The Cowboy’s Hidden Agenda

Chapter 5

He didn’t say anything; it was not his way.

There was a strangely vibrant silence as Bronco slowly eased the saddlebags from his shoulder. It was a deliberate motion, planned as a distraction, a focus for his concentration. Standing with his feet planted a little apart but keeping his body relaxed and his features impassive, he weighed the saddlebags in one hand while his mind surrounded and confined his anger, condensed it into a pinpoint and then stored it safely away in a remote corner of his consciousness.

This was an exercise he’d learned long ago during his turbulent times, when he’d been hell-bent on self-destruction. It had been a long time since he’d had to resort to it. He wasn’t sure what had called up in him that dark and lethal rage at the moment he’d seen the woman’s terror-stricken face, those liquid beseeching eyes, and Ron Masters’s fingers pressing into the flesh of her arms. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on the cause. What mat tered was that the anger did not control him any longer. These days it was his to control.

Gil finally broke the silence. “You’re just in time. Masters was about to show our guest to her quarters. That her gear? Ron’ll take it-go on over and help yourself to some stew.” He spoke in a clipped voice, and Bronco had an idea it was guilt that was mostly responsible for the brusqueness. Whatever else he might be, Gil McCullough was not a cruel man.

Instead of handing over the saddlebags, Bronco casually hefted them back onto his shoulder. “That’s okay, I got it,” he drawled. His eyes slid past the woman and settled on Masters.

Masters, now, that one was mean-mean as a snake. And Bronco had heard stories about his track record with women. His eyes flicked to the steel bracelets dangling from Ron’s hand. “What’re those for?” He kept his voice quiet, but with an edge of steel as hard as what those cuffs were made of.

Ron’s lip curled, showing a glare of white teeth in his blackened face. But before he could answer, Gil broke in, speaking too quickly and with that hint of beligerence.

“I was just explaining to Lauren-they’re as much for her safety as anything else. There’s a big ol’ wilderness out there. Hate to think what might happen if she decided to make a run for it…” He jerked his head toward the moonlit vista beyond the open door and left his thought unfinished.

But Bronco knew what was on his mind. Out there somewhere, tucked away in all those trees, were four or five dozen men he wouldn’t turn his own back on, much less entrust with the safety of a female hostage. A young beautiful female hostage.

He reached over and plucked the cuffs from Ron Masters’s hands. “I don’t think they’re gonna be necessary,” he said easily, “but just in case…” He tucked them into his hip pocket and grinned. And for the first time, allowed himself to look closely at his prisoner.

He’d braced himself for it, but even so, the look on her face hit him like a fist to the midsection. Fear, exhaustion, gratitude, hope, anger, resentment and pride-it was a lot to contain in one pair of eyes. It looked to him as if hers were about to spill over, and, he thought if that happened, the shame might be more than a woman with her pride could take.

Meanwhile, Gil was blustering, “Well, now…” while Ron made a sound something like a growl. From the woman sandwiched between them came only a soft intake of breath.

Bronco aimed a look at Gil and raised his eyebrows. “You did put me in charge of the prisoner, Commander. Are you relieving me of that duty, sir?”

McCullough snorted and shook his head. His eyes narrowed the way they did when he was mulling something over, weighing options. The air sang with unvoiced emotions, silent battles.

Through it all Bronco waited, relaxed and confident. He knew McCullough. And knew who he trusted.

He knew he was right when Gil finally drew himself up and thrust out his chin. “Okay, Johnny-” he gripped Lauren’s arm and thrust her at Bronco with uncharacteristic roughness “-she’s your responsibility. Anything happens to her, I’ll have your ass-understood?”

“Understood, sir.” He curved his fingers around her arm and felt her tremble the way a wild mare trembles when she’s fresh-caught and snugged up on a short lead, with nowhere to go and no way of knowing what’s going to happen to her next.

“I had the men pitch her tent up by the spring,” Gil said dismissively, already back among his maps and plans. “Rigged her a latrine, too. You’ll see it when you get up there.”

Bronco nodded; he could feel Masters’s seething anger as he guided Lauren past him. He felt it follow him out the door, across the thick plank porch and down the steps. He knew he’d made an enemy tonight, but that didn’t particularly bother him. One more reason to watch his back. Another reminder that he couldn’t afford to let his guard down-ever.

