“Oh? Itchy, are they?” he said as he shook out his match, leaving them in darkness, save for the crescent of light that came in through the opening. He wondered if thousands of years ago, the pipestone had presented itself to the outside face of the wall, and if this little cave hadn’t been slowly mined and dug out, following the ore over many years.

  “Itchy,” he repeated. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  He started to take her in his arms, but she was too quick for him. She darted out the opening and was making her way down the hillside before he could collect himself. He peeked out. She was making good time, too.

  She beamed up at him. “Footholds! Somebody carved footholds in here!”

  “Not surprised,” he said as he squeezed back out into the sunshine. If the Indians—Apache and Navajo, most likely, or maybe Pima, Maricopa, or Hohokam—had used this place to quarry pipestone, they naturally would have wanted to make the frequent climb easier.

  He carefully followed her down the hill, but the footholds weren’t made for big American feet wearing bigger American boots, and he slipped and slid as much as climbed down.

  “Very smooth, Slocum,” she said with a grin when he finally made it down to the flat.

  “Big feet,” he said, returning her smile.

  “I’ve heard that about you. You know, big feet, big . . . other things . . .”

  He suddenly swept her up and carried her, laughing, over to the flat rock where they’d spent time the other morning. He set her on her feet, saying, “All right, girl, now you’re askin’ for it,” and proceeded to unbutton her bodice.

  She responded by going to work on the buttons of his shirt. “I thought you’d never get to this, Slocum!” she breathed.

  He paused his fingers. “Well, if you want to go looking for another cave, I’ll be glad to—”

  “Shut up!” she said, laughing, and pulled his shirt off.

  He had reached the end of the buttons on her bodice, but he’d be damned if he could figure out how the rest of the contraption worked. So he simply pulled apart the layers of undergarments covering her breasts to bare them, and latched his mouth to a ripe nipple. He supposed all the clothes this morning were in response to her uncle’s comment the night before.

  He needn’t have worried about the rest of her garments, though. She peeled out of them faster than he could peel a banana, and was suddenly, wonderfully naked in his arms.

  He lowered his mouth to her willing lips and drank of her sweetness while she fumbled with his gunbelt, then his trousers. Both fell into a pool around his ankles. He was hard as a rock and ready to go, but he broke off the kiss and said, “Boots, honey.”

  She rolled her eyes, but waited while he sat down. She took one of his boots between her legs, and he pushed on her fanny with the other, then repeated the action with the other foot until both boots were off. He shook off his britches, then stood and took her hand.

  “I hate that part,” she muttered.

  “But I love it, baby,” he said, grinning smugly. “Nothin’ in the world like my boot on a pretty gal’s bare backside.”

  She gave his arm a slap, but was careful to avoid the wounded area, which was healing nicely. “Men are pigs,” she said.

  “But I notice that you’re here—and naked—with one of us,” he said, cupping her cheek and running a thumb lightly over her lips. “We can’t be all bad.”

  “I will admit, some of you are sightly better than others.” She stepped into the pool and pulled him along with her, a willing captive.

  She sank down on the smooth sandstone floor of the pool, the water coming just up to her shoulders, and snaked her arms up his chest, letting her hands wander over his scars, comb his chest hair. He was happy to note that the water was pleasantly warm and had done nothing to dampen his . . . enthusiasm.

  In any way, shape, or form.

  He drew her close and kissed her long and deep, then slid his hands down her long, sleek back to cup her ripe buttocks in both hands.

  He lifted her, the water helping to buoy her up, while she spread her legs, wrapping them around him, embracing him.

  He eased her down on his cock until he was fully enveloped in her. Smooth, hot, and slippery, she was, and very enthusiastic.

  She wrapped her arms about his neck and, slowing, began to move up and down, swirling, dancing on him sensuously.

  He moved with her, keeping a precarious balance for the both of them on the stone edge of the pool, rising and falling, dancing and weaving, grinding and releasing.

  Slowly, their tempo grew faster, their sighs turned to pants, their lovemaking became rougher, and each sensation grew sharper, more intense.

