"There has to be another way."

"Another little Jezebel bargain?" he bit out, wrenching away and starting for the door. "Not on your life, witch. I have a duty to perform, and God knows I've let you interfere with it long enough. I'm going to bring Black Daniels in, if it kills me." The cold intensity of his look as he turned back was shattering. "Now there's a thought to warm the cockles of your icy little heart- perhaps I'll die in the fight tonight and leave you a rich widow!"

The door slammed and her eyes squeezed shut. She grappled with it, fighting the suffocating waves of pain crashing over her. Garner was going after her pa. The man to whom she had given herself now hunted the man who had given her life and love and being. She staggered to the bed and sank weakly on it, staring through blurred, unseeing eyes.

They were both strong men, tenacious, principled, and proud. Everything about them clashed; their backgrounds, occupations, politics, their sense of duty. Their iron-clad convictions had finally drawn them into open battle, and they met on the vulnerable ground of Whitney's heart.

She collapsed on the bed, burying her face in the pillow to muffle her sobs. Her bare shoulders quaked as she surrendered to the overwhelming pain of a heart being torn in half. Her father had been her world... her guide, her friend, her teacher, and the first love of her girlish heart. And Garner Townsend had ridden into Rapture on his big, fancy horse, with his arrogant jaw set and his gold buttons gleaming, and had ridden straight into her heart as well. She had come to care for the arrogant, impervious yankee in ways she hadn't imagined existed. He made her burn with both anger and pleasure and challenged her wit and her spirit. He led her into new womanly feelings of desire and tenderness and made her react in new womanly ways... made her want new, womanly things.

She slowly calmed, and as her swirling emotions settled, she wiped her face on the rough pillow and took a deep, shuddering breath. The problem was, she wanted them both. Probably typical of a Delilah, she sighed miserably, not being satisfied with one man. She sniffed and staunched yet another wave of tears. Garner knew she'd schemed and planned his first disgrace and now was convinced she'd used and betrayed him again. How could he think that after what they'd shared... in this very bed? Lord-he must think her a base and heartless creature-conniving and beguiling and betraying- No Daniels would ever- Her very breath stopped. No Daniels ever sat by and watched something he loved destroyed, without putting up a fight. What was she doing lying here, crying buckets and feeling sorry for herself?!

She scrambled to her feet and dragged her jumbled hair back out of her face. She had to get out there, had to see they didn't kill each other! She stumbled on the blanket and looked frantically down at her bare legs. Clothes- she had to have clothes!

A heavy mist shrouded the low south-valley in brooding expectation. All sound was muffled by the moisture-laden air and the thick blanket of wet leaves that covered the ground. The wet trunks of bare trees stood like stark sentries along the banks of the creek, but they sounded no warning of the impending clash of federal and local forces. The peace of the forest stretched on, unconcerned with the affairs of men.

Garner deployed his men strategically along the creek, focusing them on the pale sandstone cliffs above that glowed eerily in the moonlight of predawn. They'd arrived in time to see, by the light of the locals' own torches, the last of the barrels being loaded onto the backs of mules and horses. He quickly scouted the area, decided on his strategy, and now watched from a rocky outcropping on the far side of the stream... an outcropping the rebels would soon have to pass beneath on their way out of the canyonlike basin.

He counted the men through his field glass. There were nine, and he recognized every one of them. Black Daniels and Charlie Dunbar were prominent among them, and there was that Delaney fellow and the one they called "Uncle Sam" Durant, both of whom had appeared in the valley about the time of Daniels's return from Pittsburgh. Mike Delbarton and his brother, Cully. Uncle Radnor, old Uncle Julius, and even older Uncle Ballard... God. He couldn't even say their names without putting "uncle" before them! And look at it- they must have rounded up every four-legged creature in the whole damned valley to carry the stuff!

His face burned in the darkness as his eyes sought Black Daniels's striking features... that were so much like hers. And the cold, relentless prickle of betrayal ran across his shoulders once again. His belly tightened with the expectation of violence, and his mouth set firmly. Perhaps he shouldn't have given the order to fire only as a last resort. Unbidden, Whitney's luminous eyes rose in his mind, pleading still. And he shuddered angrily, wiping them from his thoughts.

The water was shallow enough for easy crossing a short distance upstream, and Garner watched Black Daniels lead two horses with two more tied behind, across it. His shoulders hunched as the others fell into line behind, filing across the creek, headed straight into his hands. The thudding of his heart was counterpoint to the muffled tread of hooves, both marking the labored passage of time. And on they came, kegs jostling and swaying at the animals' sides.