At the bottom of the steps he let go of Lauren’s arm long enough to pick up his bedroll and gear. When he had them tucked under his arm and went to reach for her again, she shook him off and pulled her arm away like a child in a sulk.

He paused and looked at her in surprise; he found the defiance a little hard to figure out, considering a few moments ago she’d been scared out of her wits and on the verge of tears. “You know where you’re going?” he asked mildly.

She glared back at him in stony silence. He shook his head and gave his bedroll a hitch; he was starting to think maybe those handcuffs weren’t such a bad idea, after all.

“Look,” he said, keeping his voice low so the two men in the cabin doorway couldn’t hear it, “since you don’t know where we’re going, you can’t very well lead. And I’m sure as hell not going to let you at my back. Now, you can walk along beside me like we’re out for a nice stroll in the moonlight and I can take your arm as a common courtesy, or I can tow you along on a lead rope like a balky mule. Which is it gonna be?”

Lauren, who had fixed her gaze on a spot about a foot to the left of his shoulder, didn’t reply. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, didn’t trust herself to speak; she felt too fragile, too frightened, too confused. Every reasoning part of her had rebelled against her heart’s appalling response to Bronco’s just-in-the-nick-of-time return-that surge of hope and joy, the trembling, weak-kneed relief. What was that all about?

Oh, this was dangerous-dangerous and wrong. He was one of them, her captor, the enemy! She’d read about such things-hostages becoming dependent on, even forming emotional attachments to their captors. She’d only been a captive for a day! Was her character so weak, her courage so lacking? She felt profoundly disappointed in herself.

A sound from the cabin jerked her glance upward. Adrenaline surged through her like an electrical charge. Reason be damned; survival instincts took over, forcing a breath from her body along with a whispered “Okay.”

Bronco’s fingers wrapped around her arm. He jerked her out of the way as Ron Masters brushed past them, so close Lauren could feel his body heat…smell his scent, something feral and indefinably menacing.

“Smart choice,” Bronco muttered dryly. He gestured with the saddlebags toward the side of the cabin. “It’s this way.”

A stroll in the moonlight. The moon was in the west, just beginning its downward arc, so brilliant it cast their fore-shortened shadows before them as they climbed. Beyond the cabin the ground rose sharply to skirt the rock formation, alternately bare rock and a thick spongy carpet of pine needles. The air was cool and smelled of pine and damp earth. Overhead a breeze was a constant sound in the treetops. It was a sound Lauren had read about, but never actually heard before. She found it indescribably lonely.

She tried focusing on the sound as a way to mask the discomfort of her sore legs. But she was too tired, and the pain was too intense. And in the end the pain created its own kind of anesthesia, blocking out everything else-the fear, the anger, the bewilderment and humiliation, the powerlessness and frustration. She plodded numbly along, conscious only of pain.

And of Bronco’s fingers on her arm. Yes, maybe that most of all.

Once she slipped on some loose gravel, and his fingers tightened as he held her upright. “Almost there,” he murmured. She pressed her lips together and nodded; she’d heard him use the same tone when soothing horses.

But his words brought her back to full awareness, and she saw that they were following a pipe, wrapped with insulation and laid across the surface of a granite slope. From somewhere up ahead she could hear the happy sound of water trickling over stone. A few steps more and the pipe ended in a natural spring, and below it the overflow made a glimmering trail across rock made spongy with moss and lichen. Bronco muttered, “Watch your step,” as he steadied her across the treacherous slope, which ended in a level grassy area, a tiny meadow ringed with pines.

She could almost have touched the tent before she saw it, since it was made of camouflage material and tucked in the deep shadows just at the edge of the trees. She waited, numb and silent, while Bronco dumped the saddlebags and bedroll on the ground and unzipped the flap, then ducked his head and shoulders into the tent. A moment later the cool light of a battery lantern spilled through the opening. He picked up her saddlebags and tossed them into the tent, gestured with his hand and said, “In you go.”

Enfolded in numbness, a curious calm that seemed to have no connection to her rapidly beating heart, Lauren moved through the opening. Inside, she straightened and drew a deep breath.

Okay, it wasn’t so bad-big enough to sleep four comfortably, she imagined. And it appeared that efforts had been made in consideration of her needs. A puffy sleeping bag had been spread out at the far end. Next to it was a plastic storage bin with a lid-she supposed that was for whatever belongings she’d brought with her.