  And then Slocum felt Miranda explode, and he stilled himself, holding her quivering body until she quieted, before he began again. This time, he pounded vigorously up into her little body while she held on tight, whispering, “Yes, yes, yes!”

  This time, they came as one, while she called his name and he bucked into her a last time.

  Later, they sat, half-dressed, at the side of the pool. Slocum’s arm was around Miranda, and her head was on his shoulder. “I wish every day could be like this,” she said idly.

  “Be nice,” Slocum said.

  She turned her head to face him. “Why can’t it? Why can’t you stay on, Slocum?”

  His mouth quirked up in a little smile, and he gave her nose a pinch. “You know better than that, Miranda.”

  “I suppose I do. But still . . .”

  She was still naked from the waist up, and Slocum cupped one breast, stroking the nipple with his thumb until it beaded.

  “You’re a beautiful gal, Miranda, and someday, you’re going to have this whole place in your name. You won’t have any trouble attractin’ a better man than me. One that’ll stick around. I promise.”

  She snorted softly, then said, “Slocum, something rather odd happened. Last night, Uncle Abel mentioned my daddy’s safe.”

  “Yeah, I remember. So?”

  “So I didn’t know anything about it. Uncle Abel said it was full of unpaid bills, but Carmelita said Daddy told her it had ‘everything I’d ever need’ in it. Frankly, I think I trust Carmelita more than Uncle Abel.”

  Slocum frowned. “And you never heard anything about this safe before?”

  She shook her head. “I’m telling you, I didn’t know he even had one. Carmelita says it’s in the wall of his room, behind my mama’s portrait. I mean, don’t you think that’s strange? That he never mentioned it to me, I mean?”

  “Yes, I do,” Slocum replied, and slid his hand away from her breast. “Get dressed, honey. I think it’s time to go back to the old homestead.”

  She heaved a small sigh. “If you say so. But I’m going under protest.”

  He grinned. “Noted.”

  11

  The ride back seemed shorter.

  Her body still tingling from the encounter at the pool, Miranda’s thoughts came into focus on the facts. Money had been tight since her father died. Mainly, she decided, due to Uncle Abel’s penchant for faro, not because of unpaid bills.

  Fiction. All of it. Maybe the answers were still in that safe.

  Much as she hated to admit it, Slocum was probably right. Truth was, she wouldn’t put anything past her uncle. She was young when her father died, and no one had ever told her how it happened. Just that he’d fallen from his horse and hit his head. Papa had never regained consciousness.

  Again, she asked herself how this could be possible. Her father had been known—and justifiably so—as the toughest bronc rider around. How in the world had Bertha, his trusty old saddle horse, thrown him?

  And Uncle Abel had been with him when it happened.

  Lately, he had made her skin crawl. Not that he’d done anything out of line. Mostly the sly looks when he thought she wasn’t looking. And remarks that often held a double meaning.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Slocum said, pulling Cougar up next to her. “You been awful quiet on the way back.”

  “Just thinking,” she replied as the trail rounded an outcropping of rock. Then she heard a zip, zip, followed immediately by gunshots echoing off the hillsides.

  “Back,” Slocum yelled.

  They wheeled the horses and ducked behind the rocks.

  It was a bone-chilling sound. Slocum hadn’t heard bullets flying that close—and missing—since the war. In an instant, he was off Cougar and catching Miranda as she slid to the ground. He threw her down and drew his revolvers. Several more shots pinged against the rocks, showering them with chips.

  Cross fire!

  Slocum grabbed Miranda’s arm and pushed her into a crevice. He wedged himself in behind her. Cougar stood about ten feet off to the side, his normally white-ringed eyes showing red and his ears pinned.

  But Miranda’s horse bucked, and then reared before racing toward the Bar C.

  And then he heard Miranda moan. Two more shots slammed into the dirt a few feet away. Slocum emptied one of his Colts toward a grove of cottonwoods. More than one person seemed to be firing. A flash and another chunk of rock was blown off beside his ear.

