"I am."

"Is there a problem here?" Skinner's voice broke into the tension of the group. Before anyone could answer, Logan grabbed him by a fistful of shirt and dragged him away from Sarah. "Get back on your horse and keep your d.a.m.ned eyes to yourself." He shoved him toward his horse.

Skinner shrugged the wrinkles out of his shirt. "I was talking to the lady."

"And I answered for her." Logan stepped close to Skinner, almost nose to nose. "If I so much as hear you looked at Mrs. Hawkins on the way down to Cheyenne, I will hunt you down, cut out your bowels, and feed them to the wolves. h.e.l.l, I might just do that anyway for the sheer pleasure of it."

"You hearin' this, Colonel?" Skinner asked without taking his eyes from Logan. "You're a witness."

The colonel ground his teeth. "Lieutenant!"

The lieutenant dismounted and hurried over. "Yes, sir!"

"Escort Mr. Landry back to the formation, and then return for Mrs. Hawkins."

Logan kept Skinner in his sights until he'd rejoined the line of men. He drew a long breath, then slowly released it. He looked at Sarah's pony, which was saddled with a cavalry saddle, her bedroll tied to the back. "What are you going to eat on the long march to Cheyenne? Are the colonel's men carrying your provisions?"

"Mrs. Miller packed some items for me."

Logan cursed under his breath. "Mrs. Miller, would you please fill this canteen for her?" he asked as he handed over one of the new canteens from his pile of goods. He untied her bedroll, then opened it near the supplies he'd purchased. He set pouches of ground coffee, sugar, flour, oats, dried stew contents, and jerky at intervals on the blanket, then rolled the whole collection up. He tied that behind her saddle, then tied her coat and one of the slickers he'd just purchased over the lot.

Sarah twisted her hands. "Mr. Taggert, I can't accept these things. I cannot pay for them."

"I didn't ask you to." He leaned toward her, lowering his voice so that their conversation would not carry. "Why are you really doing this? Why now?"

"I have to."

"Where will you go in Cheyenne? How will I find you?"

She lowered her gaze. "There's a teaching position open."

"You're lying."

She looked up at him, her dark eyes liquid with tears. "Please, please, don't come after me."

Logan cupped her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "I will come after you, and I will find you," he growled before pressing a kiss to her forehead. He didn't care that everybody saw him do that. He didn't care that she stiffened at the contact. d.a.m.n it. She was his. Two weeks. He'd known her barely two weeks and already she'd turned him inside out. He pulled some coins from his pocket and pressed them into her hand.

"No. Mr. Taggert, you've done too much."

He turned from her. "Lieutenant, see that she arrives safely in Cheyenne. It may be that I can conclude my business here quickly. If so, I'll be able to catch up to you. If not, check her into the Inter-Ocean Hotel." He removed some money from his wallet and handed it to the soldier. Sarah had turned red at his proprietary air, from anger or embarra.s.sment, he didn't know. Or care. "She's to wait for me there."

"Yes, sir."

Logan helped Sarah to mount. He held onto the pommel for a moment, glaring up at her. "Take your bonnet off."

"Why?"

"Because you're gonna wear this." He took his hat off. "It ain't pretty, but it'll keep your neck drya"spring rains are running late this year." He tied her bonnet to her gear. His hat was too big on her, but the straps would hold it in place. He reached up and drew the two cords tight under her chin.

"I'll see you in a week."

"Good-bye, Mr. Taggert."

"A week, Sarah."

He watched the unit depart, the column of dark blue uniforms softened by the cloud of dust stirred up by their horses. The colonel cleared his throat, drawing Logan's attention back to the middle-aged couple standing behind him. Colonel Miller clasped his hands together behind his back. Rocking forward on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, he lifted his eyebrows and gave Logan a piercing glare.

"I hope you're going to marry that poor woman, Logan dear, after that display," Mrs. Miller declared.

Logan frowned. "That display was for the benefit of the men. If they know I'll gut thema"beggin' your pardon, ma'ama"for mistreating her, they're likely to think twice before crossing that line." It was the only protection he could offer Sarah.

"My men are not dishonorable curs," the colonel sputtered, affronted.

"They aren't, sir. But Skinner and his crew are."

"I know you're awaiting the arrival of White Bull's people. Why don't you stay with us?" Mrs. Miller offered. "I promised my sister a pair of those beautiful moccasins you'll receive in the trade. I thought perhaps we could discuss a fair price. Bring your things inside and get settled. Who knows how long it will take White Bull to arrive, but I hope you'll be our guest. Come inside, Colonel. I'll make you both some coffee."

