He’s the last bachelor standing among the men of Hell’s Eight, and he’ll settle for nothing less than passion...

Unencumbered by wife or family, Luke Bellen is the obvious member of Hell’s Eight to lead a treacherous trek across Comanche territory. But Luke suspects he will never know another minute’s peace when photographer Josie Kinder joins the wagon train. Whip-smart Josie has a voluptuous figure, a sunny disposition and a knack for getting into dangerous scrapes in pursuit of the perfect shot. Luke thinks Josie’s too young, too sweet to be despoiled by the rough life and hard-bitten land he loves.

But independent Josie won’t let any man—however commanding—decide what’s best for her. Beneath their playful banter is a powerful current of lust—pure, but not so simple. If only Luke weren’t so damned proper, he’d see that the years between them don’t matter a whit, not when a single touch can set them both ablaze. Josie’s hell-bent on having it all, and that includes keeping Luke in the picture…unless the vengeful bandits on their trail find them first.

Praise for Sarah McCarty’s men of Hell’s Eight

“McCarty is a sparse, minimalistic writer, with a great ear for dialogue. She’s a passionate observer of history, and manages to deftly and accurately weave her spicy stories through with important facts and issues of the epoch she invokes. She’s also good at capturing that intangible magnetism surrounding dangerous, rugged men… I’m hooked.”

—USATODAY.com

“If you like your historicals packed with emotion, excitement and heat, you can never go wrong with a book by Sarah McCarty.”

—Romance Junkies

“It’s so great to see that Ms. McCarty is able to truly take these eight men and give them such vastly different stories and vastly different heroines, all of whom allow us to see different aspects of what life was really like for Western Frontier women, be it good, horrific, or simply unfortunate.”

—Romance Books Forum

“Sarah McCarty’s series is an exciting blend of raw masculinity, spunky, feisty heroines and the wild living in the Old West…with spicy, hot love scenes. Ms. McCarty gave us small peeks into each member of the Hell’s Eight and I’m looking forward to reading the other men’s stories.”

—Erotica Romance Writers

“What really sets McCarty’s stories apart from simple erotica is the complexity of her characters and conflicts... Definitely spicy, but a great love story, too.”

—RT Book Reviews

“Readers who enjoy erotic romance but haven’t found an author who can combine it with a historical setting may discover a new auto-buy author...I have.”

—All About Romance

Luke’s Cut

Sarah McCarty

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Dedicated to my wonderful editor, my fabulous agent

and all my fantastic fans. It’s been a great journey

with the men of Hell’s Eight. Thank you so much

for being on this wild ride with me.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

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

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

Simple, Texas, August 1861

DAMN! HE’D BEEN outmaneuvered by a man twenty years his senior. Luke Bellen leaned against a post on the front porch and observed as the distinguished, blond-haired victor claimed the spoils. The normally smooth-running Hell’s Eight Ranch was bursting at the seams with celebratory chaos. All because Hester MacFairlane had gone and married Jarl Wayfield. Right here at Hell’s Eight, before God, the padre and half the town. No one could have seen that coming.

Luke had to admit though, during the past few weeks of upset, panic and last-minute wedding preparations, the women had managed to soften the ranch’s rough edges. For sure he’d never seen the Hell’s Eight looking so festive. Lazy breezes ruffled the ties on the smartly dressed men, the women’s full skirts and the cheery, bright pink bows tied to every post within sight of the side yard. Everyone was wearing their biggest smile and their Sunday best. And Luke was no exception. But for some reason the whole day—the whole event—was aggravating the piss out of him.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t seriously been in the game or that he was happy for the bride. Nor that he figured just enough of his father’s teachings lingered in him that he didn’t like to lose. Taking a sip of his lemonade, he grimaced as he swallowed the bitter reality. The truth was that he was jealous. If he could’ve made himself care the way he’d needed to, that could’ve been him standing up there with Hester, thanking the well-wishers and letting the stream of congratulations pour into his annoying internal demand for more and fill it up until it was too sated to nag him.

It might have been easier to accept the loss if Hester had chosen Jarl because the man had more money or more prestige than Luke, but money wasn’t the spur to Hester’s get along. The woman had more confidence than six liquored-up cowboys on a Saturday night. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her. No one could seize an opportunity like Hester, but she was also down-to-earth and perceptive, and she’d seen right through Luke’s not-what-it-should-be interest, then turned to someone who could offer his heart along with his hand. He gave the lemonade a swirl, watching the light play hide-and-seek with the shadows. Dammit. Why the hell hadn’t he been able to offer Hester what she needed?

The bottom step creaked in that familiar way he’d grown used to over the last nine months. He looked up.

“Looks like you could use something stronger,” Ace said, advancing to join him. Sunlight glinted off the whiskey bottle he held up as he leaned a hip against the opposite porch rail.

Luke pushed his hat back. “How’d you know?”

Wry humor lurked in Ace’s blue eyes as he uncorked the bottle. “You’ve never been one for losing gracefully.”

Luke tossed the lemonade over the rail. “Age changes a man.”

Ace snorted and filled Luke’s glass. “You oughtta be six shots into the bottle before you start spitting nonsense like that.”

“I’ll be thirty-two next week.” And beyond a couple dozen novels and his place in the Hell’s Eight, he didn’t have a damn thing to show for the time spent.

“You trying to tell me you can’t still tear up the town?”

No. He just didn’t enjoy it the way he used to. “The difference is, now it takes days to recover.”

Ace filled his own glass. “Thirty-two or not, only a fool would bet against you in a fight.”

Luke looked Ace up and down, from his scuffed boots to his serviceable pants and blue shirt, all the way up to his battered Stetson. The only concession to the formal occasion was a narrow tie around his neck. There was no sense pointing out gamblers were supposed to be sharp dressers. Ace went his own way. Always had. Always would. That didn’t mean Luke couldn’t prod him a bit. “Speaking of bets, after fleecing Jarl’s pockets last week, couldn’t you afford a new suit?”

Ace smiled. “You heard about that?”

“A twenty-six-hour poker game?” Luke swirled the amber liquid and watched a sunbeam make light of the potent beverage. “Do you think anyone in the territory hasn’t?”

Ace’s smile took on a feral edge. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

There would only be one reason for that. Ace was spreading the word. “Banking on a flood of hopefuls challenging you to a fifty-two-card duel?”

“Damn straight. Petunia’s been harping about new furniture. Seems now the walls are painted, what we have is ‘tired and sad.’” Ace took a drink and shook his head. “How the hell does furniture get ‘sad’?”

Luke chuckled. “I haven’t a clue. Did you ask?”

Ace cut him a look. “I might be still a newlywed, but I’m not stupid.”

Ace had married Jarl’s daughter, Petunia Wayfield, last winter. Funny how small the world got when a body stayed in one place too long.

“Well, Petunia is one opinionated woman.”

Ace raised his glass in tacit agreement. “The word you’re looking for is stubborn.”

“Said the pot about the kettle.” Ace and Petunia’s courtship had been as much about love as about compromise. He’d never seen two people more determined to swing the deal to their point of view than those two. And enjoy it. He’d always doubted there’d be a woman who could go toe-to-toe with Ace, but Petunia had proven him wrong. She brought balance to Ace. And he to her.

“What makes you say that?”

Luke took in Ace’s too-long brown hair, and well-worn clothes. Ace was a good-looking man, but he wasn’t one for putting a polish on his shine. “The fact that you haven’t taken me up on that appointment with my tailor.”

“I’m a busy man.”

A year ago, Ace had been a single gambler living above the saloon. Now he had a wife, a house and the responsibility of a school for unwanted children.

“Not only busy, you’re living proof life can change on a gust of wind.” He took a sip of the whiskey. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“Not everything changes.” Ace sobered. “We won’t.”

Luke touched his glass to Ace’s, feeling the weight of the lie as he said it. “No, not us.”

They’d been best friends from the moment they’d met outside the one-room building that served as church, school and town hall in the small border town with Mexico where his father had moved his family. They’d been so innocent then, insulated by their faith in their parents’ dreams. They’d had no understanding of the tensions between the Mexican army and the Texan settlers. They’d just been friends enjoying the sunshine and the wild beauty of their new home. Their friendship had been tested by the onslaught of the war, but nothing had changed their commitment—not the massacre that occurred when the Mexican army had swarmed their town and taken their families, not the years of revenge upon which the eight surviving boys had embarked that had built their reputations as Hell’s Eight, nor the struggle in the last few years to go from wild Texas Rangers to stable ranchers. But this becoming stable thing, it was taking Ace and the rest of the Eight to places Luke couldn’t go. There was no way around it, he wasn’t fitting in as easily with the rest of Hell’s Eight as he used to.

“You could have at least polished your boots.”

Ace held up the bottle. “Yours are polished enough for the both of us.”

Luke held out his empty glass.

“Technically, it’s your turn to be doing the tipping,” Ace pointed out.

“I poured at your wedding.”

“That doesn’t count. Pouring at the wedding is the best man’s job.” Ace refilled each of their glasses and then set the bottle on the sanded planks of the porch. His expression sobered right along with his tone. With a jerk of his chin he indicated the wedding group. “Are you all right with this?”

Ace worried too much. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Maybe because just a while back you were telling me how you’d give your eyeteeth to have a steady woman with whom to settle down, build a family...”

Damn Ace for his memory. “I think I was drinking at the time.”

“Not that much.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Rumor was you were sweet on Hester.”

Luke could feel the weight of Ace’s concern. “She had potential.”

Ace’s gaze turned assessing. “It’s not like you to underestimate a situation.”

Luke switched his attention to the happy couple who were holding hands and sharing a smile warmer than the hot August sun. No doubt about it, they looked right together. Another pang of what-if hit. He shook it off. No bigger waste of a man’s time than pondering what-ifs. “Truth is, I just wasn’t any competition for your father-in-law.”

