“They took my son, damn you!”

“They kill for the sport of it.” Jeb clenched his jaw. “You think you’re going to find them by yourself?”

Green eyes flashed. “If it’s the last thing I do.” She halted, her bosom heaving.

“Like hell you will.” Jeb released her. He didn’t want to be affected by this woman. He didn’t want to be needed by her.

Instead, he thought of honor and integrity. Of patriotism. He thought, too, of leaving the country he’d just come back to. One more time. And his plans for California disintegrated like smoke in the wind.

“I’ll help you, damn it.”

She gaped at him. For a long moment no one spoke.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I can. And right now you have no one else.”

“I don’t even know you!”

“You will by the time we get to Mexico….”

Praise for new Historical author
Pam Crooks

“Pam Crooks brings every character, every danger, every ordeal to life through her vivid descriptions and snappy dialogue. This is one author whose star is rising fast.”

—Romantic Times on Hannah’s Vow

“Pam Crooks writes westerns like nobody’s business! They grab you from the start, and you better hang on for the ride!”

—The Best Reviews on Broken Blossoms

The Mercenary’s Kiss
Pam Crooks

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my agent, Paige Wheeler.

Thank you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Prologue

Texas, 1896

“L a-adies and gentlemen! What a singular pleasure it is to bring to your fair city the most dazzling, the most thrilling, the most renowned extravaganza this side of the Missouri! Doc Charlie’s Medicine Sho-o-w-w!”

The audience packing the wooden benches inside the canvas tent whooped and clapped, their enthusiasm as palpable as the sawdust beneath their feet. Men whistled. Women and children cheered. The calliope player banged the keys in a chaotic medley of earsplitting notes, all to perpetuate the excitement and anticipation of the entertainment to come.

As always, Elena Malone was filled with her own excitement of yet another performance to a crowd who had traveled from miles around to watch.

A crowd with money in their pockets, of course.

The medicine show was her father’s production. Doc Charlie Malone carried the responsibility of the entire troupe on his shoulders. As pitchman for his own elixir, Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound, it was up to him to sell enough bottles after every performance to support them all.

And there wasn’t a better pitchman than Pop.

Oh, but she never tired of watching him. He always dressed impeccably in a smart suit and crisp white shirt, kept his mustache trimmed neat and his graying goatee combed and stylish. He had eyes that were sharp and straightforward. His booming voice inspired confidence. Honesty. Doc Charlie Malone was the picture of professionalism.

A medicine man the crowd could trust.

And why not? He touted his elixir with pride, and while the results he claimed didn’t always happen to everyone, most times they did. Elena was shrewd enough to know there wasn’t a cure around that could single-handedly conquer the world’s ills.

But Pop’s elixir came close.

She roused herself from her musings and realized that Jake, the show’s blackface comedian, had finished his opening routine. The crowd’s laughter attested to their enjoyment of his jokes and his success in delivering them. He was still taking his bow when a trio of jugglers appeared in the ring, plates spinning in the air as they ran.

Elena’s gaze swept the crowd and noted the rapt expressions on the people’s faces, their happiness and delight. On cue, the performers abandoned the plates and switched to fiery torches. Everyone seemed to wait with bated breath at the jugglers’ dexterity, at the danger, fearful they might be burned and fascinated by the possibility.

Everyone except one.

Her attention snagged upon a man openly staring at her. A Mexican with jet-black hair that cascaded down to his shoulders in gleaming waves, and who possessed eyes as dark, as glittering, as polished onyx.

Elena pulled her own eyes away. She was accustomed to men staring at her—women and children, too, of all ages. It was part of performing in front of a curious public. She had learned to distance herself from it.

“Your cape, Elena.”

She turned and glanced at Toby, the freckle-faced young man who worked behind the scenes to help keep the show going smoothly and on schedule. A ventriloquist and a song-and-dance team would perform after the jugglers. She had some time yet before she’d take her turn in the ring.

She smiled as he settled the satin fabric around her shoulders. She was inexplicably glad for the covering—not that she was shy wearing her red-spangled costume, which conformed to the shape of her body like a second skin, enabling her to move freely during her trick-riding routine. She still had the uncanny feeling the Mexican watched her. “Thanks.”

“Good crowd tonight,” Toby commented. He removed his cap and ran his shirtsleeve over his sweaty forehead. He always labored hard for the show. Pop was lucky to have him.

“Yes. The take will be high, I think.”

“High enough for Doc?” He grinned, his expression teasing, but knowing.

Her mouth softened. “Is it ever?”

Pop’s obsession to sell his precious elixir, cases of it, was common knowledge among the troupe. The more money they took in, the happier Pop would be.

But then, everyone knew their expenses were formidable. If Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound didn’t sell, the troupe didn’t eat. Their debts always came first.

“Be careful out there, Elena.” Serious again, Toby pulled his cap back onto his head.

She gave him a confident wink. “I always am.”

He moved away from her, to the next chore that awaited him. Elena turned back to the ring, her fingers fastening the cape’s clasp. Only minutes to go.

The first wave of apprehension went through her, as it always did before she performed. Even though she was only eighteen years of age, Pop considered her the show’s top act—the final one before his pitch. He depended on her to leave the audience so thrilled, so awe-struck, they were compelled to buy his elixir out of sheer gratitude for the pleasurable entertainment he’d given them.

At last, it was time. Toby led a pair of white horses into the ring, both unsaddled and wearing red-feathered ornaments on their heads. Elena swept off her cape with a flourish, bowed, then bounded onto the lead horse’s back. With an ease she’d earned from countless hours of practice, she performed her routine of splits and cartwheels, tail and shoulder stands, until the crowd cheered in delight. She slid into the grand finale—a breathtaking choreography of somersaults and back flips on a half-dozen matching white horses.

When the routine was complete, she dismounted in one fluid leap. The applause increased to an even higher crescendo. Exhilarated, she sank into a long, deep bow of acknowledgment.

“Yes-sir-ree, ladies and gentlemen!” Pop’s booming voice soared over the applause. “An extravaganza the likes you’ll never see again! Doc Charlie’s Medicine Sho-o-w-w!”

After another rise of cheers, the clapping gradually quieted. The audience knew the show hadn’t ended yet, that there was more to come. No one understood better than Pop that the townspeople had gathered under the tent not only to be entertained but to be cured of their ills, real or imagined.

“Now, you fine folks realize that Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show has to move on. By dawn’s first light, we’ll be on the road west. So tonight is your one and only chance to be healed.”

Cheers erupted again. Clearly Pop held the crowd transfixed.

“I don’t claim that my elixir is a cure-all for everything. But I’m telling you true, Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound is made right from the secrets of the ancients.” He held up a bottle for them to see. “This elixir is good for three things. The kidneys, the stomach and the liver. And any singular disease rising there-from!”

Elena had slipped from the ring with the horses to allow her father the audience’s complete attention. From her vantage point near one of the tent’s entrances, she watched him. She was proud of his honesty, his forthrightness. The people looked to him for hope. And health.

Pop couldn’t afford the national advertising many of the patent medicine companies used to sell their products. He had only himself—and the herbal compound he had created—to draw in customers. Thus, his pitch had to be sterling and straightforward.

Riveting.

The audience was indeed riveted to his oratory about a man cured of tapeworms from Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound. Pop always gave specifics. He revealed the man’s name, his occupation, his hometown. Even the number of children he had.

And the crowd believed.

“Again, I tell you true, ladies and gentlemen. There is not a greater pain remedy on earth than my herbal compound. There is no sore it will not heal, no ache it will not subdue. Why, you can even use it to treat your horses and cattle!”

A collective murmur of surprise rippled through the tent.

“Yes-sir-ree! One dollar for a bottle. That’s all, ladies and gentlemen. One dollar. Isn’t that a sweet price to pay for an elixir this miraculous?”

Men dipped into their pockets. Women reached for their handbags.

“You won’t have a chance to buy this wonderful cure ever again. No-sir-ree! We’ll be gone by dawn, so stock up now! Buy two bottles. Three or four, if you please.”

Along with the show’s other performers, Elena took her place at a tent entrance, cases of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound stacked at her feet.

“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! One dollar a bottle! That’s right. Just one dollar!”

The rush of footsteps drowned out Pop’s voice. The wooden benches cleared and the aisles filled with people eager to buy their own supply of elixir. Elena had all she could do to keep up with the stream of customers, each waving dollar bills in her face.

Pop had done it again.

Toby dropped the last of the leather bags into the heap piled in Elena’s arms. Her muscles strained with the weight of the night’s take, but it was a strain she gladly endured.

“Sure you don’t need some help, Elena?” Toby asked, picking up scattered crates once filled with elixir.

“No, thanks. The show ran long tonight, and you have plenty of chores to do yet.”

“All right, then. See you in the morning.”

Giving him an answering smile, Elena stepped from beneath the canvas into the night. Pop was busy with the crew as they labored to take down the tent; he wouldn’t be free to count their money for another couple of hours yet.

The crowd had long since headed for home. The field where they’d staged the show was empty except for the pieces of trash strewn among the weeds, trampled flat from the evening’s activities. Except for the low drone of the generator keeping the tent’s lights glowing, the night was quiet.

Elena’s costume provided little warmth from the night’s chill, and she hurried toward the gaily painted, high-wheeled wagon she shared with her father—and the safe he’d bolted securely inside. Tomorrow, they would deposit the money into the nearest bank. Pop would be pleased to know the week’s bills would be paid in full with enough left over for some much needed extras.

Upon reaching the wagon, she propped one foot on the bottom step and eased the cumbersome bags onto her thigh while she struggled to turn the knob.

A man’s hand suddenly covered hers. “Señorita.”

She froze at the heavily accented voice harsh in her ear, at the tequila on his breath.

At the menace in his presence.

She jerked her hand away and pushed against him to flee, but the cold metal of a knife’s blade at her throat stopped her.

Her breathing quickened in fear. In horror. The low nicker of unseen horses nearby indicated the Mexican wasn’t alone.

And she didn’t have a chance with any of them.

“You want the money, don’t you?” she whispered shakily, a sickening sensation coiling faster and faster inside her at the impending loss.

“Ah, señorita. That is not all I want.”

Abruptly he spun her about, and she scrambled to keep her balance, her arms automatically tightening around the money. He plucked one of the bags from the heap and tossed it into the darkness, to the men mounted behind them. He did the same with another, and then another.

Until Elena’s arms were empty.

Dismay welled up inside her. “No! You can’t do this! You can’t!”