The colonel grumbled about the work awaiting him at the office and took off. Mrs. Miller went inside. The warm sun beat down on Logan's shoulders as a cool breeze swept around him. He stood in the scattered debris of his morning purchases. In the far distance, he could still see the cloud of dust marking the path the column of travelers took. Riding alone, he could catch up to them before they reached Cheyenne if he left within two days. He hoped White Bull would arrive sooner rather than later.

Three days after Sarah left, Logan sat in the tepee of White Bull, smoking a pipe. Logan had spent the day visiting with White Bull's children, speaking with the elders of the band, catching up with the chief himself. Logan wished Sarah were with him, wished she could see this side of the Sioux. White Bull's wives had served Logan a delicious meal of meatb.a.l.l.s and flat bread. At last it was time for the bartering. The women had arranged their beaded products on a blanket outside the tepee, where the soft evening light made the intricate works of art even more striking. They offered a stunning array of moccasins, pouches, shirts, dresses, belts, hair pieces, necklaces, and earrings beaded in intricate designs using the band's signature colors, white, yellow, and orange.

Logan took his time examining each piece. White Bull's people stood at a distance, stoically observing the trade, their excitement evident only in their rigid posture. White Bull's head wife stood across the blanket, staying nearby in case Logan had questions about their products. Her eyes were sharp and danced over each piece he touched. He could feel the energy in the artwork, threaded into the suede with each tiny st.i.tch. It was almost as if he could hear the stories the women had shared as they worked through the long winter months, feel their joy in the art they made and the benefit their trade with him would bring their band.

Once, long ago, he'd visited White Bull's tepee during just such a working night. The village had been quiet, the children all sleeping soundly. The men had gathered in one tepee, the women in another. And while there was much laughing and storytelling as the men shared a pipe, they sometimes would grow silent and listen to the stories the women shared. Their quiet voices carried in the cold, windless night, bringing to the men the myths that were the foundation of women's lives in the tribe.

It was the echoes of those stories embedded in the beaded pieces as much as the works themselves that Logan sought out. Over the years, he'd learned which bands produced the highest quality art, learned which infused their work with the energy that was addictive to him. Each band he traded with for beadwork made the same basic array of products, but each produced a different feel, a different arrangement of the miniature trade beads, used colors in different ways. The larger works were actually depictions of their warriors' exploits, of new sons born to the tribe, of funny exploits of village contraries, all told in geometric symbolsa"a code few white men knew.

Logan took his time examining each piece. When he sensed White Bull and his head wife were satisfied that he had given the work the appreciation it was due, he settled down to barter.

The pieces were highly popular at several of his trading posts, especially the ones on the edges of civilization visited by whites who didn't dare venture into the deep western reaches of Indian country. He paid generous prices for the goods, knowing it was the best way to ensure he'd con-knowing it was the best way to ensure he'd continue to get quality work.

He'd liquidated his entire inheritance for the seed money to start up a series of trading posts. He helped the women artists help their people. It wasn't much. It wasn't enough even. But it was the difference he could make. And as the various bands of Sioux, Cheyenne, and Arapaho families settled on reservations, it became ever more critical that they be able to supplement their income. He met with them each spring to purchase the products they'd spent the winter creating. And he met with them each autumn to sell them the beads, threads, and needles they needed for the work.

Finally, when the trade was completed and the last pipe smoked, Logan packed up his new possessions and returned to the Millers' home. He let Mrs. Miller select the moccasins she liked for her sister and a few other things for herself; then he crated the remaining items and addressed them for delivery to his main trading post on the Missouri River.

There remained, now, nothing keeping him from catching up to Mrs. Hawkins. He'd never known anyone who'd affected his life as much as she had in as short a time. She was in trouble, he had no doubt of that. Life had dealt her a bad hand, several times in a row, and yet she still sat at the table and played the game.

That was courage.

And it was what drove him to find her. He ached to share his future with someone who could feel life as intensely as he could. She'd had no time to heal and mourn before this mad dash off to Cheyenne. He couldn't fix what was broken in her, but he could stand beside her, shelter her, protect her while she put the pieces of her soul back together. If he was lucky, she would step out of her past and see him.

He grinned, feeling foolish and possessive and happy. He'd kept a few pieces from his trade with White Bull as gifts for Sarah and couldn't wait to give them to her.

He took his leave from the Millers and started for Cheyenne. It was a new direction in his life and it felt good.

