Chapter 2

 

In a way it was a relief, Ethan thought. She was out cold, curled and crumpled in the aisle like a dry leaf. For the moment at least she couldn't say anything stupid. Now he could concentrate on the matter of Drew Beaumont. With a little luck he could make it work.

Houston hunkered down at Michael's head. "Get that damn reporter out of here," he barked at Happy, "and take care of him."

Happy hauled Drew out of his seat and pushed him into the aisle. Drew tripped on Michael's outstretched leg and nearly went sprawling himself. Ethan caught him and pulled him upright. "I'll take him out. You help with the lady." He felt the restlessness of the other passengers. A stony stare and a single wave of his gun put all of them back in their seats. "Obie, you watch them carefully. We don't want any heroes. One damned complicating female is enough for any robbery."

"I second that," Happy said feelingly.

Ethan let Drew step in front of him and leveled the barrel of his Colt at the reporter's back. "Let's go." Once they were outside the car Ethan directed Drew to jump down on the steep side of the track. "Keep going. Walk to the end of the train."

Drew glanced back over his shoulder and sneered.

"Thanks to your friends, a shorter walk than it used to be."

"Are you foolish or brave?"

"Neither. Just realistic. You're going to kill me. I've a mind to say whatever occurs to me."

Ethan nudged him when his steps slowed as they reached the rear car. "Keep going. About another hundred feet or so. Stop before the curve. If someone wants to watch I want it said I did my job." He looked around him, feeling the inky night closing in. Could anyone from the train see him at this distance? A witness would be helpful. It could seal his reputation with the others. There were those who still did not entirely trust him.

"That's far enough," he said. "Don't even think of making a break for it or I'll have to shoot you down."

It was an odd thing for him to say, Drew thought, when it was clear the fellow intended to kill him anyway. Drew turned. He could see the last car of the train, the emigrant car, beyond the robber's shoulder. There were faces pressed to the glass in the door, peering out into the night to get a glimpse of the execution.

"What is it you fellows have against some newspaper coverage?" Drew asked. "Some gangs would be grateful for it."

"The James boys perhaps. Not us." Ethan cocked his Colt. The clicking of the hammer sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air. "No one here tonight has any desire to become a folk hero."

"That's too bad. If you'd tell me something about your gang I could write a sympathetic piece."

"Either you're a liar or a man without a single principle. Have you already forgotten your colleagues? How many were in the cars when the coupling was released?"

Drew was shaking with equal parts cold and fear.

He thrust his hands into his pockets. "Four from the Chronicle. I don't know how many were in the caboose. Their deaths were senseless." Drew's eyes darted nervously. He wondered if he could make a break for it after all. There was sparse covering on the mountainside to his right and a steep, rocky descent on his left. "My friends weren't armed, for God's sake. They were no threat to any of you."

"Not everyone sees it that way," Ethan said. "How many cars did the Chronicle have?"

"Four."

Ethan swore softly. "Did you come on at Cheyenne?"

"Yes."

It did little to ease Ethan's conscience that he couldn't have known about the presence of the reporters. It was a variable that couldn't have been predicted with years of preparation. They had had no such luxury of time in their planning. Ethan shifted his weight from one foot to the other, lowering his Colt slightly. He pulled at his kerchief, letting it fall around his neck and reveal his face.

Drew Beaumont braced himself for the gunshot. When it didn't come immediately, fear made him angry. "Get it the hell over with, you son of a bitch."

"Listen to me carefully," Ethan said calmly. "When I fire I want you to clutch your chest, fall, and roll toward the drop. I'll kick you over the side. You're on your own from there."

"The fall will kill me."

"Perhaps. There's lots of rocky outcroppings where you can gain purchase. I'm not going to push you hard. You probably won't roll more than twenty, thirty feet." Ethan sensed another complaint coming from his hostage. "Look, when you consider the alternative is a bullet through your heart, I think I'm offering you a good deal."

Drew swallowed hard. "Why are you doing this?"

"I have my reasons," he said quietly. "Before you write one word of this for your paper, contact your publisher." Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Are you getting this, mister? Not one word before you contact Marshall. Tell him what happened and let him make the decision of what's to be printed. Don't take it upon yourself."

Drew was about to ask why it was so important when he saw the rear door of the emigrant car open and Michael Dennehy step out. His eyes widened. "Oh God, it's her."

Ethan glanced over his shoulder quickly. She wasn't alone. That he could have dealt with. Obie was following her with his shotgun, chasing after her in his loping stride while she charged ahead like No. 349 herself. "Damn. This changes things."

Drew's eyes widened in alarm. "You don't mean—"

Ethan nodded. "More kick than a mule." He raised his gun again and fired. He watched Drew waver on his feet for a few seconds. Behind him Obie and the woman were approaching fast. "Fall, you stupid bastard! Now!"

Drew's knees buckled under him. It wasn't until he hit the gravel roadbed that he realized he hadn't been shot at all. He rolled closer to the drop and sprawled. He heard Michael scream but he didn't have time to think about it. Ethan's booted foot was shoved in his ribs and the force of it drove him over the side. He slid on his belly, rolled, scrambled for purchase, then slid and rolled some more. Bits of gravel, rock, and snow, clumps of wiry bushes, and a discarded railroad tie, made the journey with him. Something hit him on the head and his vision was suddenly blacker than the night. His last thought before losing consciousness was that being shot probably wouldn't have hurt as much.