There was a small folding table and a folding canvas stool, a large plastic bucket and a plastic jug-for water, she assumed. The lantern hung from something overhead. Perhaps it was because she was so tired, weary in every muscle and bone, but the tent seemed a welcoming comforting place to her, almost cozy. She was conscious of a treacherous sense of safety, almost of relief.

Until she realized that behind her, Bronco had come into the tent and brought his saddlebags and bedroll with him.

“You…” Her voice was gravelly from prolonged disuse. And now also from shock. She cleared it and began again. “What’re you doing? You’re not sleeping in here, are you? With me.”

He paused to give her a long silent look. Then he dropped the saddlebags to the floor and reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out the handcuffs. He faced her, casually balancing his bedroll on one hip, the cuffs dangling from one finger of the other hand as he jerked his head, indicating each in turn, and said softly, “Which is it gonna be?”

Lauren closed her eyes. Of all the things that had happened to her in the past couple of days, this seemed the most unbelievable. The most untenable. That she could be sharing sleeping quarters-a tent-with this man. Johnny Bronco.

“Let’s get something straight, Laurie Brown.” His voice was quiet, but not the soothing one she’d heard before. Now it had sharp edges and uneven facets, like hand-hewn obsidian.

Opening her eyes, she saw that he’d knelt and was spreading his bedroll on the floor in front of the tent’s opening. When he paused to look at her, one forearm resting on his knee, the same hardness, the same multitude of facets were in his eyes.

He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if to a misbehaving child. “You are safe with me. And that is the only place you are safe. While you are here in this camp, you will stay with me at all times. You do not step one foot outside this tent unless I am with you. Do I make myself clear?” When she didn’t answer he repeated it slowly, with emphasis. “Do you understand?”

She heard the note of urgency in his voice, but pride made her ignore it. She even, in some remote part of her consciousness, recognized that the concern was for her, but fatigue kept her from wondering about why that should be. Instead, though it took all the strength she had left, she held herself straight and steadied her voice with a crusting of frost. “Perfectly. And if I should wake in the night and need to use the latrine?”

“Wake me.” The words were sharp and unequivocal as gunshots. His task completed, he rose, flashlight in hand, and held back the tent flap. “And speaking of which, I expect you want to make use of it before you turn in. If you’re ready, I’ll take you now.” He stared at her, stone-faced, waiting.

To be taken to the toilet like a child. Lauren no longer knew whether it was exhaustion or anger that was making her tremble so. Layer upon layer of humiliation, and each new layer sapped her strength a little more, eroded a little further her will to resist. Tomorrow, she thought as she muttered a stiff thank-you and took a step toward him. When I’m not so tired…

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She halted in weary confusion. What now? It seemed a peculiar thing to constitute a last straw, but suddenly tears long postponed seemed only one quick breath away.

Bronco nodded toward the covered plastic bin. “You’ll probably find paper in there. Might want to take it with you.” His voice was gentle again, with an edge of gruffness that might have been embarassment, or sympathy. But if any such emotion had softened his hard unyielding features and black obsidian eyes, she would never know, because on the last words he stepped through the opening and left her alone.

Alone. It occurred to her that was the first time she’d been alone since she’d awoken before dawn in the saddle house on McCullough’s ranch. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted to be alone-really alone, with the privacy to give in to overwhelming emotions, to react to incredible events, to cry if she felt like it. It seemed privacy, like freedom, was a commodity not fully appreciated until it was taken away.

Sniffling, feeling incredibly sorry for herself, she located several rolls of utilitarian-looking toilet paper in the plastic bin. She selected one and joined Bronco outside.

It was quite dark there in the shadows of the pines. He used the flashlight’s beam as a pointer, jabbing it into the grove behind the tent. “It’s over there. Watch your step.”

“I see it.” Impatiently she struck out for the spotlighted swath of camouflage without waiting for him to take her arm. She drew comfort from that small defiance.

And although walking brought renewed discomfort from the raw places on her legs and buttocks, oddly enough she found in the pain a restorative to her battered spirit. It seemed to act as a stimulant, like a slap or a dash of cold water in the face, helping to clear her mind and sharpen her focus.

The latrine was a three-sided enclosure consisting of blankets hung on ropes strung at head-height between small trees. Bronco pulled back the blanket and looked everything over thoroughly before he stepped back and waved her in.

“Checking for rattlers?” she asked tartly. He merely grunted and handed her the flashlight.