Sarah stepped through the arches at the entrance to the Inter-Ocean Hotel and out onto the busy sidewalk. The morning was bright and hot as she made her way toward the sheriff'sa"she was glad for the shade Mr. Taggert's hat provided. She tightened her grip on the papers she held as she sent a surrept.i.tious look around the area, trying to see whether anything seemed odd, whether someone looked out of place, whether she was being watched.

Nothing caught her eye. Her stomach tightened as she approached the sheriff's office. What she was doing now was the conclusion of a yearlong nightmare. She looked forward to handing the stolen deeds over to the law and letting the sheriff unravel her husband's innocence or guilt. Then she would be done with it. Free to start a new life. Somewhere. Somehow.

It wasn't yet 9:00 a.m.a"his office hadn't opened for the day. She walked over to a bulletin board of news alerts and wanted posters, absently reading the messages there to pa.s.s the time. Smack dab in the middle was a poster with her face and name on it, claiming she was wanted for forgery. It offered a thousand-dollar reward if she were returned to the authorities in Yankton, Dakota Territory.

Sarah's blood turned to ice. They'd gotten to the sheriff. There was no refuge to be had through him. In fact, whoever was after her knew she was here, in Cheyenne. She had to go, had to leave today. But where? The thought of leaving the safety of the town and riding off, unprotected, into the prairie filled her with terror.

She considered and quickly discarded the idea of hiding in her hotel room and waiting for Mr. Taggert. If her husband's enemies hadn't found her yet, it wouldn't take them long to ask the various hotel clerks if she were staying with them. Besides, it was too dangerous a situation for her to involve Mr. Taggert. She had to disappear.

Intending to hurry back to the hotel and make a plana"just get off the street before someone recognized hera"she pivoted and slammed into the hard chest of a man. The three oilskin pouches she carried shot out of her hands. She gasped and swooped down to collect them even as he knelt beside her. She quickly retrieved two of them.

"Beg pardon, ma'am," he said, handing her the third. She lifted her gaze and caught sight of his sheriff's badge, then looked no further.

"Thank you," she said with a nod, hoping Mr. Taggert's hat obscured her face. She stepped around him and continued down the sidewalk, forcing herself to move in an unhurried stroll.

In her hotel room, she paced back and forth, trying to come up with a plan. She couldn't take a stage out of town because she had to bring her horse wherever she was going; she would need him at the other end of her trip and he couldn't keep up with the pace a stagecoach set with its constantly refreshed horse teams. Nor could she leave town by herself.

Then one name popped into her head: Jace Gage. She remembered what the captain had told her about the gunfighter who lived in Defiance. If she could learn how to use her gun, at least she'd have a fighting chance of defending herself ifa"or whena"her pursuers actually caught up with her. Maybe, after she'd lain low in Defiance, her trail would be harder to follow. But how to get there?

She took another turn around the room. There had to be freight wagons that took supplies up to Defiance. It was just a matter of finding which wholesaler supplied the town. Maybe she could ride along with one of those teams on its next run. If it wasn't leaving immediately, then she could take lodging under a false name, stay hidden in her room.

She looked at her satchel. She couldn't run around town lugging her baga"it would bring even more attention to her. Nor could she risk letting the papers out of her sight. She needed pockets to store the papers and her money. With what she'd reserved from the Fort Buford wives' donation, what Mr. Taggert had given her, and the extra cash the lieutenant had not used to pay for her room, she had almost twenty dollars. It was enough to get her through her stay here in Cheyenne and the trip to Defiance, as well as to hire Mr. Gage for a few hours of instruction and to rent a room while she was up there.

With a plan firmly in mind, she took out her sewing kit and set to work modifying her undergarments.

Chapter 7.

Logan took the room key the clerk handed him. "Thanks. And what room is Mrs. Hawkins staying in?"

"Mrs. Hawkins?" the clerk repeated, giving Logan a disdainful lift of his eyebrow. "Are you the gentleman who guaranteed her room?" The tone in his question made Logan's hackles rise.

"I am."

"Please wait at the end of the counter, sir. I will need to have you talk to the manager." He disappeared into a room behind the counter, emerging just moments later. "This way, sir."

Logan followed the clerk into the back office and sat in a chair the clerk indicated. After a brief introduction, the hotel manager presented Logan with a bill for damages.

"What is this? Why am I being charged for a new mattress, bed linens, lamps, and such?"

"The woman who stayed in that room, a Mrs. Hawkins, left it in tatters."

Logan frowned. "I'm not followinga""

The manager, a thin, smallish man with spectacles on his nose, gave Logan a pained expression. "She sliced through the mattress, the sheets, the blanket. Lamps were knocked over, dressers were turned over, the washbowl was destroyed. We did not rent her the room in that shape, sir. And we cannot use it again until the debris has been cleared away."