Before Ethan could swing around from the drop he was attacked from behind. Michael managed to get her entire forearm under his chin and press it against his throat. For a moment it seemed the impetus of her charge would send them both over the drop. Instead they fell backward onto the tracks with Michael under Ethan. He turned quickly and pinned her down, straddling her waist with his thighs and holding her wrists on either side of her head.

Air had been driven completely from Michael's lungs. It was the only reason she wasn't swearing like the man above her. She stared into a face that was so hard with rage a muscle worked spasmodically in each lean cheek. Now that the cursing had subsided the mouth was drawn flat, the teeth clenched. The chin was strong, the jaw square-cut and rigidly set. It occurred to her suddenly that she was seeing the lower part of his face for the first time.

But not for the first time. She struggled again to hold onto the memory that would put that face in the proper place. She had seen him before. She was certain of it. But where?

"You killed Drew," she said accusingly. "I saw you."

"I killed him."

Obie stood over both of them with his shotgun. "Lady, you're lucky he didn't kill you, too."

"Perhaps he will when I tell you who I am."

Ethan sighed. "Aw, hell. You just can't keep your mouth shut, can you?"

Michael ignored him. "Drew wasn't just a friend, he was my—"

Ethan clipped her on the jaw.

"Whaddya do that fer?" Obie asked. Michael's head lolled to the side, her eyes closed. Her spectacles rested askew on her face. "Who the hell is she?"

Ethan stood, gave Obie his gun, then pulled Michael to a half sitting position before he bent and lifted her in his arms. "My wife," he said and started walking toward the train.

* * *

Michael woke in pain. The entire left side of her face throbbed. Initially she was disoriented, unable to place her surroundings, the steady movement under her, or the object that was holding her so securely she couldn't move. Several minutes passed before she understood she was traveling on horseback at night and the man who nearly broke her jaw was the same one holding her.

"You're awake," he said.

His tone gave nothing away, she noted. He seemed neither pleased nor upset by the fact that she was conscious again. She turned her head slightly, leaning away from her captor to see the terrain and count her companions. There were three other men on horseback, two of whom she remembered from the train. The robber who had forced the doctor to help her, the one she assumed to be the leader, was nowhere in sight.

The ground they were covering was treacherous, steep and rocky. Patches of ice and crusty snow made the climbing slow and the sudden, sharp descents frightening. The man she rode with had positioned her securely in front of him, her hip wedged intimately between his thighs. The saddle horn bore uncomfortably into Michael's flesh as they rode but beside the pain in her jaw it didn't deserve, and didn't get, a second thought.

In addition to the horses and men there were pack mules. Their braying echoed in the narrow passes when they stubbornly refused to follow the lead. The sound of the flicking whips was chilling.

Michael worked her jaw slowly from side to side, realizing for the first time that it wasn't broken. "Where are we?" she asked.

Ethan didn't answer right away. He wanted to enjoy the silence a little longer. It was his opinion that the mules were more sweetly tempered than the woman in his arms. "Rockies," he said.

She sighed. "I know that. I want to know where."

"Colorado."

She knew that, too. "Is that the best answer I can expect from you?"

"From me or any of the others."

"We're going to your hideout then?"

"Something like that."

His terse, evasive answers were annoying. Michael's hold on the threads of her patience was tenuous at best. "Why am I with you?" she demanded. The effect of her snapping tone was lost as she winced with pain. She tried to raise her hand to nurse her aching jaw and found it trapped by her captor's arm. "May I?" she asked, gritting her teeth as tears gathered in her eyes.

Ethan loosened his grip and allowed her the use of one hand. It was easier to ride when she was unconscious, or at least unmoving. He needed all his concentration to negotiate the narrow passes and ledges and keep himself, his hostage, and his horse upright.

Michael cupped the side of her swollen face. She imagined she would be black and blue for days. "Why am I with you?" she asked again.

"Because I told Obie you were my wife."

"Your wife!" She had meant to scream the words but Ethan was too fast for her. His hand clamped over her mouth and nose and the words were caught in the heart of his palm. The pressure of his hand nearly caused her to faint from pain and lack of air.

"Shut up and listen for a change!" he said with low, rough menace. "You don't need to comment on everything I say. I'm trying to save your miserable life. Don't make me regret it." He felt her resignation in the relaxing of her posture. She shuddered once as she slumped against him. Ethan moved his hand away cautiously and heard her sip the air gratefully for breath.

When the trail widened, Ethan hung back and let the others go forward. There was some good-natured ribbing when the men became aware of what he was doing. It was the most anyone had talked since leaving No. 349.

Ethan didn't say a word until he was certain they could not be overheard. Even then he kept his voice low. "I told Obie you were my wife because it was safer than what you were going to say."

Michael tried to remember her last words before she was cold-cocked. Frowning, she asked, "How do you know what I was going to say?"