Inside the enclosure she was surprised-and relieved-to discover a portable chemical toilet similar to those found in boats and RVs. Compared to what she’d been expecting, it seemed a luxury, right up there among the comforts of home.

It occurred to her to wonder what Bronco would do when he felt the need to answer nature’s call. With bitter irony she wondered, since she was supposed to stay with him at all times, if she would accompany him to the latrine? Would he leave her tethered to a tree like a dog in front of a supermarket?

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, but since it seemed bad form to test the goodwill of the one person charged with her health and safety, she limited herself to a muttered, “This has got to be a violation of the Geneva Convention.”

From somewhere on the other side of the blanket she heard something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rhett Brown’s voice had gone quiet and deadly. He felt his wife’s hand on his arm, stroking it gently. She knew he hadn’t slept for two days and nights, and that, strong as he was, his control was wearing thin. He listened to the voice on the telephone, then snapped, “Well, get a warrant, get in there and find out if she’s there, dammit!” Again he listened to the voice telling him things he didn’t want to hear. “I don’t care how many weapons they’ve got stashed away down there. Just find my daughter!”

He slammed the receiver down and turned just slightly. Dixie came into his arms and he held on to her as if she were the only thing keeping him from blowing apart into a million pieces.

“They don’t even know where she is,” he whispered raggedly. “ATF hasn’t heard from their agent since she was taken. They don’t know if he has her or not, and they don’t want to go in on their warrant until they know for sure she’s safe. The whole thing could blow up in their faces any minute.”

“Rhett, the convention opens day after tomorrow in Dallas. What if they don’t find her? What if-”

“Hell, I don’t care about the convention! You think the nomination means anything to me if it costs me my…if anything happens to…oh, God.”

“We’re gonna get her back,” Dixie whispered in her soft Texas accent, holding him as tightly as he held her. “I know we will.” After a moment she sighed, and he felt her head beneath his chin. “I just wish we could tell the others-Wood, Lucy. You need them, Rhett. They should be with you right now.”

“I have you. Thank God I have you.”

“We’re gonna get through this. We’ll get through it somehow. And Lauren’s gonna be okay. She’s strong and she’s smart,” Dixie said. “She’s gonna be okay, I just know it.”

John Bracco lay awake in the thinning gray light that precedes dawn, listening to the sounds his prisoner made as she slept. He knew she had to have been both physically and emotionally exhausted, but in spite of that she’d spent a restless night, whimpering intermittently like a child with bad dreams. As a consequence, his own slumber had been fitful, but he didn’t let that trouble him. He’d been trained to go for several days at a stretch without sleep, if need be.

It came to him that it had been a long time since he’d shared sleeping quarters with a woman. Since his return to the Arizona mountains of his troubled youth, he’d kept his sexual encounters brief and businesslike, with a minimum of emotional involvement-at least on his side. Intimacy was too risky for a man undercover; he accepted that as just another part of the job and didn’t waste time and energy on regrets. It wasn’t his way.

He had to admit, though, there were times when he’d thought about the simple pleasure of holding a woman in his arms while she slept, of waking with her warmth in his sheets and her scent on his pillow, even if long-term relationships weren’t in his cards.

With the coming of daylight, he allowed himself the luxury of studying the woman without her knowledge-an invasion of her privacy that he acknowledged with only a twinge of guilt. Even in this, the first light, he could see that she was lying on her side. He let his eyes follow the outline of her body from shoulder to waist to hip, a trail more gentle than voluptuous. But why was that so exhilarating a journey nonetheless?

And now…yes, he could see that she was facing him, the shadowed oval of her face only hinted at, nested in the slightly darker tumble of her hair as she rested her head on her folded arm in lieu of a pillow.

And why was it, though he’d never been particularly drawn to blondes, that he found himself remembering again the wild-grass color of it, the way it reflected back the sunlight in rippling waves when the wind caught it?

From there it was only the space of a single thought to a reprise of her green-apple scent, the softness of her hair against his cheek as they danced to a slow song at Smoky Joe’s, a memory still so vivid that he could feel her body’s shape in his arms and the thump of her heartbeat against his chest. Odd, when he could seldom recall even the color of a woman’s eyes the morning after he’d made love to her.

Don’t even go there, he cautioned himself. She was off-limits for all sorts of reasons, both personal and professional.