Garner waited until they'd all made it across and were directly below the ledge where he hid, making for the nearby trees. He leaned back to get Brooks's attention and found him already watching for the signal. His mouth was dry, his gut was twisting as he raised his hand and saw Brooks rise to a crouch, raising his hand in response. Garner looked at the men below, men whose faces he knew, and he gritted his teeth and gave the signal.

Shouts rang out and dark-coated figures hurtled down the rocky slope and charged from the nearby trees, scattering the column of men and animals in confusion. Black's party had no chance to reach for their guns, and in the mayhem that followed they dodged and then clamored to swing with hastily grabbed branches and bare fists at the soldiers bearing down on them.

Garner was in the first wave down the slope, launching straight for Black Daniels himself. Black recognized him by the glowing braid on his shoulders, and bashed free of another soldier to meet him, swinging and snarling. They locked fists and grappled and thrashed, pushing for advantage-each half-blinded by the personal rage in his own eyes. Black broke free only to charge again,slamming into Garner's middle, sending him stumbling back into the horses and cracking his head on a wooden barrel. He scrambled, managing to keep his feet under him, shaking his head to clear it. A split-second later, he lunged at Black's wide chest and they crashed into the underbrush together, grappling and pounding, fists connecting.

Around them, knives flashed in the dim light, and the snarls and grunts and shouts grew frenzied as the fight intensified. Then one by one, the heaving knots of violence stilled, as Rapture's distillers went down before the overwhelming federal force. The old uncles first, then Delaney and Cully Delbarton and Mike and Uncle Sam and Uncle Radnor... And soon Rapture's men were either insensible on the ground or being restrained by Garner's men... all, that is, except Black Daniels and Charlie Dunbar.

Garner's superior size and hardship-honed endurance finally placed him above Black Daniels's thrashing form with just the right angle and just the right force to land a stunning blow to his jaw. Garner felt him go slack, and dragged himself to his knees, panting, dimly aware of Brooks standing by, then offering him assistance up.

The light was growing, the day approaching. And as Garner Townsend raised to his feet in the growing silence, Rapture's distillers lay at his feet, just as he had vowed they would.

He surveyed the damage and found a few of his men sustaining slash wounds- nothing serious, he was relieved to learn. They held the younger uncles and the bucks in vise-tight grips, awaiting orders. The major came forward to take command, his vision clearing, his face set like ruddy granite. He pointed back to Black Daniels's moaning, rousing form.

"Get him on his feet and bind him good and tight." Then he turned to locate Charlie Dunbar and found four-four!-of his men having a devil of a time holding the powerful buck. "And him, get him in ropes as well. Laxault!"

"Yessir, Majur," the gravel-voiced sergeant said as he stalked forward.

"Cut those barrels free and take the axes to them." He stopped at the sight of a dull-red gleam on the crusty sergeant's hand and arm. "How bad is it?"

"Not so bad I can't swing me an axe," Laxault drawled with a fierce grin. "Come on, you shank's mare dragoons," he waved his good arm, "let's get to it!"

"The hell you will-" Charlie Dunbar said lunging violently against his captors, surprising them and gaining enough freedom to swing and bash his way clear. Bluecoats rushed him, but he was already in motion, barreling straight for the Iron Major. He smacked into Garner's chest, shoving him backward into a tree trunk before Garner could counter his momentum, and it was a long seething grapple before the soldiers managed to pull him from their commander.

"Damn you, Townsend!" Charlie said thrashing and jerking convulsively, spitting and red-eyed with rage. "It's all we got! You got no right to it-you an' yer fancy-arsed fed'rals!" He jerked to a heaving halt, and his burning eyes met Garner's in undimmed challenge. "Ye already took more'n ye had a right to!" Every man in the clearing knew exactly what "more" Charlie meant. "Fight me like a man for her, dammit!"

Anger, pure and unalloyed, erupted in Garner's middle as he stalked forward, his shoulders braced and his fists clenching. "Let him go."

"B-but, Majur-" Lieutenant Brooks protested, only to be overridden by Laxault's glower. These two had a score to settle, that look said, and a moment later, Charlie Dunbar was freed.

Charlie lost no time making good his threat. He lunged for Garner's throat and met a stone wall of resistance that jarred every bone in his body. He strained to get his fingers near that corded neck, but the Iron Major proved his name and yielded not an inch.