"Because, lady, you're about as easy to read sometimes as a headline. You were about to blurt out that that reporter was your colleague." His tone dared her to say otherwise. "Isn't that right?"

She offered a reluctant yes. "How did you know?"

"He told me," Ethan lied. "When you came running out of the train, hell bent on martyrdom, he told me. Begged me to save your life."

"And you couldn't refuse a dying man's last wish."

"Something like that."

His cold, neutral tone grated on Michael's nerves. "You're really an amoral bastard, aren't you?"

Ethan refused to be riled. "If you say so."

They rode in silence a little while. Ethan knew she was crying, but whether it was for herself or for Drew, he didn't know, and didn't care to know. Eventually he gave her the kerchief from around his neck. "Here. Blow."

Michael accepted it, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. When she tried to return it her gesture was acknowledged with a terse, "Keep it." She stuffed it in the pocket of her duster.

"Couldn't you have left me behind?"

"I don't see how. Telling Obie that you're my wife seems to guarantee that you know who I am. I couldn't leave you once he thought you recognized me. It would put all of us in danger."

Michael levered her head back a little and stared at the hard cast lines of her captor's profile. "It's odd," she said slowly, softly, "but it's as if... I'm not sure... as if I do know you."

Trust her to worry an idea to death, Ethan thought, disgusted. He could see now that she was not going to rest until she placed him. "I don't see how that's possible."

"Neither do I," she admitted. She rested her head against his shoulder again, too tired to think clearly or plot her escape. "What do I call you?"

"Ethan Stone." For the first time in hours he smiled. "It sits better on the tongue than Amoral Bastard."

"So you say."

"I think I better have a name for you," Ethan said when she didn't offer hers.

"Mary Michael Dennehy."

"Dennehy," he repeated softly. God, he had wracked his brain trying to remember her last name. "Irish?"

"On my mother's side. County Clare."

"Catholic?"

"Could Mary Michael be anything else?"

"Well, Mary Michael, I think we'd-"

"It's just Michael. No one calls me Mary."

Ethan's lip curled to one side. "It figures."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He didn't answer her. "I think we'd better put our story together before we get questioned separately and come up with sixes and sevens."

"You make it up. I haven't decided if I'm going along with anything you're doing."

Ethan reined in his mount sharply, nearly dislodging Michael from the saddle. One gloved hand slipped around her throat and drew her back where he could look at her face clearly. His lightly colored blue-gray eyes reflected the cool wash of star shine. "You can't possibly be more stupid than I already think, can you? There isn't any choice of going along or not, not if you want to see the sun rise. Tell me now that you're going to fight me every step of the way and I'll break your neck right here and leave you for carrion."

Michael shivered as much from the whiskey-whispered promise of his tone as the flinty hardness of his eyes.

"Is there anything you don't understand?" he demanded, searching her face.

She replied with a small negative shake of her head.

"Good." He released her throat. "You'd do well to keep in mind that your life doesn't mean half as much to me as my own."

"I'll remember," she said, her voice so small he had to strain to hear it.

"Then you just may come out of this alive." Ethan nudged his horse forward. He opened a few buttons on his leather and sheep's wool coat. "Slip your arms inside. Your hands must be like ice by now."

They were numb with cold but Michael wasn't certain she wanted to be that close to Ethan. Her hesitation was a clear signal.

Ethan shrugged and began to button up again. "Suit yourself."

"No... wait. I am cold. Nearly stiff with it actually."

She didn't feel stiff, Ethan thought as she slid her arms under his coat and around his back. Her movement wedged Michael tighter against him and he was miserably aware of the curve and pliancy of her flesh.

He comforted himself that any female this close to him, practically molded to him, would elicit the same response. It wasn't possible that his body was stirring in reaction to her. He needed to think about something else. Quickly.

"Any loose teeth?" he asked.

Michael had already run her tongue across her teeth several times to assure herself they were intact. She did so again. "Nothing loose."

He tried not to sound relieved. "I clipped you pretty hard."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'll have Detra tend to your face once we get where we're going."

"Detra?"

"She looks after us."

Michael wondered if she might find a sympathetic ally in the other woman. "Who are 'us'?" she asked.

"Try to keep your reporter's curiosity in check," he cautioned. "Everything in good time." Ahead of him he saw Happy McAllister approaching. He gave Michael a warning squeeze. "Happy's coming this way. What ever comes up, follow my lead." He felt her cheek brush his chest as she nodded her agreement.

"Something wrong, Happy?" he asked.

"Can't think of a thing," the older man said. He leaned his wiry body forward in the saddle. "'Cept for that bit of sass you got in your arms, I'd say we done ourselves as planned. Trust a female to muck up the works."

Ethan's sentiments exactly. "Michael has that way about her." He felt her stiffen in his arms. Did she think he was going to defend her?

"Michael," Happy said, scratching his stubbly cheek thoughtfully. "Odd moniker for a woman. Can't recollect you ever mentioning her or the fact that you was married."

"That's because I haven't mentioned her. Truth is, Happy, tonight's the first time I've seen my wife in four years."

That made an impression on Happy. He shook his head from side to side. "Well, of all the dag-burned luck. No wonder she didn't recognize you when she clamped eyes on you in first class. Four years. That's a damn long time."