“Uh-huh.” Despite the skepticism in those two syllables, Ace changed the subject. “Our Hester’s come a long way, hasn’t she?”

“That she has.”

Looking at Hester now, dressed in the beautiful pale pink gown that clashed somehow perfectly with her red, curly hair, it was hard to believe that she’d been abandoned by her husband and forced into prostitution to feed her children. It’d been a scandal around Simple when her new fiancé, Jarl, had filed a petition for divorce on Hester’s behalf to formally sever her ties to her former husband, who’d already remarried. It’d been a bold move that had cost the mayor his position and his new family. Jarl Wayfield didn’t fool around when it came to what was his. Luke had to respect him for that. “Dougall should have done right by Hester rather than trying to grind her into the dirt.”

Ace lifted his drink toward the newlyweds in a silent toast. “Got to respect a man who knows how to dole out payback.”

“Yeah, well, wherever his sorry ass is, I’m sure Dougall wishes Jarl was a bit less proficient. That arrogance of Dougall’s cost him everything.”

Dougall had slipped out of town in the dead of night right after the scandal became public. Disgrace had lingered in his wake like a vindictive cloud. There’d be no getting that reputation back. Especially with Jarl funding explicit wanted posters all over the country. Jarl had no intention of giving the man peace.

Luke took another sip. This time without the grimace. Whiskey had always had a way of making things more palatable. “You know we’re indebted to Jarl now. Hell’s Eight owed Hester for protecting Petunia when that drunk Brian tried to kill her.”

“Petunia only acted after she noticed he was beating his kid every time he tied one on. Which was nightly,” Ace reminded him.

“You don’t have to defend her actions to me,” Luke soothed. “I went with you to fetch him, remember?” Recalling how the boy had looked when they’d rode up to that dilapidated shack Brian called a home, thin and bruised in clothes as tattered as his trust, Luke just gritted his teeth. Some men didn’t deserve their sons. “Doesn’t change the fact that in his eyes, she stole his son.”

Ace’s expression hardened. “He needed stealing.”

Ace had a soft spot for kids and underdogs. “Yeah he did, but I still can’t decide if your wife is one of the bravest women I know or the most foolish. A lot of men would be afraid to go up against Brian and his temper yet Petunia never hesitated.”

Ace’s expression softened around the edges the way it always did when he thought about his wife. “She’s got a reckless side, for sure.”

“To match yours.” Luke smiled, waiting for the inevitable response. It wasn’t long in coming.

Ace glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “I prefer calculated risks to impulsive actions.”

“Uh-huh.” Luke suppressed a smile. “The fact remains, the kid’s much happier living at the orphanage Petunia started.”

“Don’t let Petunia hear you call her school an orphanage. She’d likely spill that drink into the dirt.”

Luke sighed. “The woman has no respect for good liquor.”

“Not a lick.” Ace swirled his drink with a certain satisfaction. “You realize that since Jarl paid our debt to Hester by taking care of Dougall, we now owe that hardheaded son of a bitch.”

“Yup.” And he wasn’t upset with the reality. Texas wasn’t a place for the weak. It was a hard land that demanded strong alliances to survive. Jarl might be an Easterner, but he’d proven himself.

Luke took another drink and let the liquor bite into his melancholy as happiness floated all around him, captured in the melodic trill of songbirds and the laughter of the guests. There, but somehow just out of reach. Damn, weddings were depressing.

A feminine voice rose above the cheer. Sweet and high, resonating with deeper notes that stroked along Luke’s nerves like a silk glove. A tightening in his groin heralded recognition. The little photographer, Josie Kinder. Like a homing pigeon, his gaze narrowed in on her. Jarl had brought the woman out from back East, his wedding gift to Hester—a photographic record of their union. All the guests were excited to have their image plastered flat on a piece of metal. And Josie was just as excited to do it.

Luke was unfathomably excited about the photographer. Unfathomably because, at first glance, she had no confidence, no fashion sense and no social skills. But that first impression didn’t hold up once she brought out her camera. Once she picked up the camera, she changed in an indefinable way that was at once both mysterious and challenging. He was a sucker for a challenge.

He watched her direct people around, the feathers in her beribboned hat bobbing as she bustled about, putting people here and there and positioning them this way and that. She looked for all the world like a child bossing about her elders until she turned sideways and those curves of hers swelled into view. Damn, that woman was blessed with a fine figure.

Ace followed his gaze. He pushed back his hat and his eyebrows rose. “So that’s how it is.”

Luke ignored the twitch of Ace’s lips. The problem with good friends was sometimes they knew you too well.

“Keep your nose out of my business, Ace,” he muttered.

“Like you kept yours out of mine?”

“No.”

Josie bustled about, waving folk back into place as they shifted with impatience. Luke couldn’t help but watch. Whatever it took to make a photograph, it wasn’t quick. She tripped over her skirt. Half the people she’d just positioned—the male half—lunged to catch her. She was completely oblivious to their interest. He could almost hear the collective disappointment as she grabbed the hitching post and saved herself. There was no mistaking her exasperation though when she turned and saw what remained of her perfectly balanced group. “For the love of Pete. You moved!”

He smiled as she snapped her skirts straight and marched back, shooing her would-be rescuers back into position. It’d be a miracle if they got one picture done before the sun set. His cock stirred as he admired her. There was something completely charming about the woman when she went all martinet.

“I wouldn’t have thought her your type,” Ace mused.

Josie finally ducked beneath the little curtain attached to the camera. The position gave him a fine view of her admirable ass. Luke’s cock twitched again.

“Fine women are always my type.”

This time it was Ace who said, “Uh-huh.” No little amount of skepticism in those syllables.

Luke reconsidered his initial decision not to dabble with the little Easterner. Even a night or two in her arms before she headed back East might be worth it. She wasn’t a young girl. He’d place her age around twenty-five. The fact that she’d come out West to take pictures pointed to an independent nature. The two combined made for a chance she’d be open to a discreet encounter. Anticipation thrummed harder as he contemplated that possibility. It’d been a long time since a woman had been able to make him anticipate a glimpse of her.

Ace braced his foot on the bottom railing encompassing the porch and changed the subject. “Did I ever tell you I read your books?”

Shit. He hated for anyone to know he wrote fairy-tale novels about the Wild West for bored Easterners. Let alone read one. His writing was the one thing that connected him to the time before the massacre. The part that didn’t fit the life he’d first been forced into and then, later, chosen. The novels were the only part of the dream his mother had had for him that he’d managed to keep alive. “No.”

Ace just shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know why you’re so secretive about the damn things.”

Luke just shrugged. There was no way to explain he was embarrassed.

“I’ve known you since we were three years old,” Ace said exasperatedly. “Since before the damn Mexican army came into the village and wrecked our lives. I stood with you while we buried your parents. You stood with me while I cried over mine. Hell, you even dropped my bride into my lap when she got all stubborn.”

“What’d you expect me to do? You were being inconveniently self-sacrificing and she wanted to talk my ear off about it.”

“So you kidnapped her and plopped her in my bedroom?”

“Seemed the quickest way to bring back the peace.”

Ace just shook his head and took a sip. “There’s a get-it-done wild side to you. And the woman that’ll match up with you, she’s got to have that same drop-it-in-your-lap wildness.”

Maybe Ace did know him too well. All of the Hell’s Eight had been shifting from wild to leading more acceptable lives, from Caine to the wildest of them all—Shadow. All of them except Luke. “Wild doesn’t match well with acceptable.”

Ace snorted. “Shoot, Luke, there’s about a thousand different ways people interpret acceptable. You just need someone who sees it the way you do. Hester’s a good woman, but she wants a little house with a picket fence perched around it, lemonade on Sundays and a man who loves her. That’s not you.”

“I might have worked up to loving her.” Luke didn’t know why he was belaboring the point. Maybe because he just didn’t want Ace to be right. Or maybe he wanted to be proven wrong.

Ace shrugged. “Maybe you could’ve loved her enough eventually, but for sure she couldn’t ever love you like you need.”

Luke swallowed the last of his drink. “What the hell makes you think that?”

“Because she just sent me over here.”

“What the hell for? She’s up there kissing her husband.”

And she was. With all the enthusiasm that he wanted someone to feel for him. That he wanted to feel for someone, but never had. Sometimes, he wondered if he was dead inside, just a ghost of himself, haunting his own existence.

With a shake of his head, Ace reached into his pocket and drew out a note. “She asked me to give you this.”

Luke took the carefully folded piece of paper. As he opened it, Ace added, “Just like it says there. You need someone who can love you from the inside out.”

He cocked a brow at his friend. “You read it?”

Ace didn’t look even a little bit embarrassed. “Of course.”

Of course. Sometimes being wrapped so tightly in a knot with others was not a bonus. Luke glanced down at the slip of paper. “Then I guess I’d better catch up.”

Luke read the note written in Hester’s blunt, confident style.

Ace’s tone softened as Luke refolded it. “She couldn’t give you what you need, Luke.”

Luke nodded, looking beyond the celebration, beyond the limits of the ranch to the mountains beyond. “I know.”

Inside, the impatience he’d been fighting for months surged, anticipation rode double, prickling along his nerves. It’d been a long time since he’d had an adventure. With Ace married and Hester off the market, his reasons for staying in Simple were few. Almost nonexistent.

His gaze returned to Josie as she grabbed the tintype out of the camera and rushed to the wagon. She was such a mousy woman when not busy taking pictures. So shy he had yet to discern the color of her eyes, but once she brought out that wooden contraption of a camera, the real woman came front and center. Gone was the blushing, tongue-tied miss. And in her place was a woman who knew exactly how to get what she wanted.