The Mexican barked an order. Horses’ hooves pounded deeper into the darkness, then died away.

She was alone with him. Her chest heaved, and she didn’t dare take her eyes off him. She wanted to claw him, to kick and scream at the unfairness of what he’d done.

Of what he was going to do.

But the knife’s blade appeared again and prevented her. The flash of metal in the moonlight left her vulnerable and defenseless. Terrified. His long, wavy hair framed the cruel planes of his face.

Never would she forget that face.

Raw, burning fear surged up inside her. She took a step back, but he was too quick. She turned to flee him, but before she could manage it, he had her in his grip again.

Beneath the blade, the straps of her costume gave way. Elena cried out and clutched the fabric to her breasts. He snarled and pushed her to the ground. A savage yank on the red spangles ripped the garment in two. He clamped a grimy palm over her mouth, smothering her scream.

“Silencio!” He straddled her, his weight rendering her immobile. He unbuckled his belt with his free hand. “I will kill you if you make a sound, señorita. And not even the good doctor’s medicine will help you, then, eh?”

His head lowered; long, wavy hair fell across her cheek. With his mouth and tongue upon her, the stench of his lust, his greed, filled and sickened her.

Afterward, when he left her cold and alone, Elena curled into a tight, miserable ball. And wept.

Chapter One

Laredo. Two Years Later

J eb Carson wanted a night of hard drinking, wild whoring and a plate full of hot, American food. He didn’t care in what order he got them, just that he did. There were times in a man’s life when his needs overrode all else.

Now was one of those times.

He’d ridden hard through northern Mexico toward the Texas border for days. The anticipation drove him hour after long, dusty hour. He didn’t analyze this need to get back to his homeland, that being in America was where he should be. Now that he was back on her soil, he couldn’t wait to have what he’d always taken for granted.

He swept an assessing glance around him. Laredo’s streets bustled with commerce and evening activity, signs that the place had grown since he’d been here last. No one seemed to notice a couple of strangers riding in.

“That belly of yours growls any louder, the whole damn town will know we’re here.”

Jeb glanced at Credence Sherman, the only person he trusted enough to call friend. “Can’t help it. Got a strong hankering for a big, thick steak.”

“Sizzlin’ in its own juices.” Creed grunted. “Me, too.”

They pulled up at a small saloon at the edge of the plaza and dismounted. The interior was cool, dim and unexpectedly crowded.

Jeb preferred crowds. Easier for a man to go unnoticed.

“What’ll it be, boys? A place at the bar? Or your own table?”

He glanced at the first bona fide American woman he’d seen since he left the country six years earlier. She wore an apron around her waist, and she was older than he was by a decade or so, but she was clean and her features were pretty enough to warrant looking at twice. Jeb guessed by the way she was looking back, she was available, too.

“A table,” he said, letting his gaze linger. “We’re staying a while.”

“Glad to hear it.” She tossed him a provocative smile and led them toward the last empty table, wedged in a dark corner at the back of the saloon and hidden from view by anyone walking in. By the sway of her hips, she knew what he was thinking.

And wanting.

After seating them, she left with a promise to bring back a couple of stiff whiskeys. Jeb watched her go, his blood warming just looking at those hips.

“Keep your pants fastened, compadre,” Creed said. “She’s practically old enough to be your mother.”

Jeb allowed a small smile. He hadn’t thought of his mother in years, and he stifled the thought of her now. “Doesn’t matter. She’s warm, breathing and female.”

“You’ve always been able to get any woman you want. Take your time. You’ve got all night.”

“I’m not feeling choosy at the moment. Or patient.”

Creed’s amusement deepened. “Damn, but you’re jaded.”

Jeb hadn’t had a woman since…when? Havana. A little Cuban beauty who’d betrayed him the next morning to her Spanish-loyalist lover.

The incident had nearly cost Jeb his life. But with a fair share of determination and guts, he had escaped the Spanish soldiers holding him prisoner. Within hours a riot erupted, and both the woman and her lover were killed.

Jeb felt no remorse for his part in it. She had double-crossed him—and the United States, which had sent him there to help her people. She’d paid the price for her treason.

As if he, too, remembered, Creed fell silent, and Jeb knew what he was thinking.

War was pure hell. And it was good to be back home.

Creed possessed skin as sun-darkened as Jeb’s, his build as tall, as muscular. Fast friends from their days at West Point Military Academy, they’d formed a partnership based on mutual trust, equal skills.

And a shared passion for rebellion against rules.

Jeb had been born with nerves of steel. Few could match his thirst for risk, that ever-present flirtation with danger he found exhilarating. Only Creed was cut from the same cloth. They’d saved each other’s necks more often than Jeb cared to count.

But at that point, their similarities ended. Creed was headed home to a large, loving family, to the childhood sweetheart he hoped was still waiting for him.

Jeb had no one. At least, no one who cared if he came back or not.

The barmaid returned with their drinks, and without sparing her a glance, Jeb threw back a quick swallow. The whiskey burned the bitterness that flared inside him. A second swallow buried it altogether. He reached inside his coat pocket for a rolled cigarette, then tucked it unlit at the corner of his mouth.

“We’ll head for San Antonio in the morning,” Jeb said, and rooted for a match. “I figure you can take the Southern Pacific to Los Angeles. I’ll send word you’re arriving, and—”

“Come with me, Jeb.”

“No.” His mood souring again, he found the box he was looking for.

“You can find work out there. You—”

“We’ve had this discussion already, Creed.”

“Then what the hell are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something. I always do, don’t I?”

Suddenly, near his left ear, a match struck flint. He stilled. Creed’s attention jumped upward to whoever stood in the shadows beside him.

“Allow me, Mr. Carson.”

The sharp scent of sulfur reached his nostrils. An arm appeared. Jeb dared to dip the end of his cigarette into the flame. He drew in deep. Only then did he look to see who held the match.

A tall, burly-chested man, well into his thirties. He wore a military uniform signifying him as a field officer in the United States Army.

Jeb leaned back in his chair. He narrowed an eye. “Have we met?”

“No, sir.”

“But you know who I am.”

The officer glanced over his shoulder, as if wary someone was listening. “I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind.”

Jeb’s instincts warned he wouldn’t want any part of why this man sought him out. But before he could refuse, Creed pulled out a chair, and the officer seated himself.

“My name is Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Kingston.” He kept his voice low. “I’m here on direct orders from Mr. Alger.”

Jeb put the cigarette to his lips again. He’d been gone a long time, but he made it a point to keep up with the happenings in Washington. Warning bells clamored in his brain. “Russel A. Alger?”

“Yes, sir. Secretary of War for the United States.”

Jeb exchanged a grim glance with Creed.

“We need your help,” Kingston said.

“I’m not interested.”

The officer’s lips thinned. “You don’t know what I’m asking.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m not interested.”

“Mr. Carson.” Desperation threaded through the words, and Jeb recognized the officer’s restraint to keep from showing it. “Perhaps this will convince you of the seriousness of my request.”

Jeb didn’t bother to look at the paper Kingston slid toward him. “How did you find me?”

The officer met his hard expression squarely. “We’ve made a point of keeping track of you.” His glance touched on Creed before returning to Jeb. “Both of you.”

“I’ve been out of the country for—”

“—five years and eleven months.”

“Where exactly have I been, Lieutenant Colonel?” he asked softly.

“South America. Madrid. Havana. Manila. Puerto Rico. Santiago. In that order.”

A slow fury simmered inside him. Suspicions surfaced. “How could you have known I’d be here at this saloon? Tonight?”

“We have sentries out watching for you at the border towns. We knew you’d arrived in Mexico on—”

Jeb’s arm snaked out and he grabbed the man’s shirt hard, yanking him half out of his seat. “My father sent you, didn’t he?”

A sheen of perspiration formed on the officer’s upper lip. For the first time, his gaze wavered. But only for a moment. “I told you. I received my orders to contact you from Mr. Alger.”

“Bullshit.” Disgusted, Jeb shoved him away.

Kingston righted himself in his chair and cleared his throat. “It is, er, possible that General Carson would be aware of—” he drew in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with the information he was about to impart “—of Mr. Alger’s intent.”

Jeb glared at him. “Tell the General he can go to hell.”

“I don’t think I’ll do that, sir.”

“And don’t call me ‘sir!’” Jeb snapped.

He downed the rest of the whiskey in one savage gulp, then raked a harsh glance around the crowded saloon. Where was that damn barmaid? He caught her eye, gestured for another drink. She nodded and winked. Jeb ignored her.

“The document looks legitimate,” Creed said, his low voice penetrating the storm raging inside Jeb. Creed slid the paper closer.

Because Creed wanted him to, Jeb looked at it. He recognized the presidential seal in the letterhead, the signature scrawled at the bottom.

“It’s a copy,” Jeb snarled. “Could be forged.”

“Maybe not,” Creed said, and looked at the lieutenant colonel. “And then again, maybe it is.”

Kingston shook his head emphatically. “President McKinley wrote the letter to the Secretary, Mr. Carson, but it’s about you. Mr. Alger has the original. For obvious reasons, of course. He didn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands.”

The barmaid appeared, and the conversation halted. Jeb snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and refilled his glass himself.

“And whose hands might that be?” he demanded after she left.

“Mexican rebels.”

Jeb breathed an oath. He didn’t want to know. Or feel.

“There have been reports of revolutionary activities against the government of President Porfirio Díaz,” Kingston said quickly before Jeb could stop him. “The people are angry at his tyranny. The government is getting rich off them. Díaz is taking their land, and they’ve found hope in a young upstart named Emiliano Zapata.”

“Zapata.” Jeb recognized the name of the man who was fast acquiring a reputation as a fierce fighter.

“Yes. But the United States has refused to support him, and to retaliate, Zapata’s men have been robbing Americans on both sides of the border to fund their activities. One man in particular has shown himself to be unusually dangerous. His name is Ramon de la Vega.”

“So?” But the name branded itself into Jeb’s memory.

“We’ve cut off the flow of arms into Mexico, and he and his rebels aren’t happy with us. Last week, they stopped a train just outside of Eagle Pass northwest of here, robbed it and killed a dozen people. The month before, they raided a small village and killed another twenty.”

Jeb’s fingers tightened around the glass. “How do I fit into all this?”

“President McKinley fears a major revolution is forthcoming if Zapata and de la Vega are not stopped.”

“And?”

“And we feel that, with your expertise—”

“Find someone else.”