Ethan nodded. "I offered to take the reporter out just to get out of her way. I thought I was safe when she fainted. When she saw me outside without the kerchief I knew I couldn't take any chances. Not after killing the reporter."

"Who was he to her?" Happy asked. "Obie said she tried to tell you both something about him before you punched her."

Ethan searched for something to say.

"Drew Beaumont was my fiancé," Michael interjected. In her ear she felt rather than heard Ethan's low hum of disapproval. "When one hasn't heard from one's husband in four years it's not unnatural to suppose he's dead."

"Or hope that he is," Ethan said, cutting her off before she created a story at odds with what he had already told the others. "I walked out on her, Happy. There's no love lost on her side."

"Hard to believe," Happy said. "You two cuddled there like nip and tuck."

"I haven't been given any choice," Michael said coldly.

"That so?" Happy grinned, showing a line of straight but tobacco-stained teeth. "You could ride with me for a while, Miz Stone."

Before Michael could form a proper protest or retract her statement, Ethan agreed to the plan. "She'll be more comfortable with you anyway, Happy. More room on the saddle."

The two men drew their horses close and Michael was summarily transferred from Ethan's mount to Happy's.

"Mind your manners," Ethan said. The words were not as significant as the look he shot her. Michael felt the blue-gray eyes bore right through her. Without another glance in her direction he urged his horse ahead and was out of earshot in a matter of seconds.

"Well," Happy drawled. "This is cozy."

Michael bit her lower lip. "Mm, yes. Cozy is the word." Ethan had done it to punish her. She felt certain he had known she didn't want to go with Happy. He had to have felt her reluctance to be passed around like so much baggage. "How long have you known my husband, Happy? I heard Ethan correctly, didn't I? Your name's Happy."

"It's not my disposition," he said. "Picked up the name when I was greenhorn cowhand. Cut myself in the face with a bullwhip. Can't see the scar much now, what with the stubble and all, so there's no point in lookin'. Doc said I severed a nerve. Cut it clean in two, he said. Folks were like to point out then that I always looked like I was smilin'. Called me Happy. Just seemed to stick. But like I said, Miz Stone, it's not my disposition."

"I'll try to remember that."

"See that you do." Happy took a pouch of tobacco out of his coat pocket, pinched some off with his thumb and forefinger and packed it between his lower lip and gum. "Known your husband nigh on five months now. That's how long he's been ridin' with us. Newest man. You'll understand if that makes me a tad skeptical of what he says or does."

Michael could only summon a murmur. She wondered how long she could stay in the saddle. Even propped against Happy she was finding it difficult to stay upright. Her fingers ached with cold again and Happy hadn't made the same offer to warm them that Ethan had.

"Now Ben up ahead," Happy went on. "Him and me go way back. He's my half-brother. Same mother, different gamblers. He's a Simpson. I'm a McAllister. Obie Long's been with the gang 'bout two years now. Good kid. Not much fer talkin', especially 'round the ladies, but it don't seem to bother them none. Still waters and all that."

Looking ahead on the trail, Michael was able to determine which of the men was Happy's brother. Obie, she knew, was the one who had followed her when she ran out of the train to find Drew. He was riding beside Ethan now. Her eyes scanned the darkness for one more man. "Where's the other?" she asked. "The man who was giving the orders."

"You must mean Houston. He and Jake took the engine down the tracks a piece. That'll keep the passengers from followin'. The Union Pacific won't know about the holdup until the train's late comin' to Barnesville. Even then they're like to think it's snowbound."

"There won't be anyone following us, will there?" Though Michael tried to keep her voice neutral, a note of despair touched her question.

"Not tonight," Happy said frankly. "Probably not tomorrow either. By the time the locals mount a posse, snow will have covered our tracks."

"What about the railroad? Won't the Union Pacific send men out after you?"

Happy leaned back in his saddle so that he could get a better view of Michael's face. "It don't seem to me, Miz Stone, that you're real pleased about this reunion with Ethan. That pretty much the way of it?"

Michael felt Happy's eyes on her and she avoided looking at him. "That's pretty much the way of it," she repeated softly. "You must know I don't want to be here."

"Can't say that I favor it either, ma'am."

For a moment Michael was hopeful. "You don't? Then you would help me get—"

Happy cut her off. "Don't ask it, Miz Stone. You mistook my meanin'. I sure enough don't want you here, but 'cept fer bein' dead and buried, there really ain't no other place for you."

Michael felt cold in her soul. The shiver that swept through her had little to do with the bitter icy wind swirling around her. "Please," she said lowly, teeth chattering violently, "I want to go back to Ethan."

"Just a bit longer," Happy said. "If you're cold you can put your arms around me the way you did Ethan."

"I'll manage," she said tightly, repulsed by the offer. She crossed her arms in front of her, slipped her hands under her armpits, and tucked her head deeper into the raised collar of her coat and away from the, stinging wind. "You're the one who uncoupled the Chronicle's cars, aren't you?" She fully expected him not to answer or deny the charge. "You killed them."

Happy shrugged off the accusation. "Obie helped, but it was my idea."