It was an intriguing dichotomy. The glimpses of the woman beneath the crushing shyness were like catching a hint of a plot twist in a clever mystery novel. She intrigued and tempted. She was a challenge wrapped up in a self-deprecating package that was very intricately constructed; it just didn’t fit the sense he had in his gut about her. He would love to have a conversation with her, to find out if her mind matched the impact of her body. He had a feeling it did.

He watched as she stumbled getting into the wagon. As he knew she would, she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes narrowed as if he were to blame for her clumsiness. And maybe he was. If she was as aware of him as he was of her, then she had to know he’d been staring. Just as he suspected she’d been staring at him a time or two. A pang of regret wove through the anticipation of a new adventure. Unfortunately, Josie was one bit of exploration he was going to miss. He didn’t have the time or the patience for a fling. With a defiant toss of her head, she climbed into the wagon. And that fast, he reconsidered his decision. Some challenges just begged to be met.

* * *

HE WAS WATCHING HER. The well-dressed man with the broad shoulders and I-dare-you glare was watching her. Josie could feel his gaze like fingertips skimming her skin with sensual inquiry, looking for a reaction and getting it as her fingers trembled and her neck muscles tightened. If he were touching her, he’d feel the heat rise off her skin, see the pink flush of her cheeks. Oh darn, maybe he could see it from over there. She ducked her head just a little. Just enough for the shade of her bonnet to provide cover from potential revelation.

Look away. Look away.

The plea went unheard. More prickles of awareness flustered her composure. Even more flustering was the reality of who that man was. Luke Bellen. One of the infamous Hell’s Eight. Men said to chew nails and spit bullets, eat danger for breakfast and gather women like wildflowers. Another shiver went down her spine at the thought. She didn’t want to be gathered.

Liar.

The accusation came from within.

“Traitor,” she whispered back. The last thing she needed right now was an ill-advised sense of temptation distracting her from the job for which she’d traveled so far. She was here to commemorate the wedding of her Uncle Jarl. Big and blustery, a handsome, hard-eyed businessman, Jarl Wayfield was very dear to her, and while not actually blood, he was as close to a real father as she’d ever had. From the day he’d come courting her mother, they’d had a bond. When his relationship with her mother had ended, he’d stuck around in the background of Josie’s life. She’d long since stopped wishing he was her father and instead settled for the security he offered.

He was probably the only one who saw the sense of adventure that lurked beneath her persistent shyness. And he’d indulged it by summoning her away from the smothering small town in which she’d been born and the ever-stifling presence of her overly judgmental mother. Without him she wouldn’t have this opportunity to see the West, to indulge her passion for taking pictures. She owed him so much. Too much to let six feet of wide-shouldered, lean-hipped, dark-haired pure temptation take her off task. Still feeling the weight of Luke Bellen’s gaze, she hurried on, almost dropping the tintype in the rush to her wagon.

Darn it!

The wagon had been an off-the-cuff purchase, but she only had so long to develop her images and hard experience told her that in a household environment, no one respected her need for darkness to do her work. They were forever trying to shed light on her process. These images were too important to risk. Jarl giving her this opportunity to photograph his wedding meant the world. His faith in her ability to forever capture this precious time was a much-needed boost to her flagging confidence. Being dumped like yesterday’s garbage by the man to whom she’d thought she’d been discreetly engaged for the past five years had been a hard lesson in humility. And shame. She’d been a fool to let Jason convince her to keep their engagement a secret. She’d been more than a fool. She’d been an accomplice in her own humiliation when he’d announced his engagement to another. And worse, expected her to understand.

She grimaced as she opened the back of the peddler’s wagon and stepped up. She hadn’t understood. She’d wanted to kill him. Her foot slipped and her knee scraped the metal edge. She bit back a cry and the need to burst into tears. She hated being emotional. She hated being clumsy even more. And truth was, she was only clumsy when she was under scrutiny. So it was really all Bellen’s fault.

Holding the tintype securely, she glared over her shoulder at the cause of her distress. He didn’t even have the decency to show remorse. Instead, he stood up there on the porch with another of the Hell’s Eight, nonchalantly leaning against the rough-hewn support, looking for all the world like a lion surveying his pride. She had the childish urge to stick out her tongue.

As if he heard the thought, he smiled at her, a slow, knowing smile. The full-on flush started in her toes, crept up her thighs, heated her chest and burned in her cheeks. It was sheer bravado that had her snubbing him with a lift of her chin before pure unadulterated cowardice sent her diving into the wagon. Cowardice had often been the bane of her existence. And sometimes, her salvation.

The door banged shut behind her. Placing the undeveloped tintype on the plank counter, she braced herself, hands spread across the uneven wood as she took a steadying breath. She was twenty-six years old, for heaven’s sake. Far too old to be undone by a man’s glance. But there was something about Luke that just ferreted its way past the defenses she’d built up over the years and reduced her to the cripplingly shy child she’d been. She hated it. She wanted to blame him. And if he only would say or do something other than observe her from afar, she probably could. But he didn’t.

He was probably doing it on purpose.

She reached for the developing chemicals only to notice her hand was shaking. She took another breath and waited. The chemicals that made the miracle of photography possible were highly flammable. Not to mention noxious smelling. She needed a steady hand when dealing with them.

She soon discovered that standing in the hot, humid interior of the darkened wagon was not conducive to relaxation. Alone in the dark, it was too easy for her mind to wander. And without anything else to distract her attention, her mind inevitably wandered to Luke Bellen. As she was sure hundreds of other women’s minds had done before.

All the men of Hell’s Eight were compelling but there was something about Luke that stood out. There was a symmetry to his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, well-muscled body that made her breath catch. A smoothness in the way he moved that made her fingertips tingle. And the way his utter masculinity prowled beneath the nonchalance of his expressions... She sighed. Well, that just made her want to sink to the ground at his feet and let nature take its course.

If she let him, he would take advantage. She was sure of that. Just as he would with any other woman who succumbed to his blatant sexuality, no doubt. She had only to look back at her own engagement to see the folly of her first line of thought. Her fiancé, Jason, had nowhere near the presence Luke had, but it had been enough for her to convince herself the words he’d whispered in her ear were real. That the emotions he professed were honest. And that the passion he’d made her feel was unique to them. All that only to find out at her own long-awaited engagement party that he’d whispered those same words to, invoked those same passions in so many others. And she’d been such a blind fool, building excuses on top of her ignorance because the little he’d given her had been easier to accept than venturing back into the tenuous social position of being unclaimed. Bastards could only be so bold.

She grabbed the bottle of developer from the wooden box. Thank goodness Uncle Jarl had offered her this escape. More than once he’d been her salvation, often stepping in to give her breathing room from her mother’s constant expectations. As he had this time when he’d sent her the tickets to come out to Texas—Texas!—to memorialize his wedding with her tintypes. Even if she hadn’t been wanting to escape her mother’s newest press for her to choose a husband—she loved her, but in some ways she was absolutely relentless—she would have jumped at the chance to come out to the wild-and-wonderful West she’d read so much about. Texas was just Texas. Big, wild and full of potential. She couldn’t take two steps without wanting to pull out her camera box and capture a moment.

Her mother was constantly seeking ways to regain the respectability she’d abandoned when she’d fallen for the wrong man and had a child—Josie—out of wedlock, and the subsequent pressure for Josie to accept any invitation dropped off at the house was becoming impossible to duck. One of the reasons Josie had been thrilled to take up Uncle Jarl’s invite was to escape that sudden increase in invitations. She was long past marriageable age anyway. She’d been cast aside. By all measures, she should be a pariah, but in the wake of her mother’s suddenly full social calendar, Josie had just as suddenly been receiving callers. As those callers had been of a certain age, she’d had the uncomfortable feeling her mother had found a new way to increase her value as a marriage prospect. It was too mortifying to contemplate. And too distasteful. She did not want to marry an old man, no matter how good their tailors made them look in their suits.

And that fast, her thoughts were back to Bellen and the way he looked in his suit. So many men looked awkward in more formal attire. But that man wore his clothes the way he wore his confidence, as if they were an extension of some deeper secret. She opened the bottle. She would love to photograph him in all his untamed elegance. To catch the way the sun highlighted the lighter streaks in his brown hair. To see with her lens the answer to the mystery he posed. To know him.

Darn it. She had to stop thinking of that man. He wasn’t for her. She couldn’t even manage syllables when he was around. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her sleeve, she took a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the oppressive heat settle around her as she did. Even parking the wagon in the shade of the big oak and opening the windows was not much help against the brutal Texas humidity. For sure, she wouldn’t last long in the closed wagon. She needed to focus or she was going to complete the most ladylike faint of her life before she found out if she’d truly underexposed those last photos as much as she feared. It’d taken so long for the group to get in position and maintain it, the clouds had moved in. She’d tried to compensate, but there was more art than science in this endeavor. Pictures came out best in bright light.

Putting Luke and his disconcerting smile out of her head, she let herself fall into that calm, competent place that surrounded her whenever she worked on her photography. Worry could wait a few minutes to torment her. Right now she had a picture to develop.

It wasn’t the all-absorbing consolation it usually was.

Darn it again.

* * *

LUKE SIGHED WHEN Josie didn’t come back out of the wagon, accepting the show was over for the day, but his interest lingered on past his acceptance. His curiosity was, as always, piqued by the contrast between the exotic depth of the woman’s photographs and her downplayed appearance. And it had to be deliberate because any man who gave her a second glance couldn’t miss the red hints in her hair or the porcelain clarity of her skin that made a body wonder if that same white smoothness extended beneath her clothes. Oh yes, there was something about Josie Kinder, something more than her self-effacing ways, her sexy, plumply curved body and her utter lack of awareness of her own appeal, that called to him. She might by all accountings look like a shy wren to be pitied, but he didn’t want to pity her. He wanted to ravage her. And he’d be damned if he had a clue as to why.