“There’s none other. I mean, you’re highly recommended, sir.”

Jeb snorted. Again he thought of his father. “I’ll bet.”

“By Colonel Theodore Roosevelt. Among others.”

He stilled.

Roosevelt.

Jeb had ridden with the man and his troops during an attack on San Juan Hill in Santiago. It had been a privilege to be part of the initiative with them. But Jeb refused to be swayed by Roosevelt’s influence, even in a matter as serious as this one.

“There are thousands of American forces who can do a hell of a lot more effective job than I can,” he said. “Enlist them instead.”

“Mr. Carson.” Kingston slid another uneasy glance at Creed, as if imploring his help in convincing Jeb to his way of thinking. But Creed merely leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping the discussion on Jeb’s terms. “Let me be frank here. Your skills as a soldier—”

“I’m not a soldier in the truest sense of the word, am I, Lieutenant Colonel? My father saw to that years ago.”

“A mercenary, then.”

A cold smile curved Jeb’s lips. For the first time since Kingston had arrived, some of the tension eased. “That’s more like it.”

The officer withdrew a thick packet from inside his uniform. “Mr. Alger promises generous payment for your services and has instructed me to give you the first installment.”

Jeb snorted. “And what happens to the rest of the money if I end up dead?”

“We certainly hope that isn’t the case, sir.”

“Let me explain something to you.” Jeb took one last drag on the cigarette, exhaled slowly and crushed the ashes in a small bowl. “I’ve been gone a long time. In fact, Creed and I have been back only a couple of hours. As you know.” His mouth quirked. “I’ve spent nights in muddy trenches, sweated days in mosquito-infested jungles. I’ve been shot at, knifed, beaten to within an inch of my life. I’ve been taken prisoner, and I’ve escaped. All in the name of my country.”

Once, he thought nothing of leaving the United States behind. A foreign country—it didn’t matter which one—offered danger and adventure. An opportunity to slake the hurt and rebellion gnawing inside him.

Not anymore.

He’d come full circle. He had traveled the world, seen some things no man should see and done some things no man should do. He’d evolved into a man who made his own rules and lived by them.

He was a patriot. Pure and simple.

But he’d had enough.

“Find someone else,” Jeb said again, and took another swig of whiskey.

“Mr. Carson.” The lieutenant colonel appeared crestfallen at the finality in Jeb’s tone. “You’re the best for the job. Your reputation to accomplish where others have failed is…is legendary.”

Jeb smirked. Legendary? Would the great and mighty General William Carson think as much of his son?

Never.

“Jeb has plans, Lieutenant Colonel,” Creed said, speaking up for the first time. “Chasing after Mexican revolutionaries doesn’t fit into them.”

“Plans?” The officer frowned.

“That’s right.” Jeb grabbed onto the line Creed tossed him. “Heading west first thing in the morning.”

Going to California wouldn’t be a bad idea after all, he decided. Creed’s family would accept him for the man he was. No questions asked. Something his own father had never been able to do.

“Is there anything I can offer you to make you change your mind?” Kingston asked. “More money, perhaps. I’m sure Mr. Alger would understand.”

“No.” He slid the packet back to the officer, who reluctantly returned it to the pocket inside his uniform. Jeb stood, and Kingston did the same. “Now, if you’ll excuse us. Creed and I plan to celebrate our return to this fine country.”

Jeb watched the officer go. He steeled himself against thoughts of revolutionaries. Of war and death.

Of being needed.

Instead, he forced his thoughts ahead to the pleasures that awaited him. Plenty of whiskey. A willing woman. And that thick, juicy steak.

For the first time in a hell of a long time, life was good.

Chapter Two

The Next Day

T he deeper they traveled into the Texas woodlands, the more Elena became convinced they were lost.

“Pop, are you sure we’re going the right way?” she asked with a frown. “We haven’t seen anyone for a couple of hours now. Not even a ranch or farmhouse.”

The woods seemed to be getting thicker, too. She glanced up at the sky, gauged the sun’s location and determined it was more westerly than it should be.

From his place next to her on the wagon seat, Pop looked at the sky with her. “I’m sure this is right, Lennie. And if it’s not, we’ll still find our way to San Antonio.”

“San Antonio is north. We’re heading west.”

“There’s more than one road to take us there.” He patted her knee in gentle reassurance. “Soon as we get into open area, it’ll be easier to see where we’re at. Don’t you worry none.”

But Elena did worry. She didn’t like the eeriness she felt from being in the woods alone. A stop for some much-needed supplies had given them a late start, and the troupe had ridden ahead. She missed the protection that traveling with a large group provided.

They would be miles ahead of her and Pop by now. With every hour that passed, it seemed less and less likely they would meet up with them in time for the next show.

She sighed, leaned forward and cupped her chin in her hands. The road was rough, hardly more than a rutted trail, and it bounced the wagon continuously.

She tried not to think about being lost. Pop knew what he was doing. He always did. They’d traveled together for her entire life, and he had an uncanny knack for direction. Not once had they missed one of his shows because he made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.

But today could be the first time.

She eyed him covertly, and her worry deepened. He’d begun to show his age these past months. He tired more easily, moved a little slower. Countless hours riding on a hard wagon seat in all kinds of weather was beginning to take its toll.

Only his medicine shows invigorated him. Doc Charlie thrived on them.

Not so, Elena. Once, the crowds exhilarated her. The smells and sounds. The opportunity to travel and see parts of the country she might never see otherwise.

It was all she knew, this traveling, and she had grown weary of it. She longed for a home—a real house—of her own. With a yard and a garden and neighbors to wave to when they passed by.

She sighed again. Pop wouldn’t understand this change in her. In fact, he’d be devastated if he knew.

Winter would be upon them soon. As always, they’d find someplace to stay for the coldest months, work on new routines, and Pop would make plenty more of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound. Come spring, he’d be ready to go again.

Except Elena wouldn’t be with him.

She simply had to tell him her decision. The sooner, the better.

Even more important, she had to convince him not to go, either. She wanted him to settle down with her so she could take care of him in more comfortable surroundings. He could even open his own apothecary. He could find plenty of new opportunities to sell his elixir. Lots of patent medicine companies did.

She drew in a breath. “Pop?”

“You’ve got something on your mind, Lennie. Have now for a while, haven’t you?”

She straightened. Had it been so obvious? “Yes.”

“If you’ve got a problem, we can’t solve it if I don’t know about it. Isn’t that right?”

Elena gave him a rueful smile. Pop might be slowing down physically, but his mind was sharp as ever. “Yes.”

He covered her clasped hands with one of his. “Well, go on. I’m listening.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but a soft noise in the back of the wagon closed it again.

“Is that who I think it is?” Pop asked, his eyes twinkling at the timing of the intrusion.

“I’ll only be a few minutes. We’ll talk then, okay?”

Pop winked. “I’ll be right here on this wagon seat.”

Bracing herself against the jerky motion, Elena slipped through the narrow door leading into their living quarters. She pulled back a tiny curtain over the window. Daylight filtered inward, enabling her to see the dark-eyed baby wiggling in the crib.

Her son, Nicholas. The love of her life.

“Hello, sweet-cakes,” she cooed, scooping him into her arms for a hug. “You took such a good nap, didn’t you?”

“Ma-ma-ma.”

She kissed him on the nose. The warmth from his chubby body soaked into her as he cuddled close, laying his head on her shoulder. But in the next moment his head came up again, and he peered at her, his grin happy and expectant.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, laughing.

Nicky was always hungry, but then, he was growing so fast. She could hardly believe they’d already celebrated his first birthday.

She laid him in the little crib. “Mama will change you, and then you can eat, okay?”

Stepping to the small bureau where she kept his clothes in a drawer with hers, she retrieved a fresh diaper. By the time she returned to the crib, he’d already pulled himself up and was trying to climb over the rail.

Elena laid him back down again. She could barely keep up with him anymore. He had boundless energy and curiosity. He delighted in staying just a step ahead of her and found it all great fun when she was forced to give chase during his adventures.

She removed the soiled diaper and replaced it with the clean one, her fingers deftly maneuvering the pins while her thoughts drifted to when he’d first learned to climb out of his bed. They were traveling somewhere in western Louisiana, and it’d been pure chance she peeked into the wagon to check on him while he napped.

She nearly had heart failure seeing him toddle toward the back door. His pudgy hand turned the knob, and by the time she clamored through to reach him, he’d pushed it right open.

A shudder went through her just thinking of it. One lurch from the rig and he could have fallen out. He could have become entangled beneath the heavy wheels.

He could have been killed.

Of course, they kept the door locked after that. Still, a traveling wagon was no place to raise a child.

Settling him on her hip, she found a box of crackers and returned to the driver’s seat with Pop. She wouldn’t be able to warm anything until they stopped to build a fire, and given their urgency to catch up with the rest of the troupe, Pop wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.

“Why, there’s my little man!” Pop boomed in greeting.

Nicky wiggled with excitement at seeing his grandfather. Pop lavished him with his usual round of kisses against the curve of Nicky’s neck, which never failed to send him into shrieks of laughter. Pop lifted his head and pried his goatee from little fingers, then sat back in his seat. His eyes gleamed with pride. And love.

“What a joy that boy is to me, Elena,” he said.

A surge of emotion welled inside her. She hugged Nicky close. “To both of us.”

She centered her world, her every thought and action, around him. He’d been conceived in a few horrible moments of violence, that cruel twist of fate which had torn apart her virginity and planted him in her womb, a tiny human being innocent of the horrors of the outside world.

But a constant reminder of them.

Haunted by the hate which threatened to destroy her, Elena had had every intention of ending the pregnancy. She wanted no part of the brutal Mexican who had shattered her innocence and tormented her with nightmares. How could she bear it?

How could any woman?

But the days passed, and slowly she healed. Pop’s devastation from her attack ran deep, but he loved her unequivocally, and the rest of the medicine show troupe—the only real family she’d ever known—surrounded her with overwhelming warmth and support. From them, the people who loved her most, she drew courage and went on.

The hate eventually died, buried beneath the hope and anticipation that unexpectedly grew in its stead. She began to realize the baby growing inside her was her own, and no one could ever change that. Perhaps it was God’s way of helping her survive the ordeal; she thanked Him every day for giving her Nicky.

“Ma-ma-ma.”