Michael was stunned that he would admit it to her so easily. "Why would you tell me that? Or anything else you've said? You must know that—"

Again he interrupted her, this time placing a hand inside her coat and laying it on her thigh. "I figure it this way, Miz Stone: the more you know, the more you know you ain't goin' nowhere. Ethan, bein' your husband and all, probably has it in his mind to protect you. I don't feel honor bound to do the same. You're either with us or agin us. There's no fence-ridin'. With us, you live. Agin us, you die. That plain speakin' enough for you?"

She nodded.

"Good. Now, seein's how you're not exactly warmin' up to me, I'll set you back with Ethan. I can't think there's much point tellin' him about our conversation, can you?"

"No."

Happy smiled. Flakes of tobacco clung to his front teeth. He spit. "Good for you, ma'am. Mebbe you'll stay with us after all."

In a few minutes they caught up with the others. Ethan was deep in a conversation with Obie and Ben until Michael and Happy came within earshot. Michael's transfer to Ethan's mount was done in a brisk, impersonal fashion.

"Think I'll ride on ahead," Happy said. "Kinda look out fer Jake and Houston. Shouldn't be too much longer afore they meet up with us." He kicked his horse and called back over his shoulder. "She's a good handful, Ethan. She fits real nice agin me. Don't know what you were thinkin', leavin' her alone all those years."

Michael felt Ethan stiffen slightly at Happy's words but he made no reply.

"Don't mind Happy," Ben said. "He don't mean nothin' by it. Cold's most likely addled his senses a little. I'll just go on up yonder and have a talk with him. Obie, why don't you take up the rear for a while?"

Obie reined in almost immediately and let the others get in front of him. The staggered line of surefooted pack mules followed.

"What did you and Happy find to talk about?" Ethan asked when he and Michael were alone.

Michael had no intention of answering Ethan's questions or even talking to him more than she absolutely had to. She realized that before today she had never experienced fear or fatigue. Now she felt the mind and body numbing effects of each like a paralysis of spine and spirit, and when she slumped against Ethan it was because she couldn't help herself.

"Michael?" Ethan asked. He gave her a little shake but there was no response. He thought at first she was faking. Slipping a gloved hand beneath her coat, Ethan cupped her breast. She didn't stir. He grinned and dropped his hand. His captive had nerves of steel and starch, but she wouldn't have let him touch her if she could have prevented it. Mary Michael Dennehy had fallen deeply asleep.

* * *

Two more hours passed before the party halted for the night. It was the sudden cessation of movement that woke Michael. Groggy and disoriented, she was still aware of the new voices that had joined their group. She had almost immediate recognition of Houston. There was amusement, even civility, in his tone as he spoke, and danger and menace in the slight rasp that edged his words. The other voice drawled deeply and she was able to put a name to it: Jake.

"Your lady's plumb tuckered," Jake Harrity said as Ethan eased Michael down from the saddle. He grinned as Michael slid heavily down the length of Ethan's long frame. She was limp with exhaustion and unsteady on her feet. Ethan had to hold her upright. "Here, I'll see to your horse." He unfastened the bedroll and tossed it on the ground beside Ethan. "You'll need this."

"Thanks, Jake." Ethan slipped one arm beneath Michael's crumbling knees and lifted her high against his chest. He carried her to an outcropping of rocks that gave shelter from the wind on three sides, set her down, and went back for his bedroll and horse blankets. "We've got some tinder for a small fire but it won't provide much warmth. You'll have to share the blankets with me if you expect to get through the night." When she didn't reply, not even whimper in protest, Ethan poked her with his foot. "You're awake, aren't you?"

Michael jerked her leg away. "I'm awake."

"Good." He dropped the bedroll and blankets beside her. "Lay these things out as best you can. I'll see to the fire."

Michael's fingers were stiff and clumsy with cold. Tears stung her eyes and lay icy and wet on her cheeks as she forced herself to work against the ache in her hands. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Ethan build the small fire at the head of their shelter. When tiny flames began licking at the wood, Michael's last vestige of reason vanished. She scrambled toward the fire on her hands and knees and thrust her hands into the flames.

"What the hell!" Ethan dropped to his knees and pushed Michael away. "Of all the stupid..." His voice trailed away as he stared at her. She was huddled against the cold inner face of their rocky shelter, her head bent low, her shoulders hunched, and her fingers jammed awkwardly in her mouth. He had difficulty remembering the stiff and starchy woman he had first seen in the offices of the Chronicle. "Here," he said roughly, moving toward her, "let me see what fool thing you've done to yourself. You can't put your hands in the fire and not expect to get burned." He pulled her fingers away from her mouth and examined them in the dim light. They weren't burned but Ethan began to suspect the onset of frostbite. "Why the hell didn't you say anything? I would have given you my gloves." She started to pull away at the taut impatience of his tone. "For God's sake, come here! I'm not going to hurt you."

Ben Simpson came upon them. "There some problem here?" he asked, throwing another blanket at their bed. "Thought you might want that. Anything I can do to help?"

"Thanks, Ben. I'll take care of it myself. My wife's gone stupid with cold."