  Behind him, Miranda choked out a scream. He pushed tightly against her. From the corner of his eye, Slocum saw movement. And a red checkered shirt, suspiciously like the one Abel Cassidy had worn that morning. Another bullet whizzed overhead.

  Slocum sighted and got off another shot. Then all was quiet.

  “Are they gone?” Miranda whispered after a long moment.

  “Hush, baby.” Slocum removed his hat and crouched to pick up a stick. He placed his hat on the tip and slowly inched it out of the crevice. Nothing. “Seems so.”

  “Did you see who it was?”

  Slocum gingerly eased himself out and scanned the terrain. “Didn’t get a clear sight, but I can guess.”

  “Why would anyone try to kill us?” she asked.

  “Those shots were just scare tactics. Out there in the open, we were like ducks on a pond. Come on out. Seems safe enough now.”

  She didn’t move.

  Slocum turned and began to pull her up and out. “You stuck in there, or—”

  Miranda’s hand covered the right side of her face. Blood oozed between her fingers. Her eyes rolled back in her head and then closed. He caught her before she slumped to the ground.

  Slocum bent over her, too stunned to move.

  Don’t panic, he thought. Stay calm and just think. But a cry broke from his lips. “Miranda!”

  She didn’t answer, but the pulse in the hollow of her throat beat a strong rhythm. There was an ugly bruise forming above her eye. Blood streamed from a small cut.

  Must have been struck by a rock fragment, he decided.

  Bastards!

  Slocum whistled and Cougar moved in close. The trusty Appaloosa would shield them from view if those rotten sonsabitches were still out there.

  He reached for his canteen. The water was still cool. Slocum removed his bandanna and soaked it. Then, wringing it out, he squatted and gently wiped Miranda’s face.

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Wh-what happened?” She tried to sit, but collapsed again. She groaned weakly and closed her eyes. “My head.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. You’re fine. Just a little scratch.”

  Slocum spoke calmly, but inside his blood was boiling. Someone would pay dearly for this. If he had his way, they wouldn’t die an easy death, either. “You lay still. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t go,” she cried.

  “Miranda, you can’t ride. Besides, your horse ran off. Now be a good girl and listen.”

  Slocum rinsed the cloth, folded it, and placed it over her eyes. “Just rest a minute. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Slocum stood and covered the open ground to the cottonwoods. Whoever had hid in the trees had been there awhile. Their horses had cropped the grass and trampled the ground where they had been tethered. The shooters’ rock-lined fire ring still smoked.

  He kicked the ashes. Beneath them, embers still glowed. Scattered around the campsite were remnants of the bushwhackers’ meal.

  Drawing his knife, Slocum quickly hacked down two long poles and dragged them to the rock formation where Miranda waited. She appeared to be sleeping, but as he approached, he saw her draw a bead on him with the little one-shot derringer he’d given her.

  “Miranda. Put that thing down. It’s me.”

  Slocum untied his pack roll and lashed the blanket to the poles in a makeshift travois. Then he rigged the carrier to Cougar’s saddle and strapped it into place.

  Miranda’s wound had stopped bleeding, but it looked terrible. He traced the edges of the bruise with his fingertips, then probed her forehead for signs her skull was broken.

  Thankfully, like most of the scalp wounds he’d seen, it looked worse than it actually was. Miranda would have one mountain of a headache, though.

  “This isn’t gonna be a fun ride,” he told her, lifting her onto the travois. “But easier than me tryin’ to hold onto you while Cougar carries the both of us back to the ranch. We’re still a few miles out.”

  There was no guesswork to it. Miranda was in terrible pain and faded in and out of consciousness. She grimaced and slipped the derringer into her pocket, though. All the fight seemed to flow out of her as he secured her to the carrier.

  “Whatever you say,” she murmured. “I’ll try to be brave,” she added, just before she passed out again.

  And brave she was, Slocum thought, leading Cougar during Miranda’s bone-jarring trek to the ranch. “I’m right proud of you,” he told her more than once as she slipped in and out of her senses.