After finishing his cracker, he patted her chest and plucked at the buttons of her blouse. He didn’t nurse much these days, and the thought that he’d be fully weaned soon saddened her. Another sign of how fast he was growing and that he didn’t need her as much. Pop handed her a baby blanket and Nicky’s favorite stuffed horse from the basket tucked beneath the seat; she cuddled her son close, and he began to nurse.

He lifted his hand and curled his fingers around her thumb. Elena pressed her lips to the warm skin, shades darker than her own, then gently brushed the wavy hair away from his temple—hair thick and gleaming black.

Like his.

The differences between mother and son were striking. Nicky was as dark as Elena was fair. Someday he’d question her about it, and she’d have to tell him the truth. Until he was old enough to understand the circumstances surrounding his heritage, however, she wouldn’t dwell on them.

Instead, she marveled at what a handsome little boy he was in his red shirt and denim dungarees. As if he knew what she was thinking, he grinned up at her as he suckled, and she laughed at his impishness.

“Elena, honey.”

At the seriousness in her father’s voice, she darted a quick glance toward him. He stared over his shoulder at something that clearly alarmed him.

“Looks like we got trouble.” He pulled his Winchester from behind the driver’s seat and laid it on his lap. “Hang on to Nicky. I’m going to try to outrun ’em.”

“Outrun who?” Her gaze clawed through the woodlands. “Why?”

And then she saw them. A group of a dozen or so heavily armed Mexicans. They were everywhere in the trees behind them—and gaining fast.

“Hee-yah!” Pop yelled, and slapped the reins against the team’s backs.

The wagon lurched forward and picked up speed. Elena held Nicky in a death grip with one arm and clutched the edge of her seat with the other. The sound of horses’ hooves pounded in her ears, but nothing matched the terror thundering inside her heart.

She and Pop had heard of these men. Fierce revolutionaries who thought nothing of robbing innocent Americans of their money and then killing them for their trouble—ordinary citizens who had little to do with their cause but who found themselves helpless against their ruthless tactics.

The rebels followed no pattern. They killed at whim, whether it was a train or a stagecoach, large or small.

Oh, God. Pop’s medicine wagon would make easy pickings.

The rig careened wildly as the team sped over the narrow, rutted path, and Elena braced her feet to keep from toppling over the edge.

“Pop!” she gasped. “Slow down! We’ll upset if you don’t.”

“I can’t let them get us, Lennie!” he said tersely.

Elena heard his desperation, and her fear increased tenfold. Pop wasn’t a fighter, and while she knew how to handle a gun, she’d never shot at a living thing in her life.

“They’re closing in on us,” Pop said.

The men were close enough now she could see the gleaming rows of bullets in their ammunition belts.

He did all he could to handle the team as they lunged and lurched between the trees. Elena ducked to keep from being struck by low branches; she held Nicky so tight he squealed in complaint.

Suddenly a group of the revolutionaries broke away and formed a blockade in the road ahead of them. A formidable row of ruthless men, fanned out and impenetrable with their rifles cocked and leveled right at them.

“Pop! Stop! You have to stop!” she cried.

To crash through the wall of men and horses was unthinkable, and her father swore in frustration. He yanked hard on the reins, and the team reared, their shrill screams piercing the air.

One of the men barked an order, and the revolutionaries took up position on both sides of the wagon. Elena’s focus locked on him, and the blood froze in her veins.

Two years had passed, but she recognized the wavy-haired Mexican as if it were only yesterday.

“It’s him!” she whispered in horror.

She knew what he was capable of, and if she did anything, anything, she had to keep him from seeing Nicky.

She averted her head and frantically covered him with his blanket. Every inch of him. And though he had long since lost interest in nursing and wanted only to sit up now that the wagon had stopped, she kept him tight against her, pressing his face to her bosom to muffle his protests.

As if the past two years had fallen away for him, too, Pop snarled and whipped out the Winchester.

“You son of a bitch!” he bellowed, and cocked the rifle.

But the leader was too quick. A shot exploded. Pop jerked and toppled from the wagon seat with a sickening thud.

Elena screamed. She bolted toward the edge of the rig, her free arm reaching for him though he was sprawled on the ground, too far to touch. Blood bloomed on his shoulder and stained the fabric of his suit coat. She cried out his name on an anguished sob. Ashen-faced, Pop gripped his leg, twisted at an unnatural angle.

“Get into the back, Elena! Now!” he grated through clenched teeth.

He wanted to spare her from seeing what would happen to him next, she knew, and the wagon’s interior would help her protect Nicky.

But Elena wouldn’t leave Pop. She couldn’t. And she’d be a fool to think the men would let her out of their sight if she tried.

“You should have killed him for his insolence, Ramon,” one of the men grunted, dismounting and taking the rifle, which had skidded out of Pop’s reach.

“There is still time for that, eh, Armando?”

The male voices swirled around Elena. Ramon had controlled her once, left her hurting and humiliated, as helpless then as Pop was now. A fury unlike anything she had ever experienced before erupted inside her, and she spun back toward the Mexican.

“Leave us alone, damn you!” she snapped.

He dragged his glance from the side of the wagon, as if he only now had taken the time to see the colorful lettering proclaiming “Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show” and his infamous herbal compound. Beneath the brim of his sombrero, something flickered in those cold, black eyes.

And a slow smile curved his lips.

“Señorita,” he purred.

A thousand times, she’d heard the taunt of that word in her nightmares. Her nostrils flared with hate. “We have no money. Search the wagon. You’ll see the safe is empty!”

Pop had deposited the last show’s take two days ago. The rebels would be disappointed in the small amount of cash he’d kept back for them to live on until their next performance.

Ramon made a slight gesture, and one of his men circled toward the back. The locked doorknob jiggled; in the next moment a gunshot exploded. Within moments, the rebel could be heard thrashing among her and Pop’s belongings.

Nicky squirmed, and his arm shot up out of the blanket. Horrified that he’d managed it, Elena snatched it back down again.

Ramon’s gaze sharpened over her.

Her defiance died.

“Let me see the child, señorita.”

Raw fear clawed through her and stole her ability to speak, to provide a logical reason why she kept her baby hidden beneath a blanket.

Ramon drew closer. Elena’s pulse pounded. She eased away from him toward the far edge of the wagon’s seat.

“You know what will happen if you disobey me, señorita, do you not?”

Her foot found the step that would help her get down. She’d run from him. As fast and as hard as she could.

“Elena. Oh, God, honey.” Still sprawled on the ground, too badly wounded to help, Pop sobbed her name, his anguish as real as hers.

But she ignored him.

Instead, she moved away from the wagon. And toward the woods. One step at a time.

Armando turned his mount as if to give chase. Ramon spoke sharply in Spanish, and he halted.

Ramon himself rode toward her, his horse’s gait slow. Lazy. Calculated.

“I want to see this child you keep from me.” His voice held a suspicious edge.

“No.” She shook her head, her panic rising in leaps and bounds. “No, no.”

Abruptly she turned, but too soon he was there, in front of her, his horse blocking her path. She pivoted and darted into the trees. Nicky squirmed and wiggled against her, and Elena shifted her grasp, her concentration momentarily broken in her need to hold him better. She stumbled over the splintered branches scattered over the ground.

By the time she righted herself, Ramon loomed in front of her again. Lightning quick, he yanked the blanket from Nicky’s head.

Nicky blinked up at him.

Ramon stared downward.

“Por Dios.” His glance dragged to Elena. “You were an innocent—the child’s age—he looks like—”

Elena cried out and spun around, but Ramon swore viciously and grabbed Nicky by the back of his shirt, plucking him from her arms with more force than Elena could fight without hurting her son in the process.

“No-o!” she screamed. She lunged toward Ramon, her fists pounding against his thigh. “Give him back to me. Give him back!”

As if he were a trophy to show off to his men, Ramon turned and held Nicky up high, out of her reach. The resemblance—the thick wavy hair, the black eyes and golden skin—could not be denied.

A moment of stunned silence passed through the revolutionaries.

“Ramon, the gringa speaks the truth. There is no money.” The rebel who had been searching the wagon poked his head out the door.

“I have found something more valuable, Diego.” Ramon settled Nicky in front of him and slid an arm around his waist. “My son.”

“No-o!” Elena screamed.

“Armando!” Ramon snapped. “See that the wagon cannot give us chase.”

“He’s mine!” She lunged toward him, her arms tugging at Ramon’s thigh as she tried to pull him from the saddle. “Nicky is mine!”

“Ramon, she is the child’s mother,” Armando frowned. Clearly, he didn’t approve.

“You can’t take him from me!” Elena pulled on Ramon’s thigh again, this time with a Herculean strength dredged from deep inside her. He jerked sideways, almost losing his seat. With a savage epithet, he regained it again and kicked out. The toe of his boot slammed into Elena’s temple. She staggered backward from the blow.

“Ma-ma-ma!” Nicky shrieked, his fear and panic rising to match hers. His arms strained toward her. “Ma-ma-ma!”

“Nicky! Oh, God! Nicky!” Frantic, Elena catapulted toward Ramon yet again, her hands reaching to grab her son, but in a blinding flash, the butt of his rifle swung toward her.

Pain exploded in her head.

She crumpled and everything went black.

Chapter Three

J eb had one hell of a hangover.

A night with too much whiskey and too little sleep had left him paying the price for his indiscretions. The journey from Laredo north to San Antonio wasn’t helping his affliction any, but Creed had been insistent.

They had a train to catch.

Taking a shortcut through the woodlands lining the Nueces River helped. At least the trees shaded the sun, and the air was cooler. Quiet. Jeb was in no mood to be civil to anyone who happened to come his way.

Even Creed knew to keep his mouth shut. Not that he was in any better shape than Jeb. Years of friendship kept them suffering in companionable silence.

The river looked inviting, though, and Jeb craved a smoke. Their mounts needed rest and drink. He figured they could spare the time, and Creed acknowledged his gesture to pull up with a curt nod.

After dismounting, Jeb stretched muscles tight from too many hours in the saddle, then led his horse to the bank. He removed his hat and raked a hand through his hair. He’d have to get a haircut when he got to San Antonio. A shave and a good, long bath. After being out of the country so long, he’d have to learn how to act in polite society all over again.

He squatted at the river’s edge and caught a glimpse of his reflection on the glistening surface. He refused to speculate on what the General would say if he saw Jeb now—hungover, bleary-eyed and looking barely civilized.

The General wouldn’t approve. But then, he never approved of anything Jeb did.

Jeb splashed cold water over his face and scrubbed all thought of his father from his mind. Cupping his hands, he poured water over his head. The liquid felt good against his scalp and helped ease the steady throb in his temple.