Ben chuckled at that description. "Ain't you the lucky one, gettin' to warm her up and all. Well, I'll be just yonder if you need anything." He disappeared beyond the rocks.

"Would you rather Ben warm you up?" Ethan asked. "No? Then come here so I can do something about it."

Michael didn't move but she was unresisting as Ethan pulled her toward him. He took off his own gloves and placed his hands between hers and blew on her fingers. After a few minutes he carefully levered her hands near the fire. "Not too close," he cautioned. Taking the extra blanket Ben had given them, he pulled it around Michael's shoulders and raised it along the edge to protect her ears. "You should have told me how cold you were. I could have done something about it."

Through chattering teeth Michael said, "I don't want anything from you."

Ethan found the kerchief he had given her earlier and wiped at the tears that lay frozen on her cheeks. "Of course you don't."

Michael briefly closed her eyes, exhaustion taking its toll again. "Don't patronize me," she said quietly. "You killed Drew. Happy admitted he killed the others. Paul, Jim, Bill, and Dave. All of them gone now... because of you and your friends. I don't want anything from you." Her voice dropped to a whisper and then she only seemed to mouth the words. "I want to sleep. I want to die."

Ethan stuffed his kerchief back in his own pocket. "You're a piece of work, Miss Dennehy," he said softly, shaking his head from side to side. "Quite a piece of work."

It took him several minutes to get them bedded down for the night. He sheltered Michael with his own body and the blankets, drawing her close inside his open coat and against his chest. Even in her drowsy, semi-conscious state, she was stiff and unyielding, her every muscle tense with cold and fear of his intentions. She shivered into his shoulder and tremors ran the length of her spine.

Michael heard his voice coming to her as if from a great distance. It was quietly encouraging, gentle, and best of all, warm on her face. "Sleep," it said. "Just sleep."

She dreamed she was back in the dining car, playing poker with her friends. She had a mountain of chips in front of her and she had drawn three cards to a full house. Drew was there, disgusted with his turn of luck and asking for an advance of thirty dollars. Michael found herself refusing him again and again in spite of her desire to do otherwise. She wanted to take charge of the dream, refashion it in a way that satisfied her, but she couldn't make it happen. The others started asking her for money as well. Paul and Jim drew caricatures of her smoking a cigar and playing tight-fisted with her winnings. Bill and Dave threatened to report her to Logan Marshall. Happy interrupted the game and drew his gun, promising to kill each reporter in turn, and Michael last. Helpless to stop the grisly chain of events, Michael watched each friend face Happy's gun in turn. When the Colt was leveled at her head she closed her eyes... and woke up screaming.

Or thought she did. At first she wasn't certain if she was awake or still trapped in her nightmare. Ethan Stone was beside her, one of his legs lying heavily across both of hers. The blankets cocooned them and beyond the darkness of her immediate shelter she could hear the crackle and spit of the fire. Except for that sound, nothing moved or rustled. There was no echo of her scream, no stirring in the night from any of the others. She had dreamed the scream just as she had dreamed every improbable exchange during the course of her nightmare.

She was left with one lasting impression as the details of her nightmare began to fade. There had been no one to save her, no one to stop Happy's relentless pursuit of the reporters. It seemed more than the vagaries of a dream. It seemed an omen.

Michael lay very still and pondered escape. Was it possible? Ethan appeared to be deeply asleep, breathing quietly and evenly. She took no comfort in it or in the warmth he offered. She had spoken the truth when she said she wanted nothing from him. It had occurred to her there was some price for his protection and though Michael had no clear idea what he might demand, she had no wish to pay.

She raised one corner of the blanket slightly to let in the firelight. The play of shadow across the hard cast of Ethan's features lent him an edge of dangerous mystery. Against her will, Michael felt herself drawn to him as she struggled to bring forward the memory that would set his face in place and time. As had happened previously, it was a fruitless struggle. There was no clear recollection of lightly colored, blue-gray eyes, of a hooded, direct gaze, of thick lashes or sun lines fanning the corners. She could not understand why the dark ebony hair, overlong at the nape with threads of gray at the temple, should be vaguely familiar when it was relatively unremarkable. Frustrated that she could not grasp the tantalizing bit of memory, Michael dropped the blanket back into place around Ethan and cautiously eased herself away from him.

She missed his warmth immediately. In spite of the rocky shelter cold air swirled around her as she sat up. She knew then that while escape from the men was a possibility, her chances of escaping the elements were almost nil. She was stupid with cold, she thought, because knowing that she might freeze to death in the wild mountains of Colorado didn't change her mind about leaving.

Michael carefully searched beneath the blankets for Ethan's discarded gloves. Finding them, she put them on, then removed the uppermost blanket and wrapped it around her head and shoulders. Michael rose slowly, making certain her stiff and unsteady legs would support her before stepping over Ethan and out of the stone shelter.

The fire the others had built and surrounded with their bedrolls and saddle pillows was a mere pile of embers. Michael stood very still, listening to the shuffle of the horses and the restless movements of the pack mules. She knew her capabilities and admitted that she could never ride one of the animals back to the train, even if she could have mounted. She was likely to be thrown from one of the horses and the mules had been uncooperative even for the men who knew how to handle them. Michael saw no alternative save to set out on foot.