  Slocum hatched several plans on the way back. If he told Abel she was dead, he’d want to see the body. But if he let Abel think she’d escaped with only a minor wound, Miranda would be in danger anytime he left her alone to track the rest of those bushwhackers.

  And he couldn’t very well tip his hand too soon, or they’d be long gone before he caught them.

  Shit!

  Kicking a rock in frustration, he kept walking.

  Long shadows hugged the ground as they approached the Bar C’s outbuildings. Miranda groaned with each jounce and jolt.

  Rage and little else filled Slocum’s brain. Only concern for her safety prevented him from lighting out after those bastards right then and there, catching them and killing them on the spot. Trial be damned.

  They’d admitted to killing Dave Crone. Accident my ass. And now Miranda. Pure luck and poor aim had prevented her from being dead, too.

  He wished he’d listened closer to Dave’s stories about Yaqui tortures. Like the dime novels said, shooting was too good for those bastards.

  He stopped short of the main house. Near an old tack shed, he untied Miranda from the travois.

  She opened her eyes. “This isn’t the house.”

  “Just trust me awhile longer,” he said, helping her into the shed. He swept tack and tools off a workbench and helped Miranda up.

  Covering her with the blanket, he told her, “Wait here and don’t make any noise.” Then he tossed the travois inside and smoothed out its telltale tracks.

  Slocum rode Cougar to the front of the house. “Carmelita,” he yelled, without dismounting.

  Abel Cassidy banged open the screen and rushed onto the veranda. Evil surrounded him. And he was still wearing that damned red shirt. “What the hell have you done with my niece?” he shouted.

  “I thought she was here,” Slocum answered.

  “Why the blazes would I ask where she was, if she was here?” he said.

  “Calm down, Abel,” Slocum said, feeling anything but calm himself.

  “Bandits attacked us,” he went on. “Probably the same lot that’s been killin’ the horses. I chased ’em off, but Miranda was hoppin’ mad at me for not killin’ them outright. She took off. Told me not to follow her. I figured she came back here, and now you’re sayin’ you ain’t seen her?”

  Slocum didn’t have to work hard at putting a worried look on his face. And if he did say so himself, he was a damn good liar.

  “Christ on a crutch! No, she ain’t here,” Abel bellowed, his face turning red. “Are you thick-headed or somethin’? That damned horse of hers came back two hours ago, all in a lather and winded. Musta threw her out there someplace.”

  “Pipe down, Abel,” Slocum said. “She’ll be back when she gets good and cold, which oughta be pretty damned soon. Till then, I’m stabling Cougar and then getting me somethin’ to eat. I’m hungry as a grizzly bear in spring.”

  Abel trailed him to the horse barn. “If anything’s happened to my niece, I’m holdin’ you personally responsible.”

  It was all Slocum could do to stay composed. For once, he felt like behaving worse than any melodrama those dime novel hack writers could dream up.

  Instead he said, “All right. Soon as I grab a bite, I’ll go back up the trail and look. Why don’t you saddle your horse and start without me?”

  It was already twilight.

  Certain Cassidy was out of earshot, Slocum ran to the tack shed. As soon as he opened the door, Miranda threw herself into his arms. “Slocum.”

  “Glad to see you up and about.” He could tell she’d worked herself into a mighty rage all by herself. “Let’s get something to eat and see if we can come up with a plan.”

  Slocum half carried, half dragged Miranda to the back door of the house.

  Carmelita was throwing a dishpan full of water on the rosebushes. She tossed the pan aside and came running.

  “¡Madre de Dios! Miranda! Slocum! What happen? You worry Carmelita sick.” She looped one of Miranda’s arms around her shoulders and helped Slocum take her into the kitchen.

  Carmelita scurried between the stove and table while Miranda and Slocum filled her in with details of the ambush and Carmelita intermittently fussed over Miranda’s bruised face.

  Slocum helped himself to another piece of chicken fried steak and cornbread as Carmelita refilled his cup. He said, “So that leaves us with a big problem. What to do with Miranda while I find out the truth.”