Creed hunkered beside him and handed him a rolled cigarette, then lit one for himself. Jeb drew in deep on the tobacco and squinted an eye toward the treetops. The silence enveloped him. The peace.

He felt the rumble of horses’ hooves moments before he heard them. Creed twisted, searching for riders. Jeb saw them first, just beyond the woods.

He reached for the Colt strapped to his thigh and leapt to his feet, all in one swift motion. Instinct warned a group of men riding as hard as this one was either looking for trouble—or running from it.

He slipped behind a sycamore tree for cover and heard Creed do the same. Back pressed against the trunk, weapon raised, Jeb glanced over at him. His grim expression mirrored Jeb’s unease.

Jeb gauged fifty, maybe sixty yards separated them from the riders. Mexicans, heavily armed. A dozen of them, led by one man. Jeb glimpsed a flash of red, but the trees and distance marred a clearer view, and he couldn’t see what the leader held in front of him.

“What do you make of ’em?” Creed asked in a low voice.

“Damned if I know,” he muttered.

One look this way would reveal the horses Jeb and Creed had had no time to hide, but none of the Mexicans bothered. Within moments, they were gone, leaving behind only a cloud of dust in their wake and a bevy of unanswered questions.

Questions Jeb had no intention of answering.

“Could be those Mexican revolutionaries the lieutenant colonel was telling us about last night,” Creed said, returning his weapon to its holster.

“Maybe.”

But Jeb didn’t want to think about Kingston or what he needed. He hadn’t wanted to think of it last night, and he didn’t want to think of it now. He strode toward his mount.

“Whatever those men are up to doesn’t concern us anymore, Creed,” he said firmly. Unable to help it, he looked across the woodlands to the path that had fallen silent. “They’re heading south.” His mouth curved, cold and determined. “And we’re heading north.”

To San Antonio. To a new beginning.

And nothing was going to keep him from either one.

At the sight of the overturned medicine wagon wedged between the trees, Jeb drew his horse up abruptly.

Creed reined in beside him. “An ambush?”

“Looks like it.”

The team had been cut from their harnesses and set free. Jeb spied them drinking at the river. He removed his Colt from the holster, just in case, but it seemed whoever had attacked the wagon had left.

“I’ll check the rig,” Creed said. Weapon drawn, he crept toward it and inspected the interior, then gestured that no one was inside.

Still, the stark silence troubled Jeb. He urged his horse closer, saw a woman lying on the ground and half-hidden among the tree’s shadows. Dread rolled through him.

A gray-haired man lay a short distance away. Jeb took in the crimson stain on his shoulder, the contorted leg. The man moaned, appeared to fade in and out of consciousness. Creed rode toward him and dismounted.

Jeb sheathed the Colt, his attention on the woman again. He slid from the saddle and knelt beside her to check for a pulse.

She was still alive. Blood oozed from an angry gash on her forehead. The wound appeared fresh, and he figured her assailant hadn’t been gone long. Minutes, most likely.

The band of armed Mexicans had been riding hard from this direction. Jeb studied the wagon. It wouldn’t have been easy to overturn a rig that size. But a dozen men on horses could do it. Easy.

He suspected these were the men Lieutenant Colonel Kingston told him about, revolutionaries so ruthless even the President of the United States was concerned. And Jeb suspected, too, they were hightailing it home, to the relative security of their own country against possible retaliation from this one.

He ran a grim glance down the length of the woman. Her blouse was partially unbuttoned, revealing the creamy flesh of a breast, but her clothing wasn’t dirty or torn, and he made a cautious guess the band hadn’t added rape to their abuses.

He slipped an arm beneath her shoulders, but she whimpered, and he halted. Her head lolled toward him. In the filtered sunlight, he noticed the swelling from a purpling bruise on her cheekbone.

She’d put up a fight against whoever hit her, and a compassion he didn’t often feel stirred inside him.

Her hair had fallen loose from its ribbon. He brushed the long, golden strands from her cheek and noted its satin texture, the warmth and softness of her skin. The delicate bone structure of her face.

Even bruised and bleeding, she was a beauty.

She whimpered again and shifted a little against him. Her lashes fluttered, as if she tried to open her eyes but couldn’t.

“Easy,” he said in a low voice. “You’re going to be all right.”

Her eyes flew open. She struggled to focus on him. He’d been knocked out a time or two himself and knew how she clawed her way out of the blackness. Suddenly she gasped and pushed away from him.

A wildness filled her expression. She twisted back and forth, searching, her features frantic. “Nicky! Where’s my baby? Nicky!”

Baby?

He exchanged a quick glance with Creed, then reached out to touch her, to calm her, but she flinched violently, and he drew back.

“There’s no baby here,” he said carefully.

She stared at him. She made a sound of anguish, of unadulterated grief, and the depth of it cut right through him.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God!” She wavered on the edge of hysteria.

“They kidnapped him?” Jeb asked, stunned.

She nodded, her fist pressed to her mouth.

“Christ.”

“Elena, honey,” a hoarse voice rasped.

She swung toward the man lying on the ground. She scrambled to his side and buried her face in his chest. “Pop, he’s gone.”

The man shook with a silent sob. “I know, honey.” His trembling fingers speared into her hair, holding her to him. “God help us, they took him.”

Her head came up again. The wild look in her face had returned. “We have to find him. We have to go now.”

“Lennie—”

“Come on, Pop.” She tugged on his suit coat. “You have to sit up. I’ll get the horses, and we’ll go after him.”

Jeb rose and walked toward her.

“He’s not going anywhere,” he said quietly. Firmly. He squatted beside her. “He’s hurt too bad.”

Eyes as green as leaves in the jungle seemed to stare right through him. As if Jeb had never spoken, she turned away and appealed to her father again.

“I can’t leave you here,” she said, her tone growing more desperate. “You have to come with me, Pop. We have to find Nicky.”

He moaned. “Lennie, honey. I—” He swallowed. “I can’t go with you. I—I need a doctor, and—and—”

“We’ll get you a doctor,” she said, the hysteria creeping in on her. “After we find Nicky. I mean, we have to find him first and—”

“I might not make it, Lennie. I’m hurtin’ bad.”

“You will make it!” She drew back suddenly. “The elixir.”

She darted to the wagon and disappeared inside. Jeb could hear her scavenging through the contents, and just when he thought she might need some help finding whatever she was looking for, she appeared, wielding a wooden crate.

She dropped it on the ground and knelt beside her father. Working quickly, she wrenched the top open, snatched one of the brown bottles and whisked off the cap.

“My elixir,” Pop wheezed, watching her as if his life depended on it. “Yes, give me some.”

She slipped her arm behind his neck to help him sit up. “Take a double dose, Pop. It’ll help you feel better.”

He drank the stuff right out of the container.

Skeptical, Jeb took a bottle from the case and scanned the label proclaiming the amazing benefits of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound.

“Medicine,” Creed said as he read one, too, and pursed his lips.

Quackery was more like it, but Jeb kept the thought to himself. He’d never put much faith in patent medicines or the men who sold them—scam artists who preyed on ailing citizens who’d give away their hard-earned money for the promise of good health and a clear mind.

He tossed the bottle aside. But if this man and his daughter believed in the herbal compound, damned if he would tell them otherwise.

A trickle of the coffee-colored liquid slipped from the corner of Pop’s mouth, and he ran his sleeve across his chin to wipe it away. He exhaled a slow breath and eased back down on the ground.

“Thank you, Elena,” he whispered.

She recapped the bottle. “I’ll get the horses. I’ll be right back. We’ve lost too much time already.”

Jeb had heard enough. His arm snaked out to grasp her wrist, keeping her right where she was. Her startled expression made Jeb wonder if she even comprehended he and Creed were there.

“You can’t take your father with you,” he said slowly, succinctly. She yanked against Jeb’s hold on her, but he held her fast. “You can’t go, either. You’re bleeding, and you—”

“Let go of me,” she snapped.

“You need a doctor, just like he does.”

“Let go of me!”

Again she strained against him, and Jeb marveled at her strength after everything she’d endured.

But he was still a hell of a lot stronger than she was. And he wasn’t letting her go anywhere just yet.

“Ma’am, he’s right,” Creed said. “You need some medical attention before you—”

“They have my son,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Yes,” Creed said. “And we’re real sorry about that. But the fact is, you’re hurt bad. Both of you are.”

Creed was the pragmatic one. Diplomatic and even-tempered most of the time. But impatience shot through Jeb. He cut right to the chase.

“You have any idea who you’re up against?” he demanded.

Her nostrils flared. “Yes! I do!”

“Those men are dangerous.”

“They took my son, damn you!”

“They kill for the sport of it.”

“I don’t care who they are or what they’ll do. I want him back.”

Jeb clenched his jaw. Of course, she did. What kind of mother would she be if she didn’t? He had to try a different tactic, convince her she couldn’t go off half-cocked on the revolutionaries’ trail.

“They’re long gone by now,” he said. “Headed for the border, most likely. You think you’re going to find them by yourself?”

Green eyes flashed. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

“You need some help,” Creed said. “Surely you know that.”

Creed spoke the words Jeb rebelled against saying. Or thinking. An image of San Antonio slid into his brain. The train waiting there. California and all his newfound plans.

“My father and I will go after Nicky,” she said defiantly.

A brilliant, flickering flame appeared over those plans….

“Like hell you will.” Jeb released her.

She rubbed her wrist. “I’m not leaving Pop behind.”

Her father peered up at her. Some of the color had fused back into his cheeks. From the elixir? Or from hope?

“Maybe these gentlemen will help us,” he said.

She turned to Jeb. If she thought he looked nothing like a helpful gentleman, she didn’t say it.

But her contemptuous look confirmed it.

“They could get us to San Antonio,” Pop went on. “We can contact the authorities when we get there.”

“No.” She returned the bottles of elixir to their crate in jerky movements. “It’ll take too long to arrange a search party. Tomorrow at the earliest. I won’t consider it.”

“Elena.”

“I’m not going to San Antonio. I’m going after Nicky. And I can’t leave you behind, so you’re going to have to come with me, do you hear?”

The shrill tone of her voice revealed the panic billowing inside her. Jeb steeled himself against it.

“Are you going to set your father’s leg before you go?” he asked softly.

Her glance darted to the twisted limb.

“He can’t ride a horse with a bullet wound. And that bullet needs to come out. All the blood he’s lost will make him too weak to even stay in the saddle.”