Snow cushioned her footfalls but made walking difficult. She tried not to think of how far she had to go to reach the abandoned train but only of pressing on. After she had been walking awhile she turned around once, just to gauge her distance from the camp, and was discouraged to still be able to see the red-orange glow from the fire. The hundred yards she thought she had walked couldn't have been more than a hundred feet. Michael had considered the possibility of a search party finding her frozen body on the trail. She hadn't considered that she might fall so close to the robbers' camp that they would be witness to her death. It made her angry enough that she was able to increase her pace for the next few minutes.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

The voice, seemingly coming from nowhere, but surrounding her on all sides, brought Michael up short. It was Ethan's voice. There was no mistaking the deep, smooth, whiskey tones and the faint drawl. There was also no mistaking the impatience, incredulity, and anger. She clutched the blanket more tightly closed at her throat and squinted in the darkness to find him. She finally located Ethan standing above her on a rocky ledge. For some reason she thought of a mountain goat and giggled. In seconds, for no apparent reason other than she couldn't help herself, she was laughing uncontrollably.

Recognizing that Michael had reached the end of her mental tether, Ethan climbed down from his perch. His large hands clamped her shoulders and his long fingers pressed deeply against the blanket and into her flesh. His shake was forceful and Michael's head lolled weakly on the slender stem of her neck. Her laughter died away. The prelude to silence was a hiccup.

Michael stared wide-eyed and solemnly at her captor, rather surprised at the sound and the fact that it had come from her. She tried to recall if she had had something to drink.

"I should kill you," Ethan said emotionlessly. He could see her well enough to know that she didn't blink. She was either the bravest woman he had ever met or the most hopelessly naive. Ethan voted for the latter. She didn't think he meant it. "As sure as I know anything, I know you're going to bring me grief. I knew it the minute I saw you on that train. I think I knew it the moment I first laid eyes on you." One hand dropped to his gun and his fingers curled around the handle.

"What are you two doin' out here?"

Ethan spun around, gun drawn. Happy McAllister stood some fifteen feet down the trail. "Jesus, Happy, are you trying to get yourself killed? Don't sneak up on me that way."

"I already got the drop on you, Ethan." Happy slipped his gun back in his holster. "You would have noticed 'cept for your woman there. I'm of a mind to kill her myself for tryin' to hightail it outta here."

Ethan put his Colt away. Behind him he felt Michael begin to sag. Before she could fall he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her around in front of him to face Happy. "You thought she was leaving?" Ethan asked. He managed to sound surprised that Happy would reach that conclusion.

"I saw her sneakin' out with my own eyes."

"Do you hear that, Michael?" Ethan asked, keeping her propped up and steady on her frozen feet. "Happy thought you were leaving and he was going to kill you for it." Perhaps that would shake her out of her stupor. If he hadn't found her before Happy, she would be dead now. "Michael?"

"I was going to..." she said quietly, "...going to relieve myself."

There was a bit of her brain that wasn't frozen, Ethan thought, and she had managed to put it to credible use. "You have a problem with my wife tending to a call of nature, Happy?"

"No problem," Happy said after a moment's thoughtful pause. "But ain't she a tad fer from the camp?"

"You're welcome to check her trail," Ethan told him. "You'll see for yourself that she was circling back."

With a distressed sigh, Michael realized Ethan's words were true. She had become disoriented in the dark and, at the time Ethan had called to her, she had actually been making her way back to the camp.

"Go on back to camp, Happy. Let me take care of my wife myself."

"Guess that's why you followed her in the first place, is it?"

"Guess so."

Happy shrugged, one wiry brow raised skeptically. "If you say so, Stone. Only I don't recollect ever hearin' a man sayin' he'll take care of his missus by killin' her. Or did I mistake your intention when I came walkin' down here?"

"If you'd ever been married to more than that mule of yours, you'd know that wanting to shake the devil out of your wife is all part and parcel of the arrangement."

"Shakin' ain't killin'," Happy said, turning on his heel. Still mumbling under his breath and scratching the uneven growth of beard on his chin, he walked away.

"He's right," Michael whispered. "You were going to kill me."

Ethan didn't deny it. "I still might."

Michael tore away from the embrace that was holding her upright and began to retrace her steps back to the camp. Her progress was clumsy, almost drunken, and when she veered off the path considerably, Ethan snapped at her.

"Where the hell do you think you're going now?"

"I have to relieve myself."

"Oh, for God's sake," Ethan muttered. He waited with ill-disguised impatience on the trail as Michael disappeared behind a boulder and beneath the sheltering boughs of some spruce trees. When she didn't return quickly enough to suit him he started after her.

Upon hearing his approach Michael quickly righted her undergarments and stood. "I'm coming," she called. She noticed her announcement did not deter him. "I said, 'I'm coming,'" she repeated with as much dignity as she could muster.