Ah, he told himself, but he was merely curious about her, this daughter of the man who, unless Agent Bracco failed in his duty, was likely to become the most powerful human being on the planet. He wondered what sort of person she was, this daughter for whom a father would give up unimaginable power and fame. And what it must be like to grow up so privileged, so valued, so cherished.

Shadows of childhood demons hovered on the edges of his consciousness as he checked the illuminated dial of his wristwatch. They fled completely, though, when the woman suddenly stirred, as if she’d sensed even that slight movement. He lay absolutely still and watched her come awake in the space of a few heartbeats, sensed the changes in her breathing, the infinitesimal differences in the atmosphere of the tent-the electricity of tension, awareness…alarm.

“Good morning.” He spoke softly, in the same tone he might have used to introduce himself to an unbroken mustang, but wasn’t surprised when, in spite of his caution, she jerked her head and shoulders upward and gave a small gasp of fear. He said nothing else, giving her a chance to sort it out, remember where she was, who he was and what had happened to her.

He knew the moment it all came back to her, the moment when her shoulders relaxed into lines of…not defeat so much as acceptance. She shifted her legs, keeping them bent at the knees in order to remain under the sleeping bag as she sat up.

He was not prepared for the next sound she made-a sharp involuntary cry of pain. At the same time she froze, her body cramped, as if she was afraid to move in any direction.

Bronco didn’t have to ask what was wrong; they’d spent a long day in the saddle yesterday, probably eighteen hours straight. “Little sore?” he asked in a casual tone, mentally kicking himself for not having thought of it before. However, figuring it wouldn’t be in character for her abductor to be too free with sympathy, he went briskly on, “Best thing to do is walk it off. You’ll feel better after you start moving around.”

At first she didn’t seem to have heard him. She was rocking herself slightly, eyes glazed, all her concentration turned inward on herself and her pain. Then, in a voice so low he could barely hear it, she confessed, “I don’t think I can.”

“Sure you can. Might be a little uncomfortable at first-”

And then he stopped. Because suddenly he really did understand. Lord help her, she wasn’t just muscle-sore from being so long in the saddle, she had saddle sores. And from the way she was acting, they were third degree. In rapid sequence his mind replayed images of the previous night, their arrival at the camp, the way she’d hung on to the saddle sort of hunched up and breathing hard, the way he’d goaded her. It brought him no joy, remembering every move she’d made, every step she’d taken, up and down the cabin steps, climbing the hill to her tent. He knew from personal experience what a bad case of saddle sores was like. When he thought what it must have cost her to keep him from knowing…

Empathy flooded him. Distilled through his guilt, it emerged as anger.

Quicker than thought, he left his bedroll and was across the tent and down on one knee beside hers. “Let me see ’em,” he commanded. He swore when she shook her head. “I said let me-”

“No.” And she ground out the word between clenched teeth. “I’m fine. Damn you, leave me alone.”

Bronco rocked back on his heel and looked at her for a long moment. She stared past him, jaw set like concrete. He said dangerously, “Lady, I will haul you out of there if I have to. We can do this easy, or we can do it hard, but I am going to have a look at those sores. What’s it gonna be?” Her eyes flicked at him; he thought of the sting of a rawhide whip. “I’m going to count to three. One…”

At that she let out a breath in an infuriated gust and muttered under her breath, “You sound like my mother.” She moved back slightly and looked away, but not before he saw her cheeks ripen to a dusky pink. She cleared her throat. “I’m not…wearing pants.”

Bronco’s heart gave an unexpected lurch, but he only grunted. “Good thing, or else how am I gonna see your legs? Come on, haul ’em outta there.” As encouragement he snagged the sleeping bag’s zipper and pulled it down with a prolonged metallic growl.

Still she hesitated, looking mulish and somehow childlike in her resistance, but now he felt a surprising impulse to laugh. He resisted it and, instead, looked at her from under his lashes and said mildly, “You think I’ve never seen a woman’s legs before? What, one look and I’m suddenly gonna turn into a sex maniac? I’ll tell you something, Laurie Brown. I’ve seen a whole lot of legs, and trust me, it’d take some a lot more spectacular than yours to make me lose control. Come on-out.”

He was watching her closely, so he knew he didn’t imagine it when he saw the corners of her mouth twitch.