“She’s really not your usual type,” Ace said from beside him, following his gaze as he took a sip from his whiskey.

Damn. Was he being that obvious? “I wasn’t aware I had one.”

“Oh, you have one.” The whiskey in his glass caught the sun as he motioned toward the wagon. “But it doesn’t lean toward shy innocents.”

That shy innocent was watching him. Luke could feel it. “I’m leaving in a few days.”

Ace nodded. “I figured. You’ve been restless since Hester announced her wedding.”

And his tone again implied that Hester’s choice was the reason. And it was, but not in the way Ace thought.

Luke shrugged and took a sip from his near-empty glass. The liquor slid down his throat in a smooth burn. Not like the days when rot-gut was the best they could buy. “Hell’s Eight can’t trust Tia’s safety to just anyone.”

Ace cut him a glance. “I wouldn’t exactly call Zach Lopez ‘just anyone.’”

The Montoya foreman was rattlesnake mean, coyote clever and generally a force to be reckoned with. “True, but I’m riding along.”

Ace wasn’t soothed. The man had always had a problem leaving things to others. “I don’t like the thought of Tia out there at all. Especially after what happened to Pet...”

Petunia’s kidnapping had been a near miss. Fortunately they’d gotten to her in time. “Nothing happened that couldn’t be fixed.”

Luke had to believe that, considering he’d been the one to put Petunia on that stage and straight into the arms of a Comanche raiding party. But it wasn’t something he could just up and ask Ace.

“I’d feel better if Tia would wait until fall, when preparing for winter will keep the Comanche busy elsewhere,” Ace muttered.

So would Luke, but as Sam’s wife, Bella was Hell’s Eight. Full of fire, courage and an unlimited amount of sass, she fit into the group as if made for them. He swirled the last swallow of whiskey in his glass. “There’s no way Tia’s going to miss delivering Bella and Sam’s first child. Not after she promised to be there.”

Ace frowned across the yard at Tia, who’d joined the group around the bride and groom. “She’s not a young woman anymore.”

Luke echoed his frown as the sun caught the gray in Tia’s shiny black hair. When had Tia decided to get old? “She isn’t in her grave, either. And that’s what I think it would take to keep her away from this birth. Especially since Sam asked her to come.” He attempted to change the subject. “You know, of all of the Eight, he’s her favorite.”

Ace snorted. “Tia isn’t here to rile with that accusation, so you can just drop it and stop trying to change the subject.” His frown deepened. “What the hell was Sam thinking?”

Luke didn’t know, but it had to be serious. “That he needs her. He wouldn’t have sent for her if he didn’t. Sam isn’t an alarmist. He knows the traveling risk right now and he loves Tia as much as all of us. Things have to be serious. To the point I’m thinking he left the Montoya ranch all but unprotected with all the men he sent to escort Tia.”

That was a big thing for Sam. Sam was a wild card. A man who’d ride into a fray of bullets just for the challenge of surviving, but he took his responsibilities seriously. And that included the huge responsibility of the Montoya ranch he’d inherited when he’d married Bella. The ranch sat smack dab in the middle of Comanche country. Luke shook his head. It took a strong man to keep it in one piece. But Sam seemed to be flourishing under the challenge. The man no one thought would ever settle, just might have found his place.

Ace nodded. “So I heard.”

“Did you hear when they’re arriving?”

“Based on the telegram, they should be here any day.”

“Good. We’re going to need everyone. There’s some rough territory between here and there.”

Ace cocked an eyebrow. “And yet you’re volunteering.”

And looking forward to it. Being around so many settled people chafed. “It’ll be a new adventure with which to thrill the readers.”

“Uh-huh. Do your readers know how much truth is in your novels?”

It was Luke’s turn to shrug. No one was more surprised than he at the success of his novels, written under the pen name of Dane Savage. More shocking than the money was the notoriety. According to his publisher, Easterners couldn’t get enough of the rumored-to-be-autobiographical tales of the ever-so-honest, bigger-than-life Texas Ranger’s high adventures in the West. As fast as Luke was writing them, they were selling. He adjusted his hat. “I get the feeling they’re more interested in the fiction.”

“Uh-huh.”

A new voice entered the fray. “I wondered where the whiskey had gotten to.”

Only one man of the Hell’s Eight had such a deep voice. Tucker McCade. His tread was heavy on the stairs, his smile broad but tinged with concern.

Ace held up the nearly empty bottle. “You timed that close.”

“Still can’t get used to you wearing sleeves,” Luke said, turning to greet Tucker. Nor to seeing him without his knives strapped to his thighs.

Tucker smiled and tossed his lemonade over the rail. The heavy muscles in his arms rippled under his shirt with the movement. His shoulder-length black hair fell over his face, casting his harsh features in shadow. “Me, neither.” He held out his glass. “But having a wife who turns a jealous eye when other women ogle my manly attributes means I get tailor-made shirts.”

Ace chuckled and poured. “I’ve heard it’s good to keep a Quaker peaceful.”

Tucker’s smile reached his brown eyes and his teeth shone white against his dark skin, emphasizing the scar on his right cheek. “I do enjoy smoothing Sally Mae’s feathers when they’re ruffled.”

“Pacifist or not, that woman has a way of getting what she wants.”

“Not everything,” Caine pointed out, coming up to join them, a fresh bottle in his hand. “She’s not going to Rancho Montoya.”

“You heard?”

“I think everyone within a mile heard you shouting last night,” Caine said, pulling the cork from the fresh bottle with his teeth.

“That woman has a stubborn streak a mile deep,” Tucker grumbled.

Luke smiled. Sally Mae was a tall, slim blonde and as cool as a spring day. She never raised her voice. The exact opposite of her dark, big, muscular husband. “Almost equal to yours.”

“Yeah, but things, they’re not good out there. You know that. I know that. With the cavalry pulled back East and bad blood, travel isn’t safe. I know Sam sent his vaqueros, but I’d feel better if some of Hell’s Eight were traveling with Tia.”

Caine held up the bottle. Luke held out his glass alongside the others.

“I’m going,” Luke offered. But he wasn’t staying after he got there. The itch in his feet was too strong. The horizon too enticing.

Caine frowned and poured them each a measure. “I wish we could spare more.”

“Sam handled that end.”

“Yeah.” Tucker took a drink of his whiskey and shook his head. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m being plagued by a bad feeling.”

Shit. There was nothing worse than Tucker having a bad feeling.

CHAPTER TWO

WITH DAWN JUST PAST, the ground wet with dew, the yard bustling with activity, the time to leave had arrived. Even with two cups of coffee in him, Luke was dragging. With the efficiency of long practice, he tightened the cinch on Chico’s saddle. Thanks to a restless night, his mood was jagged.

Around him, the sounds of the group preparing for departure joined the sleepy chirps of rousing birds. Leather creaking, horses stomping their feet, people talking, items thudding into the buckboard—it was all familiar. The rightness of it had settled over his unease with a soothing balm. He gave the cinch a firm tug. It was time to go. A man who stayed in one place too long got stale.

Tia came out of the house, escorted by her husband, Ed. Her dark green traveling dress was impeccably tailored, and the gray-streaked black of her hair was pulled up into a distinguished bun. She was the perfect image of a refined lady, but if he wasn’t mistaken, her dark brown eyes lit with excitement. It occurred to Luke that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d been feeling the weight of settling down. For Tia to have been out in the back of beyond as she had been when the boys of Hell’s Eight found her, she had to have a spirit of adventure.

Funny how he’d never thought on that before. Tia had always just been Tia. The stability in their lives. The one they’d counted on. Behind her trailed Sally Mae. At six months pregnant, her belly led the way. It was her second pregnancy, the first having ended in miscarriage, and everyone was worried because, from the girth of her belly, this child was going to have Tucker’s size.

“I should be going with you,” Sally said and sighed, supporting her stomach with her hand. Behind Sally Mae came Tucker, carrying another suitcase. With a shake of his head he negated that idea. “Before you got two feet in that wagon, that baby would be bouncing out of your belly.”

Despite the ease of his tone, there was no doubting the concern in his eyes. Sally brushed it aside with a flick of her hand. “Expecting women have been traveling since the beginning of time.”

The suitcase landed on the pile in the back of the wagon. “Not my woman.”

Before Sally Mae could counter, Tucker wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back against him, taking over the supporting of her stomach with his much-larger hands. Placing her hands over his, Sally leaned back and allowed him to support them both.

Her whispered “It’ll be all right this time” carried.

Tucker ducked his head to respond. His hair fell forward to blend with hers. Light with dark. They were opposites that somehow formed a perfect whole. His “I know” reflected her conviction.

Luke didn’t share their confidence. Sally miscarrying the first baby had sent a shock wave through their whole community. The Hell’s Eight wasn’t used to losing, but there’d been no fighting that. Tucker had been devastated. For a time Luke had thought there’d be no more, but Sally Mae, with that implacable quiet resolve of hers, had wanted to try again. Tucker had forbidden it. Clearly in this, Sally Mae had had the stronger resolve.

Watching them, remembering the devastation of that time, Luke wanted to swear. Never, since the days after the massacre that had stripped Hell’s Eight of their families, had he felt so helpless and angry. Rubbing at the tension in his neck, he fought the feeling. Then and now, Tia was the key to the Hell’s Eight unity. She always had been.

Then, they had been starving and consumed with anger when they’d stumbled upon the young widow’s home. They’d tried to steal her pies, and she’d paid them back by taking them into her heart. Tia had given them discipline, education and a purpose. Now a mature woman, she gave them stability and love. Sam might need Tia, but Hell’s Eight needed her, too. No matter how spread out they became, Tia was home. “We could just stay here.”

He knew as he said it, it was a moot point.

Tia shook her head at him before smiling softly at Sally. “There is no need for worry. I will be back in time for this baby.”

Sally nodded. “I know. Bella and Sam need you.”