They grappled and staggered, locked in mortal combat until the major's boot snagged Charlie's leg and a herculean shove sent him sprawling backward on the ground. "Get up, dammit!" Garner snarled, crouching with fists raised and eyes white-hot with anger. Charlie rolled and sprang to his feet, lunging with fists aimed for Garner's fury-bronzed face.

That blow was deflected, as was Garner's counter-punch, but the next connected viciously with his belly and the next with his jaw. Bright rockets of pain exploded in Garner's skull, showering burning sparks through his neck and shoulders, and somehow the pain shocked him onto a higher level of intensity.

He came at Charlie like a wounded bear, roaring, thundering. Time and again his fists connected-bone and sinew crunched, flesh smacking flesh. And when Dunbar's fists plowed into his own head and body, he scarcely felt them. Something primal claimed him as he fought for undisputed possession of his victory... and for possession of the mate he had already claimed.

Whitney burst through the trees that lined the stream, frantically following the din of fighting. Her legs were like mush, her lungs burned, and her ankle shrieked pain from a fall she'd taken half a mile back. She ran blindly toward the cliffs and the hidden cave where her pa stored their whiskey, and stumbled to a halt as she realized the noise was coming from across the creek at the edge of the tall trees. She staggered and sagged against the sheer stone wall.

The noise stopped, and across the creek men staggered to their feet, some hauling others up. She held her breath as more and more upright bodies appeared, some jerking angrily against restraint. It was over, and it was clear the bluecoats had been the victors. Merciful tears blurred her sight.

Then a burst of shouts reached her, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeves, staring hard into the misty gloom. Shock had galvanized the soldiers; they were huddling into a circle, shouting, shoving. It wasn't over! She jolted forward, scrambling down the creek bank and to the ford, thrashing through the water to the other side.

"No!" Whitney's voice was just recognizable above the shouts and chaos of the human ring that surrounded Charlie and the major. She wormed and pushed her way through to the front, wailing at the sight that greeted her. Garner and Charlie, bloodied and pain-maddened, grappling furiously.

"No!" she yelled, darting for the middle of them.

Even through the mingled roar of pain and blood in his head, Garner heard her... and caught the flash of movement toward them. The shock cost him a split-second he couldn't afford to spend. "Whit-"

Charlie's lacerated fist snapped Garner's head back viciously, and he reeled into a clutch of his men, who just kept him from hitting the ground. Laxault rushed to intercept her, tackling her from the side and bearing her out of the way.

"No! I have to stop them!" she yelled, wriggling and scuffling furiously in the burly sergeant's grip, but he held her fast. And before her horrified eyes, Garner straightened and shook groggily, searching for her and finding her held safely at bay. And the look on her face, the fear... the anguish... He lowered his shoulders and charged Charlie again, this time with the strength of two men.

Her presence had done something to him-had upped the stakes in some unexplainable way. And the raw desperation and anger her betrayal generated in him was now shunted into the seething mass of turmoil that fueled his strength. He came at Charlie in a blind, heedless rage. His fists came like lightning bolts, and Charlie, sensing the change in him, fought with the desperation of a man staring into the jaws of defeat. Another rain of blows, another grapple and twist and a hard left to the gut, and Charlie went down to stay.

Garner staggered aside, his face and lip cut, his eye dark and swelling, his gentlemanly coat spattered with blood... and a cheer went up from the Maryland Ninths Lieutenant Brooks hurried forward, offering him a steadying arm and a handkerchief. Those men not directly restraining prisoners crowded around, congratulating him on a "damned fine fight." It took him a minute to get his legs beneath him again, and his first thought was her. He squinted through the pain in his head and located her, stilled, with Laxault's banded-steel arms about her waist. Her face was red, her eyes closed, as though she couldn't bear the sight of her precious people, her blessed "family," in defeat.

He should have felt some pleasure, some triumph in his hard-won victory. God knows he'd earned it... every bit of it. But one look at her cheated him of all elation, of all pride in the very personal nature of his victory.

Dammit-he growled-nothing was going to interfere with his triumph, especially not her! He wheeled and roared orders for Charlie to be bound, and for the barrels to be destroyed... all but four, which were to be taken back and used as evidence. His men sprang to the task of splitting the oak barrels with raw enthusiasm. And as each cask was breeched, and a stream of the pale, yellowed liquor burst forth, a thirsty soldier was there to sample it before a second bash sent it gushing onto the thirsty ground. Soon the wrecking of the barrels took on a heady atmosphere of abandon and release.