With a deliberation that bordered on insolence, she peeled back the sleeping bag. Even more slowly unfolded her legs, biting her lip, breathing suspended. Then at last, rolling her eyes, looking anywhere but at him, she leaned back on her hands in grudging surrender.

“Thanks,” Bronco said dryly. It had been such a subtle striptease that he couldn’t quite decide whether it was intentional or not. And if it was, whether that was as dangerous a notion as he suspected it might be.

He noted that she’d worn his sweatshirt to sleep in, along with, it appeared, underpants and socks. Since he’d watched her pack pretty much everything she’d brought with her from Texas into those saddlebags and knew it hadn’t included any sort of nightgown, he had to wonder what she normally wore to bed. Just underwear? Nothing? Another dangerous thought. He pushed it from his mind and concentrated on his examination.

He’d told her the truth, as far as it went; there wasn’t a pair of legs in this or any other world that was going to make Johnny Bronco lose control. Though he had to admit, when it came to fantastic legs, hers were right up there. But oddly enough it wasn’t the legs that intrigued him so much as her embarrassment about showing them. He found her awareness of him intensely erotic. He could feel his heart begin to thump.

A moment later, though his heart still banged against his rib cage, every erotic thought had fled. Instead, as he stared at the oozing silver-dollar-size patches on the insides of her knees where the skin had literally been rubbed away, he felt chilled and sick. My God, he thought. What she must have suffered. In silence. An unaccustomed emotion filled his chest-more than admiration, more than respect, almost…awe.

“Those are gonna have to be doctored,” he said flatly, confident that his voice, like his features, would give away nothing. He sat back on his heel again, his forearm once more draped across his knee, and met her eyes. He found them bright as stars, blazing defiance. “You got ’em on your butt, too?”

She responded in a valiant whisper, “You are not looking at those.”

After a long electric moment, it was he who looked away and let out an audible breath. Damn. Now what was he going to do? The medical supplies were in the cabin. To get her taken care of, he was either going to have to make her get dressed and go down there with him, or he was going to have to leave her while he went to fetch what he needed. He didn’t care for either option. The thought of her walking all the way down that hill with her jeans rubbing against those sores made him feel light-headed. On the other hand, to leave her alone in a tent, unguarded, seemed, at the very least, risky.

Then he remembered the handcuffs.

He’d put them on the floor of the tent beside his bedroll along with his boots and the flashlight, things he liked close at hand in case he needed them in a hurry. He reached for the cuffs now, laid them across his lap while he pulled on his boots. Fully dressed, he rolled his bed, pushed it away from the entrance and stood up. From there he regarded his prisoner, keeping his face devoid of all expression as he told her, “I’m going to have to go get something to put on those sores. Under the circumstances, I think it’s best if you stay here.”

She nodded, but her eyes were fixed on the stainless-steel bracelets dangling from his left hand. She’d dragged the top half of the sleeping bag back over her knees, covering her legs but leaving her feet and ankles peeking out. They looked vulnerable and delicate as a child’s. He fastened his gaze on them so he wouldn’t have to watch her face. “I won’t be gone long, but just to be on the safe side…”

She caught her breath and blurted out in a rush, “It’s not really necessary to handcuff me, is it? I mean, my God, where am I going to go? You saw-I can barely even move. I won’t try to run away, I swear.” Please, her eyes begged him; her pride wouldn’t let her say the words. Please don’t.

Bronco stared at her in a crackling hissing silence. Dammit, what was he supposed to do? He knew she wasn’t going to run-all logic told him she wouldn’t. Couldn’t. But in his gut…what if she did? He’d been wrong about women before. What if? If anything happened to her, not only would his ass be grass and his career toast twice over, but what was infinitely worse, he’d never forgive himself.

He gave a soft sarcastic snort. “What, am I supposed to take your word for that? Just…leave you here on your honor?”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes luminous and pleading. “I promise, on my word of honor. I won’t go anywhere. Not even to the latrine. Swear to God. Please-can’t you just trust me?”

It was the word trust that got him. He let go a laugh that was like the sound of a whip striking leather. “Lady, I haven’t trusted a woman since I was seven.” He knelt and with a deft twist of cold steel, snapped the cuffs on her ankles.

Then he was outside the tent and moving fast, leaving it and the woman behind him as quickly as he could. He felt cold through and through. And unbelievably shaken-by the words he’d spoken even more than by what he’d done.