His “You’re both crazy” went ignored.

“So do we,” Tucker growled, placing his hand over Sally’s.

Tia smiled in that knowing way only another woman found comforting. “Your wife is a healer. She knows this time it is good.”

Tucker’s clenched jaw made it clear he wasn’t feeling any more soothed than Luke.

“I’d feel better with fact, not fiction,” Tucker growled.

Sally Mae patted his hand. “You’re going to just have to wait and see like the rest of us.”

“I hate waiting.”

Luke could put an amen on that. Fortunately, he didn’t have to sit and wait.

Zach rode around the corner of the barn, controlling the prance of the powerful stallion with the same calm efficiency he used to manage the Montoya ranch with Sam. Behind, his men followed, all mounted on equally impressive horse flesh and all equally in control. Zach pulled the stallion to a halt at the edge of the yard. With a tip of his black hat, he acknowledged those gathered. In a slow yet somehow unified meander, his men flanked him. They were an impressive sight.

“We should not wait much longer,” Zach called. “We must cover a lot of trail before dark.”

Acknowledging the comment with a lift of her hand, Tia encompassed them all in a look. When they were growing up, that look had had the power to rein in their wildness. Now it had the power to convey conviction. “We’re not losing another baby. Not here or at Rancho Montoya.”

Ed took her hand and raised it to his lips. “We’re not losing you, either.”

“I’ll be safe, my husband. I feel it.” She stroked his cheek. “You and my boys should not worry. I am not so easily lost.”

“I’d feel better if you’d wait so more of your ‘boys’ could be going with you,” Caine grumbled.

“I know, but...”

“Ah, senora...” Zach came forward, spurs jangling, looking as cocky as always in his black pants, black shirt and black hat adorned with dark turquoise around the brim. “My men and I are not Hell’s Eight, but we are of the Montoya and we have saved Hell’s Eights’ behinds before. You will arrive safely.”

“One time,” Caine muttered from where he was tying down the canvas on one side of the flatbed. “One time they save the day and we never hear the end of it.”

Zach flashed a rare grin. “It is relevant.”

“And we are very grateful,” Tucker drawled with a sharp look at Caine.

That was the truth. Without the Montoya vaqueros, Sam would not have his Bella. Nor Tracker his Ari. And Desi’s promise, which had started it all, to find her stolen twin and dance together once again in a field of daisies would have gone unfulfilled. He shook his head and stroked Chico’s neck. From the day Hell’s Eight had been hired to find the “runaway” Desi, all of their lives’ paths had taken a pivot from wild to civilized. Caine said because it was time. Tia said because God had plans for them beyond an early demise. And Luke. Luke just didn’t know who was making plans for whom. He only knew he wasn’t fitting the mold.

“It is important you are reminded that not all that is good is Tejano,” Zach added.

“Si,” Tia said, patting Caine’s hand this time. “This is true.” She looked over at him. “So stop worrying, Luke. Bella needs me. Sam needs me. The baby needs me.”

Luke tried one more time. “The baby isn’t here yet.”

She looked at him from under her brows. “For this reason, Sam sent for me.”

Luke gave another tug at the cinch. Chico snorted his displeasure, emphasizing it with a stomp of his hoof. “Yeah, I know.”

“That to the horse or Tia?” Tucker asked.

“Shut up, Tucker.”

Luke dropped the stirrup back into place before addressing Tia. “I’m not exactly sure that Sam sent for you. That telegram could have been to keep you apprised.”

Tia clucked her tongue and pulled her scarf up over her hair. “Do not be silly.”

And that fast, Luke knew there was no point in talking further. He loved the small, plump woman from the tip of her bun to the soles of her pointy black boots. She was the anchor of Hell’s Eight and now she was leaving the sanctuary. He didn’t have to like it, but he would support her. “Then let’s go.”

“We can’t yet.”

“Why not?” he asked, preparing to mount.

Everyone went silent. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. From the barn came a rhythmic clanking. He knew that sound.

He looked around. No one would meet his gaze.

“Oh hell no.”

A broken-down nag came through the doors, walking like an old man felt, as if every step dragged its past along with the gaudily painted peddler’s wagon. Sitting in the seat, all delicious curves and annoying attitude, was Josie. She met his frown with a smile. The contents of the wagon clanked as it hit a rut.

Tia smiled. “We are ready.”

“Why did no one tell me Josie was invited along?” Luke asked.

Tia looked at Ed. Ed looked at Ace. Ace shrugged. “Jarl made a promise.”

And Hell’s Eight owed Jarl.

“I, for one, will be glad to have another woman on the journey,” Tia said.

“Well, I’m not.”

Another woman might be one thing, but Josie wasn’t just any woman. She was the thorn in his side. Trouble walking. A mass of contradictions. He ground his teeth to the rhythm of the wagon’s rattle as she approached. Hell, even her hair was contrary. Neither blond nor brown nor red, it was an ever-changing mix of all three, depending on the light. Right now it was red. A warning to anyone who’d care to harken. He opened his mouth. Caine cut him off.

“I wouldn’t even bother saying it.”

Luke turned around to glare at Caine. In many ways, he was the same hard man Luke had grown up with. In others, he was different. Caine had been sent by an unscrupulous bastard to retrieve Desi, and in true Caine form, had ended up keeping her. In Desi, Caine had found everything he’d been searching for. And that hungry, restless wolf inside had settled down.

“What exactly do you think I’m going to say?”

There was a smile in Caine’s gray eyes. “That if she goes, you won’t.”

The thought had crossed his mind. “It’s a thought.”

“It’s a bad thought. I need to know you’re there, Luke. Zach and his men, they’re good but they’re not Hell’s Eight. I can’t spare more than I have.”

Yet another change of the last few years. Hell’s Eight had once functioned as a unit. Almost as one man, one thought, but that had changed. Members had married. Settled down. It was as if each man had found the woman who completed him, anchored his restless ways.

“Hell’s Eight is changing.” Luke sighed.

“We’re bigger,” Caine countered.

“And more vulnerable,” Luke added, looking at Tia. Hell’s Eight had grown. More lives. More responsibilities.

Caine nodded. “I know the photographer irritates you.”

“She does.”

“Now, why is that?” Ace asked as the wagon came closer.

“She’s too flighty. It’s irritating.” That got a raised brow from Ed and a snort from Tia.

“So irritating you can’t take your eyes off her?” Ed asked.

Dammit. Luke yanked his gaze away. He was watching her.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Tia murmured.

“Better not be too much fire,” Caine cut in. “Josie’s under the protection of Hell’s Eight.”

Luke shook his head. He might be fascinated, but he wasn’t suicidal. “No need to worry. As soon as that woman opens her mouth, any interest a man has dies.”

“Oh?” Tia cocked her head. “I find her quite funny, and Sally Mae says she is a most interesting woman.”

It was Luke’s turn to snort. “All she talks about are those plates and chemicals she uses to make those tintypes.”

“Have you even seen her work?” Caine asked.

“No.” Ever since the woman had pushed him out of his place at the wedding to set up a picture and stolen his point of view with a smile and an elbow in his side, he’d been avoiding the temptation.

“You should.”

“Uh-huh.”

“She is my guest,” Tia reminded him quietly. “And I promised her we did not mind her coming along.”

He’d imagined Josie’d pushed herself into the trip. “You invited her?”

Tia shrugged. “Pictures of my grandson would be good to have in my parlor.”

“There might be photographers out there.”

Tucker snorted. “Now you’re clutching at straws.”

“Yes, he is,” Zach cut in. “The Montoya ranch, it is big, but it’s remote. There are no photographers.”

There went that argument.

Tia smiled at Josie. Josie smiled back.

That smile had way too much impact on his libido, coming as it did from a woman holding the reins of a gaudily painted peddler’s wagon drawn by a knock-kneed horse wearing a ridiculous bonnet sprouting a huge plume of weeds that bobbed with every plodding step. The right wheel hit a bump. The pans attached to the side clattered. Lounging on the porch, Desi’s hound, Boone, lifted his head and moaned before sinking back onto the sun-warmed wood.

“Between that wagon and her...eccentricities, she’ll get us all killed.”

From the edge of the yard came an amused and far too appreciative “I think she will add some beautiful scenery to the journey.”

The last thing he wanted was the too-handsome vaquero noticing Josie. “Shut up, Zach.”

“What do you have against the woman, Luke?” Caine asked.

She was too flighty. Too pretty. Too aggravating. Too tempting. “She has no idea what she’s riding into. Hell, she’s probably got a picnic basket all packed for our little excursion,” he growled under his breath.

Zach just chuckled. Luke had the overwhelming urge to knock him off his horse. As if to prove his point, Josie called over, “Good morning, everyone. I’m so sorry I’m late. I had the darnedest time getting Glory’s hat to stay put.”

Shit. Luke swung up into the saddle. She’d named the nag Glory. What more proof did his point need than that?

“Welcome, hija,” Tia called, bringing the cacophony of horse and wagon closer.

Chico stomped his foot nervously. Luke patted his neck. “Easy, boy. Now is not the time to be temperamental.”

Zach’s horse started its own little dance. As if she didn’t understand the disaster she was courting with that obnoxious wagon, Josie kept coming, shyly flashing those dimples that sent his imagination teetering into areas it had no business being.

“Thank you so much for inviting me. I can’t tell you how excited I am by this opportunity.”

Luke’s cock perked right along with his aggravation. The wheel hit another bump. The pans clattered. A bucket swung, its contents grating around in its interior. Chico crow-hopped and flattened his ears. Zach’s horse snapped its head up and reared. Zach’s quick reflexes were the only thing that saved his ass from getting dumped in the dirt. “Stay back, senorita!”

“Josie,” Luke ordered. “Stop right there.”