She swallowed.

“Guess you could have him lie down in the wagon. But then, you’d have to right it first.”

Her head swiveled toward the trees, to the wagon wedged on its side between them.

“The harnesses need mending before you could even think about hitching the team. By then, it’ll be dark. Pitch-dark. Going to be hard to find your way.”

Her lower lip quivered. Jeb steeled himself against that, too.

“I can’t leave my father,” she said. “He’s all I have, besides Nicky, and I need Pop to help me find my baby and—”

She halted, her bosom heaving. Jeb clenched his teeth.

He didn’t want to be affected by this woman.

He didn’t want to be needed by her.

He thought of Lieutenant Colonel Kingston. The General. He thought of honor and integrity. Of patriotism. He thought, too, of leaving the country he’d just come back to. One more time. And his plans for California disintegrated like smoke in the wind.

“I’ll help you, damn it.”

She gaped at him. For a long moment, no one spoke.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I can. I’ve been chasing men like them for years for the United States government. And right now, you have no one else.”

“I don’t even know you,” she said.

“You will by the time we get to Mexico.” He rose and headed for his horse. “Creed can take your father to San Antonio.”

“Why should I trust either of you? How do I know you won’t kill us or—or something along the way?”

“Elena, honey.” Pop took her hand, and she clung to his so hard her knuckles turned white. “If these gentlemen had a notion to hurt us, they would’ve done so by now.”

“Oh, Pop.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she burrowed her face against his neck. “I don’t want to go with him. I want to go with you.”

“Did you hear him, Elena? This is what he does. For the United States government.”

“I can’t leave you.”

“Nicky needs you more than I do.”

Her eyes met his, and her shoulders squared fiercely.

“All right, then.” She swiped at the tears on her cheek and took in a long breath, then rose and strode toward Jeb.

He glanced down at her. The top of her head barely reached his chin.

“Tell me what needs to be done first,” she said.

He untied a coil of rope from his saddle horn. “You’re bleeding. We need to stitch you up.”

“No. I’m fine.” With her thumb she swiped at the blood trailing down her temple and smeared it on her skirt. “The next thing.”

She was pale, and she’d taken a hell of a hit against the side of her face. The gash on her temple looked nasty. But neither was life threatening. She was anxious to get moving. Jeb decided not to push the issue.

“Get the horses,” he said. It was the easiest of the jobs for her. “We’ll need them to get the wagon back on its wheels.”

She nodded and began walking toward the river.

“Then find a sturdy branch,” he called after her. “Strong enough for a splint.”

Her hand lifted, acknowledging his command without turning. She broke into a run, her urgency a tangible thing.

An urgency Jeb was beginning to feel, too.

He could only hope she understood all that lay ahead for them.

Dusk had nearly settled by the time they finished. The wagon sat on all four wheels again. The team was harnessed and ready to go. The old man lay on a cot on the ground, resting comfortably enough, his leg set and strapped to a splint.

But then, Elena had given him a generous dose of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound. Jeb figured the man was pretty much numb from it.

She hovered over him, fussing, as much for his sake as her own. But the old man couldn’t be in better hands than Creed’s. He’d promised Elena he’d drive all night to San Antonio, that once they rode out of the woods and got back onto the main road, the trip wouldn’t take long. He even offered to send word to the rest of the troupe explaining what happened. His sincerity went a long way in appeasing her.

“You’re sure about all this?” Creed asked in a low voice.

“She can’t go hunting for those men alone,” Jeb said grimly. “I’ll catch up with you in California later. See that the old man is taken care of before you board that train. Find him a good surgeon to take out the bullet.”

“I will.” Creed hesitated. “Lieutenant Colonel Kingston will want to know what happened here.”

Hell, he should know. Jeb hoped the officer and his superiors ordered the whole United States Army to war against the revolutionaries.

“Report the incident. Just keep my name out of it,” he said.

“The General will find out sooner or later,” Creed said.

“Not if I can help it.”

“You ever going to reconcile with him, Jeb?” he demanded. “Now might be as good a time as any.”

Jeb glared. Creed knew better than to even suggest it.

“Well, you’re taking a hell of a chance going after the rebels,” Creed went on, glaring back. “With a civilian, no less. And a woman at that.”

Jeb heard his worry. It wasn’t often he and Creed disagreed. “You have a better plan?”

“Go back to Laredo. Find Kingston. Enlist his help.”

Jeb considered Elena. Her baby. The hours already gone.

“No,” he said. “There’s no time.”

“You’d both be safer.”

“Going to Kingston first would be the smart thing to do,” Jeb conceded. Not that Elena would have agreed to it. His mouth quirked. “But then, when have I ever done the smart thing?”

“Damn, you’re stubborn,” Creed said, shaking his head.

Jeb grunted. That had gotten him into trouble more times than he cared to count.

He glanced at the sky. He wanted to see Creed on his way before it got dark. And they still had to load the old man into the wagon. He pulled on his gloves.

“Elena.”

Her head lifted. At Jeb’s unspoken command, she bit her lip and nodded, then bent to drop a kiss to her father’s forehead. “It’s time, Pop.”

“I know.”

She pressed her cheek against his. “I’m afraid. For you. For Nicky. For all of us.”

“Me, too, honey.” He stroked her hair, over and over. “But you have to be strong. No matter what happens.”

“I’m not sure I can be.”

Her head lifted, and Jeb saw that her cheeks were wet. She stepped away, allowing Jeb and Creed to lift the cot into the wagon, taking care as best they could not to jar the injured leg unduly. By the time they came out again, she’d mounted her horse. Her gaze found Creed’s.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything.”

He shrugged off her gratitude and climbed onto the driver’s seat. “Be real careful. Both of you.”

She nodded once, then tugged on the reins. By the time Jeb lifted a foot into the stirrup, she’d spurred her horse into a hard turn and galloped out of the woodlands.

Heading south.

Without him.

He muttered an oath and tore off after her.

Chapter Four

T oo soon, darkness fell. The need to find Nicky consumed Elena, drove her with a relentless desperation that quelled fatigue or hunger and blinded her to the needs of her mount.

Or the man who kept pace beside her.

She kept her sights on the horizon. On Mexico. On getting to her baby as soon as she could.

But as the hours fell away, the black night grew more disorienting. A halfhearted moon barely provided enough illumination to keep them on the trail, and clouds rolling in threatened to obliterate even that.

It would be easy to lose their bearings. What if they found themselves heading north, away from Mexico? From Nicky?

She refused to think of the possibility. She had to find him, no matter what.

“Time to pull up, Elena. We’ve ridden long enough.”

Elena started at the low voice of the man she knew only as Jeb. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since they had left her father in the woodlands.

“No,” she said. “I want to keep moving.”

But she slowed her horse to rest, just for a few moments. Again she studied the horizon. She could barely discern the narrow ribbon of water ahead, but the shimmer of the moonlight on the surface confirmed it was there. A westerly tributary of the Nueces River, she realized, and an opportunity to water the horses.

In the silence of the night, a gun cocked. Her heart began a slow pound. Slowly, carefully, she turned.

And faced the wrong end of Jeb’s Colt revolver.

“It’s best that you understand right now, Elena,” he murmured. “I give the orders. And I expect you to follow ’em when I do.”

She couldn’t see his unshaven face in the shadows beneath the broad brim of his hat. But she could feel him watch her with a cold cunning that left the blood faltering in her veins.

He could kill her right now. And no one would know. Except Pop, and by then, it’d be too late.

She refused to show her fear. Her vulnerability.

“Even when a defenseless woman just happens to disagree with you?” she taunted softly.

The calm in her voice amazed her. Steadied her. She held that dark gaze of his without flinching. In the shadows, his teeth gleamed. It chilled her, that smile.

“You learn fast, Elena. That’s good. Real good.”

“My son has been kidnapped by a vicious band of rebels. The longer it takes to find him, the harder it will be.” A sudden surge of emotion welled up inside her. “For both of us.”

“Doesn’t matter. We have to rest. You want to kill your horse?”

Panic flickered inside her. It was harder to control, to hide, than the fear.

“It does matter, damn you!” she said, her breath quickening. “I can’t stop. Not yet.”

“It’s after midnight. We’ll get an early start in the morning.” The Colt jerked toward the river. “Until then, we’ll camp by the water where the horses can drink their fill.”

Elena hated the harsh truth of his logic and debated taking off in a hard run southward—away from him. After all, she didn’t need his services, despite what Pop said. She could find her way to the nearest border town without him. She could find help with the local lawmen, too. The sheriff. The chief of police. She’d wire the governor of Texas if she had to.

But the revolver was proof Jeb intended to do things his way without a care to hers.

“He’s my son,” she said through her teeth. “If he were yours—”

“—I’d do the same thing.” The interruption was swift. Impatient. “You’ll do him no good when you’re too exhausted to think straight.”

“I’m not exhausted!”

“You will be when the adrenaline stops. Now let’s go.” The revolver waved toward the river again.

He was wrong. She could ride for hours yet. All night, if she had to. And then again all day.

Nicky would be missing her right now. Was he crying? Calling her name? He wouldn’t understand who the men who’d taken him were or why she wasn’t there with him. He’d never gone to sleep before without her cuddling and rocking him first.

Elena bit her lip. The need to hold him in her arms again stole the very breath from her lungs. She ached from it.

She sat straighter in the saddle. She had to keep looking for him, but for now she’d do what Jeb commanded her to do. She’d ride to the river so they could rest. Then, when he fell asleep, she’d slip away and resume her race to Mexico.

The plan soothed her. Gave her focus. Allowed her to turn her mount toward the water without further protest. Elena watched Jeb dismount and tie his horse to the shrubbery growing wild along the bank.

Despite her plan, she couldn’t bring herself to do the same. The minutes ticking away tortured her with the knowledge she should be chasing after her son instead of sitting here going nowhere.

Jeb glanced at her. “Get off the horse, Elena.”

She suspected he knew what she was thinking. But did he have an inkling of how much it hurt to have Nicky stolen from her?

He couldn’t possibly. And what did he care anyway? He didn’t even know her or her baby.

The self-pity rolled through her in waves. She blinked hard at the tears that surfaced with a vengeance, and swallowing convulsively, she swung out of the saddle.

But once on the ground, her knees threatened to give way. With the horse and the night’s shadows to shield her from Jeb’s view, she gripped the saddle horn and sagged against the horse’s neck. She buried her face against the warm hide.