Ethan didn't hear dignity. "God, but you're pathetic," he said, quickly assessing her appearance. She was huddled beneath the blanket. She had pulled it over her head and she was still shaking so badly she could barely stand. He hunkered down at her feet and touched the hem of her skirt and felt her leather shoes. Both were wet and crusted with ice from her ill-advised trek in the snow. Without telling her his intention, Ethan picked her up and slung Michael over his shoulder. "You need a keeper," he grumbled.

"I had five," she said as blood rushed to her head. "Thanks to you and the others they're all dead."

"Repeat that to anyone else," he told her, "and you'll join them."

She was silent as he carried her back to the site of their blankets. When she started to get under the blankets, he stopped her.

"Take off your skirt and shoes."

Michael couldn't believe she had heard him correctly so she made no move to obey.

Ethan knelt beside her, brusquely grabbed her by the ankles, and began unlacing her shoes. She fought him, kicking him in the chest with her feet. He slapped her lightly in the face with the back of his hand. It had the desired effect of stunning her into compliance. "That's better," he said.

"You hit me," she said accusingly.

There was no apology in his voice. "And I'll do it again if you don't start doing what I say." He pulled off one shoe. "Get the other one off while I get an extra pair of socks from my saddle bag. No arguments. Just do it. The skirt, too."

She wondered if he had an extra skirt in his saddle bag, but some fuzzy sense of self-preservation helped her keep silent. By the time he returned she had complied. A pair of thick woolen socks were dropped in her lap with a growled order to put them on.

"What did you do with the gloves you were wearing?"

She had had to take them off to work her shoestrings. She found them near the burned out fire.

Ethan took them from her. "Don't take anything of mine unless you ask or unless I give it to you. Understood?"

Michael nodded.

He tossed a pair of jeans at her. "Put these on. They're Obie's extras. Best fit I could manage on short notice. I'll lay your skirt out on a rock. It'll be stiff as a day old corpse by morning but you might be able to wear it again. I'm not so sure about the shoes." Ethan threw some more tinder on the cold fire and lighted it. "Pull the blankets closer to the fire then lie down." He was patient with her while she followed his instructions. When she was situated under the blankets he slipped in beside her. "Don't think about moving 'til morning."

She couldn't think about anything else. Trapped as she was by his arm and his leg, freedom burned in her mind. "I don't need you to hold me," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Ethan's sigh was weary. "You can understand if I don't believe you."

"I swear it."

"Go to sleep."

Somehow she did. And later, when Ethan turned away from her, it was Michael who groggily pursued the warmth he provided, fitting her body to the planes and angles of his. It was her leg that insinuated itself between his and her arm which curved around his waist. It was her breath which warmed the nape of his neck and the even cadence of her breathing which lulled him to sleep.

It was something nudging steadily at his foot that woke Ethan. He tried to bat it away as he would a pesky fly, but the rhythmic tattoo was intrusive. Opening his eyes he looked down the length of his body to find the source of the disturbance, then up to see Houston standing over him.

There was a wicked smile on Houston's lean face and his black eyes were knowing. "Looks like you had a better night than the rest of us. Quite a tangle here."

Ethan realized it was true. Michael was curved so tightly against him she was like an extension of his own skin. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so soundly.

"Usually don't have to rouse you," Houston said, stating what Ethan was thinking at that precise moment. "Of course you don't usually have a lady wrapped around you."

Ethan eased himself away from Michael and sat up. Reaching for his gun belt, he put it on, then stood. "You waiting on us to leave?"

Houston handed Ethan a tin mug of hot, black coffee. "Happy's chomping at the bit to move on, but there's no hurry. Posse's days away from being organized and there's a storm coming. In twenty-four hours there'll be no trail to follow. We're safe."

Ethan warmed his hands around the coffee mug and raised it to his lips slowly, breathing the aroma as if the fragrance alone could warm him on the inside. "I didn't get to hear much last night about what happened with the engine. Did you and Jake have any trouble?"

"You were fairly well occupied with your own problems," Houston said, looking significantly at Michael's sleeping form. "But, no, Jake and I didn't have any trouble. After the track was cleared we uncoupled her from the rest of the cars and took 349 about four miles down the line. She built up some good speed on the downgrade but nothing we couldn't handle. We jumped at Hunter's Point and let the engine go on. She didn't make the curve." He made a diving motion with his hand to show what had happened. "In the canyon. It was too dark to see clearly, but the sound echoed for minutes."

Ethan sipped his coffee and noted that Houston sounded pleased with the night's work. "It's too bad we didn't anticipate the Chronicle's cars."

"It couldn't be helped."

Although Houston appeared to shrug off the comment, Ethan knew he was angry about the unpredictable events that had made his plans go slightly less than smooth. "No, it couldn't be helped. The murders are going to cause us some problems."

"You worried?"

"No. You?"

"No." Houston pointed to Michael. "What about her? Happy says she was the fiancée of that reporter you killed."

Ethan nodded. "That's right."

"But you say she's your wife."

"She thought I was dead. I suspect she thought it was time to remarry."

"You never once mentioned a wife."

"I understand you had an encounter with Michael on the train."

"That's right," Houston said.

"Well, if you were married to the shrew, would you admit it?"

Houston turned away, but not before letting Ethan see his slow, thoughtful smile. "I might," he said softly to himself. "I just might."