Startled, Josie pulled back on the reins. He kneed Chico over. Josie watched him approach, her intriguing blue eyes big beneath her wide-brimmed satin, ruched hat. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit he liked her eyes on him. While there could be a certain haphazardness to her attention, when the woman focused on something, it was all out. He couldn’t help but wonder if she brought that intensity between the sheets.

A shiver raced over his skin. He liked that image entirely too much. The corner of her lips twitched. Fear or humor? It annoyed the bejesus out of him that he wanted to know which. Seems he’d done nothing but watch the woman since the moment he’d damn near tripped over her, kneeling in the dirt taking a picture of a bee on a flower, the day before Hester’s wedding. He’d known she was off-kilter from that second on, but it didn’t seem to make any difference—then or now. He couldn’t look away. Somewhere deep inside him, for some goddamn reason, it mattered if Josie was happy or sad. And that irritated the heck out of him.

Luke folded his arms over the saddle horn and stared right back at her. She cocked her head to the side and studied him.

“I’d like to take your picture like that someday.”

“Why?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “The composition is perfect.”

“Excuse me?”

She made a square of her hands, looking through them with the intensity of a hawk looking at a tasty mouse. “The way you’re sitting, with the mountains behind. And the shadows...” She shifted slightly to the left and nodded. “It would be a good picture, a very good picture.”

Glory stomped his foot. She frowned. “I don’t suppose we have time now, do we?”

He had the insane urge to say yes. “Hell no.”

She sighed. “I lose so many moments that way.”

She was an odd one for sure.

Boone raised his head and gave a light woof. From around the corner of the barn came piling six of his offspring, barking and growling and carrying on. None of them seemed to share Boone’s lazy porch hound ways. They charged in. One raced between his horse’s legs. Chico jumped and snorted. Glory tossed his head and reared up in the traces.

With a scream as ugly as his hat, he threw his head back. Luke only caught a glimpse of Josie’s terror before the horse took off with a surge of energy. The wagon went right along with it, banging and clanking in a cacophonous prelude to disaster.

Chico reared up. As soon as Luke got his hooves back on the ground, he started crow-hopping. Time slowed as Zach’s horse joined in.

This time it was Caine’s turn to say, “Shit.”

He grabbed for Tia’s team. Tucker lunged for Glory and missed. Luke pulled hard on the right rein, forcing Chico into a tight circle before sending him racing after the wagon, driving the gelding through his fear as Glory’s hat sailed by. It only took a few strides for Chico to catch up with Glory. Grabbing his reins just below the bit, he pulled the bag of bones up short. The clanging lessened until the wagon came to a halt.

The whole rescue only took a minute, but at the end of that minute... Luke shook his head and glanced back over his shoulder. Chaos had been unleashed. The yard looked like a tornado had ripped through it, the ground chewed up by horses and wagons, pots and pans and other items strewn across the ground. And sitting on a rosebush was the nag’s ridiculous hat.

The yard wasn’t the only thing in disarray. Josie’s bonnet was off to the side, and tendrils of hair framed her flushed cheeks.

“Why the he—” He caught himself just in time. “Why the heck don’t you have your gear inside the wagon?”

Josie gathered her skirts and hopped down. Her hem caught on the edge of the footboard, flashing him a glimpse of pantaloons and ankle. She yanked at it. “It is in the wagon where it should be.”

“Then what’s all over the yard?”

On a last tug, her skirt came free. She turned and headed toward the mess. “The other stuff.”

She said it as if it made total sense. Luke dismounted and followed. Shaking his head, he picked up a frying pan and handed it back to her. “You don’t think we’ll have cookware where we’re going?”

Josie shrugged. Her hat listed a bit more. “It all came with the wagon. I had no idea what to expect, so I just kept it all.”

“I see.” He went to the back of the wagon and opened the door. It was easy to tell what was her stuff. It was tied down in sturdy boxes.

“We’re going to have to cut back on some of this weight.”

That brought her hurrying right over, two metal bowls and that silly hat in her hand. “You’re not talking about my equipment, are you?”

“Would your equipment be in the large, thick wood box, weighing probably fifty pounds on its own?”

She came up beside him. The soft scent of lilac teased his nostrils. “The solutions I use to make my pictures need to be protected.”

“Uh-huh. What about the rest of this? Are you married to it?”

She pointed to the trunk in the middle. “That has my clothes in it. I could let that go.”

They could agree on one thing. Those ugly clothes she wore had to go. If she were his, he’d dress her in cool silk and simple designs to highlight her natural curves and beauty. Deep blue to match her eyes. Pink to contrast with her pale skin. “Do your clothes have to be in a trunk?”

Cocking her head to the side, she gave his question a second of consideration. “You know, I don’t suppose they do.”

“That horse of yours would probably appreciate a lighter load.” For good measure he added, “And he could probably do without that hat. There’s no dignity in that hat.”

There was little left in her own for that matter. One more nod of her head and it was coming off.

She stuck her finger through the ear holes and wiggled them. “Actually, I’ve been informed that without this hat he’s quite flighty.”

Glancing around the yard, Luke shook his head. “It stuns the mind, imagining how much more he could be.”

The puppies came up, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, completely unconcerned with the disaster they’d precipitated. Josie bent down and gave the one with the white front toe a scratch behind the ear. Her hat gave up and slid off. “Hello, Rascal.”

“I wouldn’t get too fond of them. Boone’s pups are in high demand.”

“I intend to get quite fond of this one. Tucker gave him to me.”

“Tucker gave you one of the pups?”

“Yup.” She snatched her bonnet out of his jaws. “I’ve never had a dog before, though.”

“Why would you want one now?”

She looked up at him. “Because now just seems the right time.”

Boone’s pups had been in demand since the day Boone had fought to save Desi and then, shot and bleeding, tracked her, saving her life. Dogs with that kind of heart were rare. Boone was a legend. And everyone wanted part of a legend. Tucker was mighty particular about whom he gave a pup to.

Yet he’d given one to Josie. Luke’s gut tightened, and not in a good way, at the implied intimacy. Was he actually jealous? “What are you going to do with him when you go back East?”

“They do travel, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

The puppy made a jump for the hat. She held it above her head. “No, Rascal!”

Rascal kept jumping and she kept turning, uttering soft-voiced orders.

“You could help,” Caine suggested, riding up.

So he could. Grabbing the pup by the scruff, Luke ordered, “Sit.”

Startled, Rascal looked at him before slowly sinking down on his haunches. His face drooped into soulful despair as he realized his predicament.

Luke wasn’t impressed.

Josie grabbed his arm. “Ooh, don’t hurt him.”

Holding the pup’s gaze, Luke ordered, “Stay,” before releasing him.

No one was more surprised than he when Rascal stayed put.

Josie blinked. “I confess, I’m impressed.”

“Some things take a firm hand,” he bluffed.

He’d be damned if that didn’t send a little shiver down her spine, and he’d be damned if that shiver didn’t send another bolt of lust through him.

“We don’t have time to repack all this,” Tucker noted, holding out a badly dented pot as he approached.

Rascal bounded up to Tucker the way all animals and children did. Women, however, were usually intimidated by his dark looks and the scar slashing across his right cheek that lent him a sinister air. Josie just gave him a big smile.

“I’m fine with leaving the cooking equipment and we can take my clothes out of the trunk.”

Tucker turned the pot before tossing it to one of the hands. “That’s good.”

“Truth be told, I got this wagon off a peddler.” She handed the bowls to Luke. “It was one price for everything.” She said it as though it was pure luck the peddler had been selling everything lock, stock and barrel.

The bowls were almost rusted through in places. “I hope you didn’t pay much.”

“Oh no, I bargained.” With a tug, she pulled her bonnet back up. The brim obscured her expression. She still held the horse’s ridiculous hat. Bending down, she gave Rascal a pat. He wiggled and flopped over.

“You bargained?” he asked. She didn’t look as if she could bargain her way out of a feed sack.

Tucker chuckled and started stripping the remaining items from the wagon. “The way I hear it, there was a man down in Parson’s saloon whining about how he was fleeced by some good-looking filly.”

Josie’s smile widened to satisfaction. Luke noticed she was more free with her expressions when she felt hidden in some way. “Why, thank you, Mr. McCade.”

Tucker tipped his hat. “Always happy to pass on good news. And just call me Tucker.”

Luke wanted to knock the bonnet from her head and expose that smile, that woman. “I didn’t know you had such talents.”

“Imagine that.” Focusing on Glory’s hat, she straightened the brim before heading to the front of the wagon.

Tucker snorted. Luke cut him a glare before following. He motioned to the weed-adorned monstrosity. “You know, it’s darned undignified to make a horse wear that thing.”

“Uh-huh.”

The horse was too tall for her to position it properly. Luke folded his arms across his chest. If she asked nicely, he might help her.

She waved the hat. Instead of spooking, the horse lowered its head. She settled the hat over Glory’s ears, carefully working the right, then the left through the holes. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled. “It seems, Mr. Bellen, there are some things about which you don’t know everything.”

* * *

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, excess trunks and cooking equipment were stacked by the house, the wagons were in line, the women were ready and there was nothing left to do but leave. Luke looked around, a mixture of unease and anticipation roiling in his gut. The anticipation was for him. The unease for the women. Here was safety. Ahead lay danger. And he was leading Tia and Josie right into it. He pulled his hat down over his eyes.

“I’m not happy about this,” he muttered to Caine.

Caine nodded. “For the record, neither am I.”

But it didn’t make a difference. The trip was happening. Luke turned his horse and moved to the head of the small caravan. Zach’s vaqueros fell into place, surrounding the wagons. Warriors who’d give their lives to protect the women. He had to believe it was going to be enough.

From the porch, Rascal barked. And then howled. Tucker hushed him with a tug on the impromptu rope leash. Behind him, he heard the goodbyes. Before he got too far, Caine stopped him with a sharp whistle.