Laxault dragged Whitney out of the way, toward the trees. As she turned her burning eyes from the destruction of her pa's proud labor, she glimpsed her pa himself, being set on his feet, his arms bound behind him. She came to life in Laxault's grasp, surprising him, and was able to wrest free. She was halfway across the clearing when Garner saw, and jolted to intercept her.

Whitney saw him coming and scrambled to a halt. Her eyes ached at the sight of his wounds, and at the cold fury and contempt in his battered visage as he stopped several feet away. He watched her... and waited. She bit her lip and turned toward her pa. He was standing, captive but still defiant, watching her, too.

She was buffeted by powerful waves of conflicting feeling. Her desire to go to her pa was matched by her desire for Garner Townsend... the Iron Major who had just defeated her and. her people. In one breath she realized why they were both staring at her, their eyes hot, their stances challenging. She stood, fifteen feet from either of them... being forced to choose.

She tried to swallow her heart back into her chest. She wouldn't, couldn't choose -they had no right to make her! And she did what any Daniels would do, confronting such a rotten deal... she turned on her heel and walked away.

And soon she was running.

Black Daniels and Charlie Dunbar were ensconced, side by side, in chains under what had become known as "Dunbar's Tree," as soon as they returned to the settlement. In a surprising move, the Iron Major assembled his other prisoners and, after a stern lecture on the dangers of resuming any distilling operation in the valley, released them to their homes and teary-eyed families. He declared that only Black Daniels and Charlie Dunbar, the obvious leaders of the operation, would be shipped off to Pittsburgh to be formally tried and punished. It took some of the sting from news of the destruction of a whole year's production of "liquid currency."

The major cleaned up, had Benson doctor his face, and set out on horseback for the Daniels farmstead. He hadn't seen Whitney since she disappeared into the woods just after dawn, but her small leather case of clothes was missing from his room and he had a fair idea what that meant. His face and mood were dark indeed as he scoured the side yard of the farmstead, then dismounted to barge straight into the kitchen. Whitney startled up from the table where she sat with her aunt Kate, and dashed through the keeping room. His battle-charged reflexes were quicker, and he caught her midway through the parlor.

She strained under his hold and refused to meet his look. Her heart wrenched painfully in her chest. "Why did you have to come-what do you want?"

"You." The pain in his face and in his gut made him brutally blunt.

"Am I under arrest?"

"God knows, you deserve it!" he thundered.

In the long silence, she still refused to look at him, and confusion began to invade his rightful anger. She seemed so young and so hurt, and he was a damned fool for letting himself think such things. She was a deceiver! An unscrupulous Jezebel, who used his passion for her to undermine his sworn duty and his pride and dignity as a man. She'd read his fatal weakness fluently and seduced and betrayed him, and he'd allowed it. Twice. He wouldn't make that mistake ever again.

"You're my wife, dammit! Do you honestly think I'd arrest my legal wife, no matter how richly she deserved it?!"

"Then-" She swallowed hard and started over, lifting her thickly lashed eyes to his stern, bronzed face. "What are you going to do with me?"

"I'm... taking you back to Boston with me," he declared, only now realizing the full, terrible ramifications of their marriage. He was going to have to take her to his home... to face his influential family. He shuddered. Beyond that catastrophe, he didn't want to think.

"Why? Why can't you just leave me here? If you're rich, can't you hire a fancy lawyer or something and find some way out of it?"

"No."

That single, awful syllable spoke plainly his disgust at the inescapable fact of their legal entanglement.

"Townsends don't make vows easily, witch, but when we do, we keep them to the letter. Till death do us part,' whether we like it or not. Townsend wives belong in Townsend homes... in Boston." The ring of "Townsend righteousness" closed on her like the door of a stone crypt, sealing her fate. That infamous "Townsend pride" meant that "Townsend property" had to be secured. That's what she was now... Townsend property. She sagged and dropped her gaze. Her father's punishment was a bit of prison, but hers was far worse-a lifetime of living with the Iron Major.

"Get your things," he ordered with muted gruffness.

He waited for her to pack, and she paused at the foot of the stairs when she came down, looking around the snug keeping room, touching things with her eyes as though storing a few last impressions. Then he took her arm and led her through the kitchen. Kate was there, looking ashen and distraught.

"When will you leave?" she asked through a haze of misery.

"Tomorrow, at sun-up," he answered through very tight Townsend jaws.

"I'll come to see Blackstone this evening... if it's permitted?"