Logan held the man in a cold stare. "What makes you think Mrs. Hawkins did this?"

"The room was checked out to her. Who else would have done it?"

"I sent her here because I thought she would be safe. I thought you had sufficient protocols in place to protect a woman traveling alone. She was attacked in your hotel and you're worried about replacing linens? Where is she? Did you kick her out?"

"I-I don't know. The maid service discovered the mess this morning. I don't know where she went."

Logan stood up and leaned his weight on two hands as he glowered down at the hotel manager. "Did you notify the sheriff ?"

"No. We prefer to keep dealings such as these to ourselves. We don't need the City Council thinking we harbor hooligans at our establishment. The fewer reports of mayhem and trouble on these premises, the better."

"So, a woman, traveling alone, is attacked in your hotel and not only do you not offer her aid, but you don't contact the sheriff. What the h.e.l.l kind of establishment are you running?"

"We don't know she was attacked, sir. There is no evidence to support that theory."

"Have you cleaned her room yet?"

"No."

"Take me there now."

"What about the bill?" The look Logan gave him was enough to make him change his mind. In fact, he couldn't get Logan out of his office fast enough. He rang for his clerk even as he stumbled through an apology. "Never mind, Mr. Taggert. It will be our pleasure to take care of this matter without troubling you further."

The room Sarah had stayed in was in a shambles. Furniture was flung about the s.p.a.ce, drawers pulled free and tossed away from the dresser and nightstand. Lamps lay broken on their sides. A maid was trying to mop up the spilled oil before the damage could spread to the room below. Bed linens lay in heaps about the room. And beneath it all was what was left of Sarah's satchel, ripped apart, her meager possessions tossed everywhere.

"Get out," Logan ordered the maid and the porter.

He had to be in the room alone, had to put the pieces back together to figure out what had happened. The one thing that kept him from panicking was that there was no blood. Whoever had done this had either not found Sarah or had taken her alive. But if she'd been captured, she hadn't gone willingly. If she had been here when they'd come, she hadn't helped them in their search or there would have been no need to tear the room apart. And if she hadn't been here, then she was on the run.

He stared at the disarray in the room. What were the vandals looking for? Had they found it? Bella had said Sarah's room had been ransacked at the fort. Someone was hunting her. She was out there, alone and in danger. Why the h.e.l.l couldn't she have trusted him, told him what was going on? Christ, he'd saved her lifea"and her dignitya"several times over the last few weeks. He'd proven himself to her, hadn't he?

Logan began gathering up her things. Some of her clothes were shredded, some weren't. He made a pile of the items that could be salvaged. Underclothes. Stockings. A blouse. He held the pieces to his nose and breathed in her scent, sweet like fresh air and sunshine. Like flowers after a rain shower. That was Sarah. She couldn't smell like that and be a criminal, could she?

He thought of the merry dance his own mother had led his stepfather on, looking beautiful in the fancy clothes she ordered from a modiste on the biannual trips she insisted upon taking to Denver. Her hair was always artfully arranged, her nails polished and long. She presided like a grande dame over a family of men who had no interest in society, who only cared about cattle and range wars. She'd had many affairs, and even that had failed to make his stepfather take notice of her. Logan had watched his mother's machinations throughout the years of his childhood, vowing he would never fall for such tricks as an adulta"neither hers nor those of his stepfather.

Yet here he was, crazy about a woman who, at best, had been so mistreated in life that she couldn't bring herself to trust him, and at worst, was neck deep in unlawful activities that had clearly turned against her.

He shoved a hand through his hair, taking a fresh look around the room. What was missing? Perhaps that, more than anything else, would tell him what he needed to know to make his next steps. He looked at the pile of her things. Her coat, her gun belt, and her bedrolla"that was all that was not here.

He gathered the things that were not destroyed and stuffed them into a pillowcase, then left. Maybe the sheriff would know if something had happened in town yesterday. Logan walked into the sheriff's office. A man with a badge looked up.

"Can I help you, mister?"

"I'm looking for a woman who checked into the Inter-Ocean a few days ago. She went missing yesterday. The room she was staying in had been ransacked. I was wondering if there had been any trouble in town in the past few days? Any odd men come through?"

"Sir, this is Cheyenne. We have trouble every day. What's the name of the woman you're looking for?"

"Sarah Hawkins."

"The forger?" He walked outside and pointed to a wanted poster pinned to the bulletin board. "This the woman?"