“Don’t forget where your home is.”

Looking back at Caine, Luke saw all there had been, all there could be. And the reality of what was. He didn’t know if he’d ever be coming back.

He touched his finger to the brim of his hat. “I won’t.”

Caine held up his hand. Right behind Caine was Ace. And behind him, Tucker. And then Ed. Solid men to the last. Dependable. His family. “If you do, we’ll come looking for you.”

And that was the beauty of Hell’s Eight. Even when they were apart, they were never alone. He tipped his hat. “I’ll hold it against you if you don’t.”

There was so much more he wanted to say, but all the words had been spoken and now it was only down to the doing, as it had been so many times before. But with this departure there wasn’t a bounty or the need for revenge to drive him down the trail. There was only this aching need for...something. Just something.

And it was time to go find it.

With a wave of his hand, he put the caravan in motion.

The journey had begun.

CHAPTER THREE

FOUR HOURS LATER, Josie came to a conclusion. Luke might not be the only one who knew less than he thought he did. She’d awoken that morning, tingling with anticipation for this exciting adventure, but reality was beating her up. She sighed.

The wagon that had looked so perfectly suited to her needs was actually little more than an elaborate instrument of torture. The seat bruised her posterior. The reins chafed her hands even through the light gloves she’d put on, and the small overhang she’d thought would protect her from the sun did nothing but trap the heat. Worse even, the constant bouncing and swaying upset her stomach to the point where she was in danger of embarrassing herself by vomiting.

Gripping the reins, she took a deep breath. She refused to further embarrass herself. After the fiasco that morning, she couldn’t afford to look more incompetent. Luke was just itching for a reason to send her back and they were still close enough to the Hell’s Eight compound to make that feasible. Wagons, she’d discovered, had a more plodding pace than riding horseback. She tucked a stray hair under her bonnet. A trickle of perspiration slid down her back toward her already soaked corset. A glance at the sun showed it wasn’t yet noon. How was she going to stand the full afternoon sun? How was everyone else able to stand it so easily?

The left wheels hit a rut. The wagon bounced over it, then swayed before settling. Her breakfast rose to her throat. Beside her one of the vaqueros asked, “You are well, senorita?”

Forcing a smile, she lied. “Fine, thank you.”

The tip of his hat was as much an indication of skepticism as it was good manners, but he rode on without further comment. For that she was grateful. Being a bastard in a small town had made her a spectacle her entire life, her every move subject to conjecture. The experience had left her with a complete aversion to being the focus of anyone’s attention. She much preferred being invisible.

She waited until the vaquero was out of earshot before groaning and fanning herself with her journal. How could she have been so foolish as to have underestimated the rigors of the journey? Driving a wagon over established roads was rough enough, but over open countryside? It was a nightmare.

She sighed and answered her own question. At the time, she’d just assumed all she’d have to do was sit in the seat, point Glory in the right direction, and follow everybody else. She hadn’t given a thought to the pounding the wooden wheels rolling over rough terrain would deliver to her spine or how the raucous noise from her remaining hanging supplies would jar her nerves.

She also hadn’t thought of how exposed to the elements she would be sitting on the hard seat or how much the wagon just...swayed. All the time. Back and forth. Lightly. Or more aggressively when the wheels hit a rock. Like now. Her teeth snapped together. She gave a fleeting thought to her equipment only to have it die under a wave of nausea. She swallowed hard. Her fingers twitched on the reins, but she knew they couldn’t stop. Zach and Luke set a pace that was, in her mind, brutal, but in their minds undoubtedly not fast enough. She’d already had to stop twice to relieve herself. Which had earned her a sympathetic glance from Tia, a frown from Zach and a glare from Luke. What did the man expect, for heaven’s sake? She was human, and a body could only take so much bouncing before something had to give. For her, it was her bladder.

“You pull that horse up and Zach’s gonna leave you behind.”

Josie didn’t have to wonder who’d ridden up on her left. It was Luke. It was always Luke today. The man seemed to hover outside her view, just waiting for some infraction so he could swoop in with a comment to discomfit her.

“I wasn’t going to—”

She looked up and that fast the thought left her head. How could the same sun that was wilting her seem to sink into his skin in a warm enticing glow? Or light his eyes from within so they looked as deep and full of possibilities as summer twilight. How could he look so incredibly, deliciously sexy leaning over with one arm propped on the saddle horn? A quirk of his lips drew her gaze down. He was laughing at her.

With a flick of his fingers, he said, “There’s no sense in finishing that lie. You don’t do it worth a damn.”

“Is that so?” It had to be the heat that had that challenge just popping out, but darn it, she was tired of people amusing themselves at her expense.

“That’s so.”

He didn’t have to sound so sure of it. She pretended there was a spot on her glove. With a little practice she was sure she could lie with the best of them. And darn it, there was a spot. With a sigh, she put her palm over it. And had no idea where to go from there. Silently, she willed him to ride on. Of course he didn’t. The man was perversely dedicated to annoying her. The seconds stretched uncomfortably on.

Darn it again. He was still looking at her. She could feel it with that acute awareness that made her want to squirm. The squirming she resisted, but she couldn’t resist looking back, albeit out of the corner of her eye. He was sitting on Chico with that lazy confidence that only added to his appeal. Beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes were a dark, smoldering blue. And yes, he was studying her with the intensity of a professor who’d just discovered a new bug and was about to stick a pin in it.

And that perverse part of her, the part her mother hated and she usually managed to subdue, came to life, running amok, poking at things best left sleeping until every one of her senses perked up with delight at being noticed. Stupid senses. The one thing she did not need was to be attracted to a cowboy. Especially this cowboy, who didn’t approve of her horse, her equipment or her profession. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t even sure he approved of her. More than likely, he saw her as a pain-in-the-butt distraction from whatever goal he’d set for himself. Aggravating man. She rubbed at the spot with her thumb.

“It’s rude to stare,” she blurted.

“I wasn’t staring.”

Did he think she was stupid? “Then what were you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?” She knew better but it just popped out again. Darn that perverse side.

“I’m thinking that horse of yours is not too far away from buzzard food.”

“You leave Glory alone.” The threat would have sounded much more intimidating if she could lift her gaze from the traces. Clearing her throat, she tried again. She got her eyes as high as Glory’s ears, but at least her voice was steady, if a bit too soft. “Not everyone has to be beautiful to be worthy.”

She’d been clinging to that belief her whole life. It had gotten her through the rejection and scorn of being a bastard and a misfit. She wasn’t about to abandon it now, out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but heat and annoyance to replace it.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m not too concerned about beautiful, but sound would be good.”

“What makes you think Glory isn’t sound?”

“Honey, I looked at his teeth at the first halt you called.”

That halt seemed like a lifetime ago. She checked the watch pinned to the lapel of her sensible brown dress. It’d actually only been two hours.

“So?”

“That gelding is on his last legs.”

As if he understood the disparagement, Glory’s head drooped. That was too much. Who did the man think he was?

Turning, she glared at him, sexy smile and all. The big bully. “They’re darn good legs! No need to undermine them with your sarcasm.”

She had the satisfaction of seeing him sit back in the saddle.

“Undermine? How the he...heck could I undermine anything. It’s not like the horse can understand me.”

“He most certainly can! He’s sensitive and has feelings, too, and I’ll thank you to remember that.”

As if to emphasize that, Glory tossed his head, his jangling harness punctuating the sentiment.

“See?” she asked pointedly.

Luke looked anything but convinced. “He’s not going to spook again, is he?”

“Not if you don’t do something stupid and scare him.”

“Given what happened earlier, it clearly doesn’t take much.”

“Anybody would be scared with those puppies snapping at their heels.”

“They ran by!”

“They were rambunctious!”

“They were puppies!”

She sighed. “He’s not used to them.”

“My point exactly. He’s not used to a lot of things.”

“Mr. Caine said it was all right.”

“Mr. Caine?”

She had to admit, it did sound silly. But she couldn’t help it. Caine Allen was too imposing to use so informal an address even though he’d asked her repeatedly to call him by his first name. So she’d settled on adding a mister. It was a happy medium.

“He’s an impressive man.”

“And I’m not?”

She didn’t have to look up to know his head was tilted in that arrogant gesture that doubted the veracity of the anticipated response. Tightening her grip on the reins, she shrugged. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t call me mister.”

“You’re too aggravating to bother with a title.” The truth just popped out. Again. She bit back a groan. His laugh, when she was expecting anger, yanked her gaze to his. Immediately she knew confusion and, just as fast, pleasure. Confusion because she’d been expecting his anger and she knew how to deal with that, and pleasure, well, the pleasure stemmed from his smile, his lips a line of amused indulgence and intrigue. The effect went right through her like sweet, warm honey spreading over her senses, soothing the agitation even as it brought out a bit of fire.

She wished she knew why he affected her so. He wasn’t the most handsome man she’d ever seen. She’d met and photographed better-looking men. But there was something about Luke Bellen, something so elemental, something so overwhelmingly masculine, something so unique that just screamed “come hither” to everything female in her. But despite many thinking her fairly independent profession proclaimed her loose, she was still a virgin, and she intended to stay that way. And not just because of her mother’s dire warnings, but from her own observations. To her knowledge, rampant procreation just complicated a woman’s options. Not because a woman lost her reputation, but because of all the messy complicating factors, like feelings, entanglement and eventually babies. Pretty soon, a woman’s life was bound to revolve around someone else. Josie had been doing that since the day she was born—paying for her mother’s sin, her fiancé’s selfishness, society’s demands.

As a child, she’d thought her cousins were blessed with good fortune, but as they’d matured, she’d watched their dreams, one by one, be pushed to the back burner. And then she’d watched the fire under the burner go out. As they’d married, they’d settled down in little homes in little towns in little places with little families and every one of their days consisted of little things. Josie wasn’t sure she wanted to live just for herself, but she was certain she didn’t want her cousins’ existence. She didn’t want that any more than she wanted Luke staring at her. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“It appears that I’ve been assigned to you.”