When he nodded consent, she turned to Whitney, biting her lips, fighting back the tears. The two people who had become Kate's whole world were being taken from her. She hugged her niece tightly, then drew away and forced her chin high as they left. From the window, she watched as the major lifted Whitney onto his horse and swung up behind her. And when they rounded the first turn on the path, Kate buried her head in her arms and sobbed.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Iron Major led his men out of the valley the next morning, marching them in a slender column down the same road that had led them into Rapture. Behind him came the spoils of his victory: four barrels of potent Daniels whiskey, two leaders of the Daniels "whiskey ring," and one tantalizing but treacherous Daniels female... who just happened to also be his wife. The entire campaign had been a disaster from start to finish. But when he left this wretched valley, he thought, even when he got back to his gentlemanly life in Boston, it still wouldn't be over for him. He was taking the source of all his problems with him... Whiskey Daniels.

He shuddered as she rose unexpectedly into his mind, hot and intoxicating, lush and physical and so damnably responsive. He rescued his mental processes only by drastic measures: turning them to what lay ahead, his family's censure at this final disgrace, and a lifetime of suffering a volatile, consuming need for a woman who would invariably use that need against him. "Major Samson," she had called him... and how gleefully she'd shorn his head!

The valley folk came out all along their route to bid them a bittersweet farewell. The soldiers halted briefly and Laxault nodded to suffering Aunt Sarah Dunbar, allowing her a final word and a final hug from her Charlie. Aunt Frieda Delbarton surprised everyone, especially her boys, by impetuously hugging tough Ralph Kingery. And curvy May Donner surprised no one by wrapping her arms around strapping, thick-bodied Dem Wallace and delivering him a blistering kiss that would surely keep him warm in the nights ahead. Then the crusty Laxault jerked his hat in Aunt Sarah's direction and barked the column into motion again.

Whitney's first night away from Rapture Valley, alone in a cold, cramped canvas tent, was long and excruciating. The next afternoon, when the column of soldiers paused briefly on the hills overlooking the junction of the Monongahela and the Allegheny rivers, she stared at the town of Pittsburgh, below, and felt desolate inside. The three times she'd been there with her pa and Aunt Kate, the place had been a marvel, an adventure; fancy houses, wooden walkways, and stores and taverns and smithies and soldiers... people everywhere. But this time, as they descended the rim of the valley, it would be toward sorrow and separation and she was in no hurry.

She waited until the prisoners were tethered temporarily to trees and their guards were off having a smoke of tobacco, and she slipped to be with her pa for a few minutes. She stood, her throat tight with confusion and her eyes burning at the bleak sight of him in chains. He looked up to see her beside him, and saw again the little wisp of a girl who had always awakened at the first crack of lightning and come to his and Margaret's bed. He pushed to his feet and held out his arms to her as he had those long years ago.

"Oh, Pa-" she buried her face in his deerskin coat front and let the tears come.

He let her have a bit of a cry, then pushed her back to look at her and wipe her cheeks gruffly with the backs of his knuckles.

"Pa, he says I have to go with him, but I can't. I can't leave you here. They'll lock you away in a prison of some sort-"

"A year or two... three at most," he snorted derisively, then broke into a wickedly Daniels grin. "Think of it as-they'll be housing and feeding me for a while-at federal expense. I always said they weren't too smart, those federal boys. I'll come out best on this trade, mark my words." That grin broadened until she was drawn into it, returning it through a glaze of tears. "Recall, I was held by lobsterbacks durin' the great War for Independence. Now lobsterbacks, they know how to make a fellow wish he'd just cock up his toes and get it over with. But I survived them and I'll survive anything this paltry lot can put to me. There's a cost and a profit to be had in everything, Whit. The worst part will be not seein' you and Kate for a while. But before it's over, I'll have my say on the tax, as well. And I'll come see you in Boston, as soon as I'm able."

Boston. The very sound of the place made her positively ill.

"I... I can't go with him, Pa. I've never been out of these two counties, and I don't know the first thing about living in a city or being a wife. I have to go back to Rapture... that's where I belong. And when the federals are gone, I can dig up the still." His eyes narrowed and she could tell he didn't like what he was hearing. The stare deepened to a knowing frown and she felt him tugging at the real reason for her unprecedented retreat from a challenge.

"He... hates me, Pa," she whispered hoarsely. "He can't stand to look at me. We aren't married, not really, not like you and Ma. And we won't ever be. It's best all around if I just slip off, back to Rapture." The misery in her face spoke of a powerful craving for the fancy buck she'd been forced to wed. Black flinched. He'd never seen her so full of longings, or in such low spirits. It worried him far more than any federal torture or prison that might await.