She just needed a few moments to compose herself. She needed control. Strength. She needed—

“Elena.”

She whirled toward Jeb with a gasp.

“Sit down while I light a fire.”

His fingers closed over her elbow, but she jerked free. She didn’t want this man touching her when he was so determined to keep her from going after Nicky.

“I don’t want to sit,” she said. “I want—”

“I know damn well what you want.” In the silence of the night, his voice sounded rough. “You just can’t have it yet.” He took her elbow again, but this time his grip remained firm. “Sit over here.” He pulled her with him away from her horse. “I’m going to start a fire. We’ll eat. Then we’ll sleep. When it’s morning, we’ll get up, eat breakfast and ride again.”

She stiffened at his condescending explanation. Did he think she wouldn’t understand the routine? He released her, but she remained standing. “You needn’t talk to me as if I were a child.”

“I’m just telling you the way things are going to be.”

She glared at him. “Have I no say in any of this?”

He kicked pieces of wood into a pile with the toe of his boot, then lit a match. In the glow of the flame, his hard eyes met hers. “No.”

“Nicky is my son. Not yours.”

“Which is why I’m giving the orders. I can think better than you can.” He hunkered over the firewood. In moments, flames hissed and snapped. He straightened again. “So until you can step back from being afraid for him, I’m going to do your thinking for you.”

He strode toward the horses. Clearly he considered the conversation at an end. Elena’s mouth opened to protest.

But she closed it again. He didn’t even spare her a glance as he bent to uncinch the saddle on his horse. Why would he bother to listen to anything she had to say anyway? He hadn’t so far, had he?

She folded her arms and shivered, more from worry for Nicky than the chill in the air. Energy coiled through her, a tight, nervous energy that threatened to spiral out of control.

She began to pace. Jeb expected her to trust him. Why should she? She knew nothing about him—his skills, his background, his credibility. Yet she was supposed to let him lead her around by the nose? Place in his charge the daunting task of finding her precious child? What would he know about confronting the ruthless Mexican, Ramon?

Then again, what would she?

Jeb expected her to step back from her fear and worry. Ha! Easy for him to say. She couldn’t imagine a hard man like him ever having a child of his own. How would he know what it was like? What could Pop have been thinking, insisting that she go with him?

But what choice did she have at the moment?

The first ragged edges of fatigue seeped into her muscles. With it, doubt. And a whole new round of worry raised its ugly head. What if she failed Nicky? What if she never saw him again? What if—

Elena stopped short. She had to stop thinking like this. It’d destroy her if she didn’t.

“If it’s any consolation, the men who kidnapped your baby are holing up somewhere,” Jeb said from behind her. “Just like we are.”

Elena whirled. “We have no way of knowing that.”

“It’s the middle of the night. Their horses have to rest, too.”

Elena was no stranger to the care of them. She knew the importance of keeping them watered and fed, that a tired horse could soon be a lame one. And without strong mounts to help them flee with Nicky, they’d be vulnerable to the repercussions.

“Yes, of course.” She tiredly tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. It was an angle she hadn’t thought of, and the knowledge that, at the very least, she and Jeb weren’t losing ground in their chase was somewhat reassuring.

“I’ve got beans warming on the fire.” He opened one of his saddlebags and removed a leather case, slim and rectangular in shape. “Let me have a look at that cut on your head.”

His words reminded Elena how the Mexican had struck her with the butt of his rifle. She touched her fingers to the tender spot, the blood from the gash long since dried.

She spied her valise on the ground, laid there by Jeb when he had unsaddled her horse. The small suitcase bulged from all she’d hurriedly stuffed inside—essentials for Nicky, along with a few things for herself. She lifted the lid and took out a bottle of Pop’s elixir.

“What’re you going to do with that?” Jeb stood on the other side of the campfire, feet spread, hands on hips. The broad brim of his hat kept his features in shadow, but the hard set to his mouth made his disapproval clear.

She latched the valise. “The injury needs to be disinfected.”

“I’ve got whiskey for that.”

“Pop’s elixir is better.”

“That so?”

“Yes.” She refused to defend Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound to him. Except for her father, no one knew its benefits better than she did. “I always carry some with me. I never know when it’ll come in handy.”

“And now is one of those times.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Yes.”

Folding a washcloth, she saturated a corner, then dabbed the wet fabric against the laceration. The slight sting indicated the elixir was working its magic.

“I’ll do that.” Sounding impatient again, he took the washcloth from her and indicated a fallen log he’d dragged closer to the fire. “Sit.”

She hesitated. She truly did need his help, she supposed. Without a mirror, it was impossible to see what she was doing.

But she fully expected his method of cleaning the wound would be as brusque as his manner. Bracing herself for it, she gave in and perched on the log warily. He straddled it, his body at a right angle to hers.

“Turn toward me,” he said. He cupped her chin and tilted her face toward the fire.

It’d been a long time since she sat so close to a man other than Pop. Elena didn’t move while Jeb studied the laceration first, then the swelling on her cheekbone,

She could smell horse on him. Tobacco and leather.

Raw masculinity.

The strength of it rocked her. It was all she could do to keep from pulling back, to distance herself, a defense mechanism that had slammed into place the night of the Mexican’s brutal attack.

“You’re going to get a shiner out of this,” he said, his words dragging her from her discomfiture. He ran the pad of his thumb over the puffy skin beneath her eye, his touch far more gentle than she had anticipated. “You’ll need a few stitches, too.”

“We’ll find a doctor for that later,” she said firmly as he took the washcloth and began wiping away the old blood. “I don’t want to delay finding Nicky for something so frivolous.”

The washcloth halted. “Frivolous?” Jeb grunted and resumed cleaning. “The gash is deep. He hit you hard.”

Elena swallowed. Jeb was right on that count.

“The wound needs to be closed,” he went on. “And I never intended to waste time finding a doctor. I’ll sew you up myself.”

Startled, she drew back. “You?”

“Yes. Me.”

The apprehension grew in leaps and bounds. “I’ve never had stitches before.”

“You think I’ll botch the job? Or hurt you?”

Her lips clamped tight. That’s exactly what she thought.

He tossed aside the washcloth and reached for the leather case lying on the ground next to him. “Then you’d better understand one more thing between us, Elena. Besides following my orders, you’re going to have to trust me.”

He opened the container. Firelight glinted off an assortment of surgeon’s tools—knives, tweezers, pliers. And an ominous-looking saw.

An amputation kit, Elena realized, taken aback.

He removed a needle and spool of thread, pulled out a length and broke it off.

“Are you a doctor?” she asked.

“Far from it.”

“But you have knowledge of medicine? Surgery?”

He threaded the needle deftly. “What I’ve learned about treating injuries, I learned in the field.” His gaze, dark and shadowed, met hers. “The hard way.”

The field?

“This will hurt some,” he said, distracting her from the question of how he had acquired his experience. And where. “But I’ll work as fast as I can. You want a shot of whiskey first?”

“No.” She reached for Pop’s elixir. “I can numb the skin with this. It’ll only take a few minutes.” Again she drenched a clean portion of the washcloth and pressed it over the laceration.

“What’s in that stuff anyway?” he demanded.

“Only Pop knows. He’s never told anyone. Not even me.”

“Why not?”

“Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound is a solution he’s formulated himself from the secrets of the ancients.”

“The secrets of the ancients.”

“It doesn’t matter what the ingredients are. All that’s important is the elixir is therapeutic.” She considered him and the disdain he didn’t bother to hide. “Your opinion of it is irrelevant.”

“You’ll think differently when you feel the needle going through your skin when you could’ve had whiskey instead.”

“The pain will be minimal, I assure you.”

He sighed and shifted his position. “Sit on the ground and lean against my leg.”

He nudged her off the log and directed her to sit sideways between his spread knees, then eased her head back to rest on his thigh. The position gave him clear access to the laceration.

“This will only take a few minutes, so don’t move.” He took the washcloth from her and tossed it aside. The needle and thread hovered above her. “I’ll work as fast as I can.”

He brushed the hair away from her forehead and began closing the wound, each dip and pull of the needle practiced and smooth—and as pain-free as she’d predicted. Again Elena wondered about the circumstances from which he had acquired his skill. He seemed to have learned from them well.

In her close proximity, she dared to study him. His dark eyes were narrowed in concentration. Beneath her head, the muscles in his thigh were firm, his strength a palpable thing. She noted the days’ growth of beard and hair hanging too long past his collar—and how they gave him a dangerous look.

Yet she felt no fear of him. Not now, at least, though the memory of his long-barreled Colt pointed at her earlier clearly indicated he wasn’t a man to be crossed.

He tied off the thread, and Elena quickly lowered her lashes. True to his word, the suturing had only taken a few minutes.

“Eight stitches,” Jeb said grimly, snipping off the ends with small scissors taken from the amputation kit. He straightened, and Elena pulled away.

“Thank you.” She sat cross-legged in the grass and tentatively probed his handiwork with a fingertip. He’d closed the wound neatly.

He regarded her for a long moment. “Who took your son from you?”

For a little while, her worries for Nicky had faded under the distraction of Jeb’s doctoring. Now they came crashing back all over again.

“I know him just as Ramon,” Elena said. “And I only learned that when he and his men ambushed us.”

“Why would he take the boy?”

She strove for the calm she needed to discuss the situation. Given his intention to help her, Jeb was, after all, entitled to know. “I can only speculate. Ramon never knew he existed until today.”

Jeb’s features hardened in suspicion. He leaned forward. “There are a hell of a lot of babies in this country, Elena. Why would he take yours?”

She tamped down the ugly memories that reared up, as she always did when they returned to haunt her. She drew in a breath. “Ramon raped me two years ago. I haven’t seen him since. Until this afternoon, that is.”

A moment of stunned silence passed.

“Nicky is his.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“So I’m quite certain he will not give my baby back…very easily.”

“No.” Jeb’s gaze didn’t waver. “He won’t.”

“I don’t even know who he is,” Elena went on, the words pouring from her now that Jeb had turned the spigot. “That—that night, he robbed us of the entire take from one of Pop’s shows. The fact that he—Ramon—came upon us today was pure chance.”

“You know nothing about him, then?”

“No.” She considered Jeb, his unexpected willingness to change his travel plans to go after the Mexican and his men. “Do you?”

“Not for sure.”

“But you have an idea?”

“A speculation.”

This time Elena waited. By the tight set of Jeb’s mouth, it was easy to see he knew more than she did.

And what he knew wasn’t good.

