoy it. Once we reach them mountains, it'll rain buckets at least once a day."

Praying her trembling legs wouldn't betray her, she strode toward her gelding to get him saddled up. As she reached for the bridle, Deke Sheridan's large hand closed over her wrist. Startled by his nearness, she jerked around. To her eyes, he seemed a yard wide across the shoulders. She couldn't help but recall the strength of his arms when he had caught her around the waist last night.

"I'll take care of the horses," he said firmly.

"I want to do my share."

"And I'll decide what that is."

"I'll just tend to the pack animals then."

"No, you won't. You just gave birth. A woman shouldn't be liftin' so soon after. Like I said earlier, we got a lot of miles to cover, and you ain't gonna make it unless you take it easy."

Laura thought of all the times Tristan had thrown Indian women up to her, touting their strength and endurance. "I'm surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Sheridan. I've been told that squaws give birth on the march."

A hooded look came into his eyes as he prized the bridle from her fingers. He said nothing to refute the statement, but his closed expression hinted that he found it absurd. For just an instant, Laura felt vindicated. Contrary to Tristan's opinion, perhaps she wasn't such a weakling after all.

Deke Sheridan's next words relieved her of that notion. "Honey, no offense meant, but with you bein' city bred, you wouldn't measure up to a Cheyenne woman if you stood on a stump in thick soled boots. What they can do and what you can do is two different things."

A lot of miles. Those words became a litany in Laura's feverish mind during the endless hours on horseback that followed. Keeping her gaze fixed on Deke Sheridan's broad back, she reminded herself constantly how fortunate she was. Because Jonathan's continued good health meant a profit for the comancheros, they would take great pains to keep him well. In the shadow of that, her own discomfort and the risks she was taking seemed unimportant.

For most of the afternoon, except for brief rest periods, Sheridan pressed their horses and pack animals relentlessly to climb ever higher into the foothills through a discontinuous band of dense thickets: skunkbrush and serviceberry, bitter brush and wild rose, oak and mountain mahogany. Rufous-sided towhees sang from the shrubs where they were nesting, harmonizing beautifully with the melodious trills of indigo buntings and Virginia warblers. Striking a discordant note, noisy bands of shrub jays squawked with displeasure when the horses got too close.

In her memory, Laura had never seen such an abundance of small animals. Chipmunks and golden-mantled squirrels poked up their heads from ground holes. Startled by the loud ringing of hooves striking rock, rabbits bounded everywhere in frantic, zigzag paths. Deer mice, dwarf shrews, and yellow-bellied marmots scurried for cover in the thickets.

To her surprise, Deke Sheridan's dog ignored the darting mammals and plodded ceaselessly along in his master's wake, the bloody deer leg ever present in his mouth. To keep her mind off her worries, which increased with every passing mile, Laura spent a great deal of time watching the dog and making silent wagers. When he stopped to scratch, surely he would lay the deer leg down. He didn't, and she owed herself a dime. When they stopped for a quick meal of jerky and water, she bet herself that the dog would abandon the deer leg while he ate. Instead, he placed it safely between his front paws while he devoured the pieces of jerky his master gave him.

"That animal is abnormal," she finally commented. "He's been carrying that deer leg all the way from Denver. Surely his jaws are tired by now."

"Years back, he was chained to a tree and starved near to death. He ain't never forgot it. He always packs himself a bone of some kind. I reckon it makes him feel safe."

"The poor thing. Perhaps one of us should carry it for him."

"Yeah? I'll let you be the one to take it away from him. I tried once, and he damned near bit off my arm."

As she absorbed that information, Laura observed the trotting dog. Chained to a tree? That suggested someone had deliberately starved the poor thing. Little wonder Chief had snarled so viciously at her last night. She was a stranger, an unknown element in a world where he had once known cruelty. Laura was wary of strangers herself, and though she didn't snarl, she supposed she did her fair share of bristling to ward off men.

Much to her dismay, she saw a mountain lion in the distance once. The sighting alarmed her and she couldn't help but wish she were armed with something more than a paring knife. Her tracker was a human arsenal on horseback, a gun belt around his hips, a huge knife and scabbard on the red sash at his waist; and as if those weapons weren't enough, a rifle and small axe rode securely in leather boots at the back of his saddle.

He seemed constantly at the ready to use those weapons, aware in an almost uncanny way of every movement around them and reacting to it before Laura even sensed the motion. More than once, she saw him reach for his gun, then draw back his hand at the last moment. With a building sense of dread, she realized he was worried that they might be ambushed, by comancheros or Indians, she wasn't sure which.