"And crawl under a rock and give up the blessed ghost!" Black growled, bringing her face up quickly.

What would happen to her while he was in prison, or, he made himself think it, if he never made it out of prison? He had to do something!

"Judas Priest, gal, you're a Daniels! Daniels's don't quit, don't run and hide when things get tough. We Daniels's are born traders-it's in our blood, our very bones! A Daniels looks for a smart bit of profit in every trade. And by Gloriful Gabriel that's what you got here, Whit, a bloody trade. Can't you see that? Fancy pants, there, has taken your pa, your liquor business, and your blessed virtue... and he has to pay for it."

He pulled her down to a seat on an exposed tree root and grasped her cold hands tightly. The flame in his eyes, part trader-passion, part mischief, captivated her once again, carried her along with him. "Nothin' comes free in this life, Whit Daniels, not even happiness. You have to do something in the first place, before things can work out right in the second place." He paused at the frown on her face and explained. "I'm saying: a fellow has to see to his own wants and needs, because nobody else will. You're wedded to that iron-arsed buck, Whit, whether you like it or not. And it's up to you to see you get the full measure of the bargain." His crafty Daniels glow deepened.

"Now the way I see it, considering what he took, he owes you a livin', he owes you a family, and he owes you a good bit o' manly service. And you can't be a true Daniels unless you get every single thing you have comin' to you. Go on to Boston with him." He waved her on with an authoritative hand. "Squeeze him up and get all you've got coming. Make him pay. And let me hear no more talk about slinking off back to Rapture with your tail betwixt your legs. That's not the Daniels way, Whit."

He watched the light coming back into her eyes, watched her shoulders squaring and her chin lifting. He leaned closer with a crafty twinkle in his eye. "And if he's half as important as he seems to think he is, likely you can find a way to spring your old pa from prison a bit early-or at least, make things a far sight more comfortable for him."

She laughed through blurry eyes and blinked them clear, borrowing his indomitable spirit, his cagey pragmatism, drinking them into the empty core of her. It was true, every word of it. She was a Daniels, through and through. A couple of beddings and a few womanly tears couldn't possibly change all the training and experience of a lifetime. She could bargain better, drink harder, run faster, talk smoother than anybody in Westmoreland County... except her pa. She was born with trading in her blood and this was a deal of sorts, even if it wasn't quite the usual bargain. What in Merciful Moses had she been doing-forgetting every sage and sensible principle she'd ever learned? The persistent heaviness in her chest eased markedly.

"I tell you, it'll relieve my mind considerably knowing you're set in sauce while I'm away. And just as soon as they let me out, I'll hightail it to Boston, too. By then you'll probably be used to fine clothes and high living in a grand house..." Black trailed off, then his voice deepened with Daniels determination, and his quixotic face sobered. "You make him give you what you want, Whit, he's already got what he wanted."

"Probably even more than he bargained for," she murmured softly, getting a gleam in her eye as she recalled Garner's very words to her. It was all coming back, now; her Daniels sense of self, her trader's insight, her nimble reason, and her pragmatic view of the world.

"That's my girl," he squeezed her hands with a wicked glint in his eye. "Anybody who can swap the spurs off a rooster can sure find a way to get a fair profit out of a marriage to a rich, handsome... stud."

"Pa-a-" she colored hotly.

"That man's a keg of dry powder inside, Whit, and you strike sparks every time you get close to him."

"Pa-a!"

"Well sometimes a trader has to use every edge he's got. And darlin', you've got that man honed like a razor." He grinned at his daughter, then pulled her to him and hugged her fiercely. In that long, sobering embrace, a terrible ache rose up in the middle of Blackstone Daniels, and it took every bit of his trader's guile to muster the hallmark Daniels grin when they finally parted. "Do me proud, Whit."

"I will, Pa." They rose together and she gave him another quick, determined hug before turning back to her horse with a new heart.

Black watched her walk away and felt her dragging his heart away with her. He prayed he would live to keep his promise to come to Boston. He'd seen first hand what treatment "whiskey rebels" received at federal hands. Men had died of exposure in "jail pits" dug into the frozen earth-while waiting to be questioned as mere witnesses. After weeks of marching and waiting, the federal jackals were desperate for someone to vent their anger on. They came here to fight and found no great armed force of rebels waiting, only pockets of farmers and distillers who wanted the country they'd fought for to listen to them. The soldiers were deprived and frustrated and fight-randy, just itching for a scapegoat.