…since I was seven. Ah, God…how could it be? It was as if no time at all had passed. He was that seven-year-old boy, running across the summer-scorched earth while the desert wind dried the tears on his cheeks to a salty crust. Inside he’d felt so cold-cold and small and unworthy. Just like he did now.

He could hear his voice, asking through shameful childish tears, “Why, Mama? Why are you leaving me? Why do you have to go away?” But in his heart he’d known the answer.

It was because she didn’t love him. Because he wasn’t good enough, brave enough, strong and handsome and smart enough to deserve her love. He knew it must be so. Because if she loved him, how could she leave him?

That was the day he’d started running. And he’d gone on running, chased by a demon of his own making: a steadfast belief in his own unworthiness. He’d run and run-eventually with a football in his hands, often as not with a bottle of booze, sometimes the steering wheel of a fast car-until one day, with his back against the wall and nowhere left to run, he’d been forced to confront the demon face-to-face.

There’d been only two possible outcomes of that battle. If the demon had won, it would have destroyed him completely. Instead, he’d stood the test and exposed it for the lie it was.

It had been a battle hard fought and hard won, and the man he’d become, John Bracco, knew he owed many debts to many people who’d believed in him even when he’d lost all belief in himself. He knew that one of those people was Gil McCullough, and that he was about to repay the debt with betrayal.

Bronco paused for a few moments where the trees ended, to recover both his breath and his senses. To remind himself that the boy with salt tears on his cheeks was only a memory, as was the woman with soft brown hair and sad blue eyes he’d once called Mama. He listened to the voices of the wind whispering in the pines, of the hawk circling overhead, of the stallion, Cochise Red, calling to his mares in the log corral on the edge of the meadow. When his spirit and his breathing felt quiet and strong again, he continued down the cleared slope to the cabin.

He knew the second he stepped inside that something was wrong. It was in the air, just barely discernible to the senses, like an odor, a puff of smoke, a breath of wind, though at first glance everything seemed as it should be. McCullough was in the corner hunched over the radio, while Ron Masters stood behind him looking on, one hand braced on the back of his chair, the other on the tabletop. Gil didn’t look up when Bronco came in, but Ron shot him a dark glance that sent a little frisson of warning down Bronco’s spine.

The two men on KP duty nodded unsmiling greetings as they went about preparing the first meal of the day for fifty or so hungry men-stirring oats into the pot of water simmering on the wood-burning cookstove, setting stacks of tortillas to warm on racks above, heaping pans full of crumbly sausage and scrambled eggs and putting them in the oven to keep hot, pouring coffee from the enameled pot into insulated containers. The smells of sage and fresh coffee made Bronco’s stomach growl, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early the day before.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and strolled across the cabin to join Ron and Gil at the radio. “Trouble?” he asked, sipping the black brew while his stomach protested audibly.

This time Gil glanced at him while Ron straightened and planted himself at his commander’s elbow, with feet apart, arms folded across his chest. The macho body language amused Bronco. Even so, he would never make the mistake of underestimating Ron Masters.

Gil’s eyes were glittering with anger, but instead of answering Bronco’s question, he made a jerking movement with his head toward the back of the cabin and raised his eyebrows, asking a question of his own.

“She’s secure.” Without looking in that direction Bronco was aware of the hungry gleam in Masters’s eyes, the cold little smile that was almost…anticipation.

Gil nodded, appearing distracted. Ron provided the reason, saying with obvious relish, “Feds have the ranch surrounded.”

Bronco gave a casual shrug. “What’d you expect?” Gil snorted a mirthless laugh while Masters shook his head. “Katie okay?” Bronco asked then. He knew how Gil felt about his wife.

McCullough’s eyes lost their brightness as he released tension in an exhalation. “She knows better than to try to reach me-they’ll have everything tapped. Why she insisted on staying…I wanted her to go to her mother’s, but she said-” his voice became a singsong imitation of a woman’s “-she wasn’t about to have the FBI tromping around her house, pawing through her things while she wasn’t there to keep an eye on ’em.” He gestured toward the silent radio. “I’ve got my people looking into how she’s doing.” He shot a glance at Bronco. “Just hope she keeps that Irish temper of hers in check.”

Bronco nodded. He knew who Gil meant by his “people.” A couple of White County sheriff’s deputies, the same pair who’d been in Smoky Joe’s the other night and who he knew for a fact were loyal members of SOL.

He wondered how much time he had before all hell broke loose.