“His name is Ramon de la Vega,” Jeb said, pulling no punches. “He’s a follower of Emiliano Zapata. They’re revolutionaries. They intend to overturn the government of the President of Mexico.”

Her heart began a slow, thundering pound. “Oh, God.”

“They’re cold-blooded killers, Elena.”

“How do you know that?” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. Her first instincts screamed—prayed—he was lying to her. That he only wanted to scare her. That this whole conversation was a terrible nightmare he’d dreamed up to torture her.

But one look at his expression revealed he was dead serious.

“I’ve worked for the United States military a long time. I kept track of men like de la Vega.”

“Why would he want a baby with him? Nicky will only slow him down. He’ll—he’ll—”

Something flickered in Jeb’s features, something shadowy and distant, but it disappeared before she could define it.

“Probably intends to have the boy follow in his footsteps someday,” he said.

“What?” she gasped.

“It’s what fathers do,” he added, his tone sarcastic.

“No. I won’t allow it. I absolutely refuse—” Elena clamped her mouth shut. The idea of Nicky becoming a revolutionary like Ramon was so ludicrous it didn’t warrant discussing further.

Jeb rose, went to the fire and stirred the beans with a knife.

“Do you have a husband?” he asked. “Someone we should notify of the boy’s kidnapping?”

A husband. Elena stiffened. What man would want her? A woman with an illegitimate child, violently begotten by a man as lawless and despicable as Ramon de la Vega. A woman whose innocence had been destroyed by his lust.

“No,” she said. “Besides my father, Nicky and I have no other family.”

Except for the medicine-show troupe, and they’d find out soon enough what happened. She didn’t want to think of the worry they’d all endure when they did.

Jeb slathered a tortilla with the beans. “So it’s just you and me, then.” He rolled the thin bread and held it toward her. “Name’s Jeb Carson, in case you’re interested.”

Her stomach revolted at the thought of food. “I’m not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

His low voice held the command she’d begun to associate with him—a man who was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.

She quelled the urge to refuse and took the tortilla from him. The thin bread was warm against her hand, but she didn’t take a bite.

“So what’s yours?” he asked, spreading beans on several more. “Besides Elena?”

“Malone. Elena Malone. My father’s name is Charles.”

He nodded, as if he’d already guessed that much. “The label on the elixir claims he’s a doctor. Is he?”

Jeb sounded skeptical again. Her chin hiked up a defensive inch. “If you’re inquiring if he has a certificate stating his degree as such, then no. But he’s a doctor in the truest sense of the word, if one considers his dedication to healing people of their ills with his medicine.”

Jeb grunted, his mouth full of tortilla. Watching her coolly, he swallowed. “The elixir making him rich?”

She made a sound of exasperation. “My father’s financial affairs are none of your—”

“Just answer the question, Elena.”

She thought of the bills incurred with every performance, of how imperative it was to sell enough bottles of Doc Charlie’s Miraculous Herbal Compound to pay them. She thought of how they lived from show to show. Hand-to-mouth. And how she’d grown to tire of it.

“No,” she said. “Not hardly. Why?”

“Might be de la Vega is thinking of ransom for the boy.” Jeb took another bite of tortilla and beans.

Oh, God. The notion had never occurred to her.

“Costs money to buy arms and food for his men,” he added. “Revolutions don’t come cheap.”

“I’ll pay any price he demands. I’ll rob a dozen banks if I have to.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“I’m prepared to do anything to get Nicky back,” she said, just in case he needed reminding. “Are you?”

The last of the tortillas he’d made gone, Jeb reached inside his jacket, withdrew a small bottle of whiskey and took a quick swig. He held out the bottle to her. She shook her head in refusal, and he recapped it.

“I expect finding your son will be one of the hardest things you’ve ever had to do.” He strode toward his saddle and bags and tossed a Winchester rifle onto the ground. A gunbelt with two revolvers. An extra Colt pistol. Several knives.

The man was a virtual weapons arsenal. She had no idea he was so heavily armed.

“That’s all we have to defend ourselves with against the whole damn bunch,” Jeb said. “We have a lot of ground to cover to find them. And they’ve got half a day on us.”

Elena’s spirits sank. His perception of their ability to fight their way to Nicky was, obviously, more realistic than hers.

“But am I prepared to do anything to get him back for you?” Jeb squatted next to her. The firelight splashed over his unshaven features. Dark danger emanated from him. A ruthlessness that could stagger the fiercest of his enemies. “Yeah. Ramon de la Vega will pay the price.”

A sudden apprehension skidded down her spine. She didn’t yet know what Jeb Carson was capable of, if his words were false bravado or deadly conviction.

But, oh, how she wanted to believe him.

He had no more power to see into the future than she did. How would he know with any certainty that he could steal her son back from the Mexican rebel?

Jeb tossed a bedroll toward her, then laid a second one out on the other side of the fire. He stretched his lean length over it, then dipped into his pocket for a cigarette.

He seemed to have dismissed their conversation in favor of a leisurely smoke, but her stomach churned with worry. Did he expect her to relax as easily as he did?

He turned and caught her staring. He indicated the beans and tortilla she still held. “Eat up, Elena.”

She eyed the food with distaste. “I don’t want it.”

“Eat so you can get some sleep. I want to pull out at dawn.”

She rebelled against the command. Saying nothing more, she arranged the blankets. Before crawling beneath them, she tucked the tortilla into a fold where he wouldn’t notice. She’d eat later when she had more of a mind for it.

She settled onto her side, facing away from Jeb, and pulled the edge of the blanket to her chin. Heat from the fire warmed her back, and she stared out into the black night beyond their camp.

Had Pop arrived in San Antonio yet? Had Creed kept his word and gotten him to a hospital safely? Was he in pain, or was he taking doses of his elixir regularly to prevent it?

And, oh, God, what of her baby? She missed Nicky so much. The ache soaked clear into her bones.

Where was he? Tears stung her eyes. Was he safe? Was he sleeping peacefully? Was he warm enough? Had he cried himself to sleep, wanting her?

But even more important, would she ever hold him again?

Chapter Five

J eb came awake instantly. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, his instincts told him she was gone.

He breathed a fervent oath and rolled to his feet. Only low-burning embers remained of the fire he’d lit, and he strained to see past them in the dark. Elena’s blankets were still there, but no womanly form lay beneath.

He turned toward the horses, his brain racing to determine how long she’d been gone and formulating a plan to go after her. But both their mounts grazed near the river. The saddles and valise still lay on the ground, and he began to suspect she hadn’t left after all.

Then where was she?

A faint nicker jerked his attention to the river again. The sound came from Elena’s mare, a palomino and part of the team they’d unhitched from the medicine-show wagon. The low, throaty sound conveyed concern, the kind when an animal senses trouble for his owner.

Jeb drew closer, his hand on the butt of his Colt. Moonlight peeked through a gossamer veil of cloud cover and provided enough illumination for him to search one side of the bank, then the other. He found her huddled near the water’s edge, her head bowed over her drawn-up knees, her body still.

Jeb frowned. She had probably sought out the river for the solace it could give her. He’d done the same thing himself a time or two over the years.

His hand fell away from his gun. She was thinking of her baby, he knew. Anyone could see how much she hurt from being separated from him, that the worry and anguish cut deep. She needed time to sort through the pain. To get a hold on it.

But Jeb couldn’t leave her just yet. Some unseen force kept him right where he stood, watching her, his concern building the longer she sat there looking so damned alone.

Maybe he should go to her. Lend a shoulder. Listen, if she needed to talk.

But he hesitated. Emotional women left him feeling inept, even one as hurting—or as deserving of a good cry—as Elena. Hell, he’d rather face a firing squad.

She hadn’t noticed him, so he lingered. Just a few minutes to assure himself she’d be all right sitting there at the river’s edge in the middle of the night.

When her hand lifted to cover her mouth, when she curled in a tight ball, his reluctance to go to her slipped. She began to rock, back and forth. She didn’t make a sound, not with her hand pressed to her face to stifle any she might make, and only then did he realize she didn’t want him to hear.

He started walking toward her. He didn’t want to scare her—she wouldn’t expect him to come up behind her—but he didn’t stop until he stood right behind her, an arm’s length away.

He hunkered down to her level. Now that he was this close, little sounds came from behind her hand, the sobs she tried so hard to hide. His fists clenched to keep from touching her; to do so would startle her even more.

“Elena,” he said gently.

The rocking stopped. She twisted around to face him, bolting to her feet in one fluid motion. Her speed and agility surprised him, left him still squatting and looking up at her.

He rose slowly. Her bosom heaved as she fought for the control that seemed so important to her.

“Elena.” This time when he spoke her name, he laced his tone with a thread of command. She needed to know she didn’t have to go through this alone. That she shouldn’t be afraid of him. That he was with her to help her.

“I woke you. I—I’m sorry,” she said shakily, her fingers swiping at the moisture streaming down her cheeks.

“You didn’t. And even if you did, it’s nothing to be sorry for.” His voice sounded rough. Rougher than he intended, and she flinched. His mouth tightened, and he reached an arm toward her. “Let’s go back to camp.”

“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “I will. Soon. But not yet.”

“You have to get some sleep.”

“I can’t. I tried—”

He had expected her argument. Determined to overrule it, he took her elbow, but she jerked away with a step backward into the river. The water seeping into her shoes would be cold and uncomfortable.

“I keep thinking of Nicky,” she said, her arms folded tight against her. “How can I sleep when I don’t know where he is?”

“We’ll find him,” Jeb said. “I swear it.”

Her chin trembled. “You don’t know we will. Not really. You’re just being nice and telling me that so I don’t worry, but I am worrying and—”

A choking sound smothered whatever else she intended to say, and she angled her head away, her eyes closed tight. She stood in the water, her body stiff and proud but her grief tearing her apart.

It rankled that she fought to keep her pain from him. Why it bothered him he couldn’t fathom, but it did, and he reached for her again.

“Don’t, please,” she said, stepping around him. “I’ll be fine in a minute or two.”

Jeb’s stride was longer than hers. He took her arm and turned her toward him.

“Cry it out,” he growled. “Damn it, you’ll feel better.”

Her mouth opened, as if she intended to argue, but instead, her features crumpled and her shoulders hunched. She sank into his chest with a strangled sob.

His arms took her in. Her body felt heavy and vulnerable against him, as if it was all she could do to hold herself upright, and something surged through him, a protectiveness, a possessiveness, that left him shaken and teetering on new ground.

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