“Assigned by whom?”

He nodded toward the wagon ahead.

“Tia seems to think you need watching.”

She was not a child. “Can’t Zach or one of the vaqueros do it?”

“Tia seems to think you need watching by me.”

“Why?”

“Likely because no one else has the patience—”

“Patience? You?”

“—to deal with your procrastination and shilly-shallying,” he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted.

“You don’t know me well enough to make such accusations.” She couldn’t lie about the procrastination. She did have a tendency to put off the unpleasant stuff for as long as possible. Of course he picked up on that.

“I’ve got eyes and the fact that you’re sidestepping a flat-out denial cinches the deal.”

“It most certainly does not.” She didn’t know where all this opposition came from lately. She’d argued more over the last couple of days than she had in her entire life. She’d likely enjoy it more if she wasn’t roasting from the inside out.

He brushed aside that denial with an arch of his brow. “People who don’t like to lie usually aren’t bold about dissembling.”

She raised her own eyebrows at that. “Dissembling is a big word for a cowboy.”

“Photography is a big hobby for a woman.” He always had a comeback. She snapped her teeth together.

“And what’s wrong with it?”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it. I just said it was a big one.”

Now he had her off-kilter. She’d been ready to fight and he’d gone all reasonable. “Life is too short not to do things you enjoy.”

“Uh-huh.”

He was back to lounging in the saddle in that casual way that just screamed predator. He reminded her of a hawk perched on a branch, ready to swoop, except she wasn’t sure what he was going to swoop on—her argument or more. It was the more that sent that little shiver through her. His eyes narrowed.

“Ghost walk over your grave?”

“That is the most nonsensical statement.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew she was avoiding answering the question. Some men were irritating like that. His horse, a beautiful roan, tossed his head again. A sharp whistle came down the line. Luke straightened in the saddle and scanned the horizon.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

She didn’t believe him. “I’d like to point out I’m not the one dodging questions now.”

Good grief! She was getting positively belligerent. A thrill went through her. It was...exhilarating.

“Chico is uneasy.”

“Glory is calm.”

“I noticed.”

Another short whistle came from ahead.

Reaching down, Luke untied something on the right side of the saddle. His rifle, she realized as he drew it out of the scabbard. The illusion of him as a predator suddenly snapped into reality. Her contrary enjoyment evaporated in a puff of fear.

“Can that horse run?” he asked, pulling out the weapon and resting the barrel across the saddle.

“Of course.” Couldn’t all horses?

“Will he?”

She didn’t really know, but if she had to get down and push his behind along, she would. “Yes.”

She might not have been as convincing as she’d hoped. For a moment Luke took his attention off the horizon to shake his head at her. “I can’t believe Caine allowed that horse along.”

Confession time. “He’s the only one that wouldn’t spook with all the banging.”

“That will be remedied in the future.”

He was making her very nervous.

“Mr. Caine said trouble wasn’t likely.”

“Unlikely doesn’t mean nonexistent.”

She couldn’t argue that. Another burst of whistles cut across the distance. As if the message were spoken, Luke looked to the left. She did, too, but all she saw were rocks, grass and trees. Then again, she always had trouble seeing far without her spectacles.

“What is it?”

“Be ready.”

For what? Thankfully, she had managed not to voice it. The last thing anyone needed was for Luke’s attention to be diverted at a crucial moment. But it was getting harder to control this new, impetuous side of her nature now that he’d riled it up.

They rode on in silence. One minute passed. Then two. Three minutes passed without a single sound except the creaking of the harnesses and the bouncing of the wagon. Apprehension stretched her nerves. It took another few minutes for her to realize the birds weren’t singing. A shiver shot down her spine. Something was definitely wrong. She just didn’t know what.

Luke cut her a glance. “If I holler, you snap those reins on the nag’s ass, but be sure to brace your feet. We don’t need you pitching out of there and breaking your neck when he takes off.”

A gruesome image of her body being tossed like a rag doll to the hard ground popped into her mind. She tightened her grip on her reins and braced her feet. No, they definitely didn’t need that. But the slur to Glory—that she couldn’t let pass. Glory and she had formed a friendship. Friendship demanded loyalty. Licking her lips, she tapped into her impetuous side. “Glory is not a nag.”

The near whisper barely got her a look. Clearly her voice of authority needed work. For now, she clung to stubborn determination. “He’s not.”

With a grunt, Luke reiterated, “Just be ready.”

That grunt could have gone either way. She chose to take it as agreement. Clutching the reins, she nodded. Ready she could handle. She hoped. A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. Another down her spine. More gathered between her breasts.

Apparently satisfied that she’d obey, Luke urged Chico into a trot, leaving Josie behind. She watched him go with a sinking stomach. In her wagon ahead, Tia had her husband. Back here there was just Josie and her growing fears. Wiping the sweat from her face with her sleeve, she looked around. The same countryside that had seemed so pretty yesterday, seemed ominously vast today. The wildflowers she’d viewed as serendipitous bits of whimsy now had a second potential use—as grave markers. At the front of the line, Luke and Zach conferred. She wished she were close enough to hear what they were saying.

Tia turned in her seat and waved. If Josie had her spectacles on she could have seen if she was smiling or frowning. Feeling even more in the dark, she waved back. First thing she was going to do when they stopped again would be to get her spectacles out of the wagon. Vanity be hanged.

As if reacting to some invisible cue, the formerly loosely strung line of men dropped into a tight formation surrounding the wagons. A handsome man dressed in brown, sporting ammunition belts across his chest and wearing a large sombrero rode up beside Josie on a proud-stepping buckskin. He had Zach’s eyes and was about her age. Maybe younger. It was hard to tell out here. Men seemed to mature earlier. He flashed her a grin full of Lopez confidence before settling his rifle across the saddle. Strapped to his thigh was a pistol. The wooden handle looked worn from use. She found that comforting.

He tipped his hat. “Senorita.”

If they were anywhere else, if she were anyone else, she’d call his attention flirtatious, but this was Texas Indian country and danger was all around.

She attempted a smile and a small wave. The tension hovered oppressively in the air. Her skin prickled. Even the horses were quiet.

A rabbit darted. She jumped. The wagons kept moving. The tension mounted. She chewed her lip. What did they see that she didn’t? Was it an actual threat or just a worry?

She wanted somebody to do something already, rather than passively plod along like prey waiting for the pounce. But they just kept going.

An hour later, a rider cantered up. Luke and Zach rode out to meet him. The group kept moving while the men conferred to the side. They were too far away to be heard over the creak of wood and metal. Why did they have to be so far away?

Glancing at the well-armed man to her right, the one whose flirtatious approach led her to believe he might be talkative, she asked, “What’s happening?”

He didn’t take his attention off Luke and Zach. “Nothing to worry about, senorita, I’m sure. Likely Lobo just spotted some Indians passing by.”

“Indians!”

Terror flashed along her nerves. A shiver chased cold comprehension as every story she’d ever read in those lurid novels about the West—and she’d read more than her share—raced through her mind. Capture. Scalping. Unmentionable acts.

The wagon lurched through a rut. Her gorge rose. Heat, motion and now anxiety combining to make disaster imminent.

“Senorita?”

Clutching her stomach, she waved the vaquero’s concern away. She wouldn’t be sick. She wouldn’t. “I’m fine.”

He frowned at her, drawing his rifle from its scabbard. “You have nothing to worry about. Senor Luke would not allow you to be captured.” He settled the rifle across his saddle. “And neither would I.”

What could he do? He was just one man. So was Luke. And that rifle didn’t look big enough to take on the hordes of Comanche that could even now be charging toward them. Unbidden, one passage from her favorite author’s latest novel leaped to the forefront of her mind: “The Comanche came out of nowhere like a mist rising from the ground, enveloping everything in their path.”

There was a whole lot of ground out there.

No. For him to say it was just some Indians did nothing to reassure her, even if he’d clearly been trying to. She took a breath to steady her nerves. Hot air filled her lungs. Cold sweat beaded her brow as the persistent nausea surged along with fear. She whispered soothing nothings to Glory as if the steady old horse was the one in danger of an attack of the vapors.

The man frowned at her.

“You do not need to be afraid of the Indians, senorita. You are well guarded.”

She took another steadying breath, fighting dizziness. If they could just stop for a minute, her stomach might settle. Her request was met with a shake of his head. “I’m sorry, but we cannot stop.”

Of course not.

“But you are safe, senorita.” He gestured to his chest. “With me, Stefano.” He broadened the gesture to include everyone. “And if I should fall, there are the men of Rancho Montoya and Hell’s Eight.” He tipped his hat. “You are very safe.”

Was she? They had fifteen riders, plus Luke, Ed, Tia and herself. Hardly an army. And she didn’t even have a gun. Good heavens. Why didn’t she have a gun? The wagon hit a rut. The horizon tilted. Or was it the wagon? Her stomach lodged in her throat. She recognized the cold clammy feeling for what it was. Holding her hand over her mouth, she imagined Indians pouring over the little hill, swarming them, intent on driving them off their land. It was too easy to imagine their wild cries. Blast Dane Savage and his gift for description! She could see them as if they were real, dangerous men on horseback, armed with guns and bows, feral smiles on their painted faces... Intent on revenge.

Oh dear God.

“Senorita?”

The voice echoed around the periphery of her consciousness. The wagon bucked and swayed over a series of bumps. Her vision clouded. Nausea rose as hard as fear. In an obscure part of her consciousness, she realized she was about to faint. She reached out. Found nothing.

The last thing she heard was the shout of her name.

It sounded amazingly exasperated for a Comanche war cry.

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