Barak cursed, whirled back to face Ruel, and took a step forward.

Ruel balanced on the balls of his feet, his blue eyes glittering wildly, his nostrils flaring. "Now, you thieving son of—"

Ian stepped forward and said quietly, "No, Ruel."

Ruel froze. "Ian?" His gaze flew from Barak to Ian, his eyes widened in shock. "What the hell are—"

Barak sprang forward, and the machete sliced into Ruel's shoulder. The blade had been aimed at his heart. If Ruel hadn't spun away at the last moment, it would have cleaved his chest as it had his shoulder.

Ian heard the scream of the woman kneeling on the floor, saw Ruel's face contort with pain, and acted without thinking.

He took a step forward, lifted the whiskey bottle, and brought it down with all his strength on Barak's head.

Glass shattered; liquor sprayed.

The giant grunted, tottered, and fell to the floor.

Ruel swayed, his knees began to buckle.

Ian stepped forward and caught him before he could follow Barak to the floor.

"Why—" Ruel stopped, flinching as pain washed over him. "Dammit, Ian, why the hell are—"

"Hush." Ian shifted his hold and picked Ruel up in his arms as easily as if he weighed no more than a child. "I've come to take you home, lad."

As soon as Ruel opened his eyes he realized he was back in his own shack. He had lain looking at the stars through those cracks in the ceiling too many nights not to recognize his surroundings even through this haze of feverish pain.

"Awake?"

Ruel's gaze shifted from the cracks to the man sitting by his cot.

A long, aquiline nose, wide mouth, bright hazel eyes set deep in a face saved from homeliness only by humor and intelligence. Ian's face.

"You're going to be fine. You've had the fever, but you're mending nicely."

Ian's brogue fell pleasantly on Ruel's ears, and for an instant he felt a sharp pang. He rejected the thought that it might be homesickness. Christ, it must be the fever. He had gotten over any maudlin yearnings for Glenclaren the first six weeks after he had left. He whispered, "What are you doing here?"

"I told you." Ian dipped a cloth in a bowl of water by the bed. "I've come to take you home."

"You almost took me home in a coffin. I've always told you to stay out of my way in a fight."

"Sorry. I thought it time I took a hand. You were in a temper, but you didn't really want to kill that lummox."

"Didn't I?"

Ian wrung out the cloth and laid it on Ruel's forehead. "Killing is a mortal sin. Life is much easier when you're not forced to carry around those kinds of burdens. Do you wish a drink of water?"

Ruel nodded, then studied Ian as he reached down and filled the iron dipper from the bucket beside his stool. Ian was in his middle thirties now, but Ruel could see little change brought by the years. The big, loose-limbed strength that had enabled Ian to lift Ruel as if he weighed no more than a feather was clearly still there, as was the neatly barbered black hair, the slow, deliberate way he moved and spoke.

Ian brought the dipper to Ruel's lips, holding it steady while he drank thirstily. "There's stew in the pot on the stove over there. Mila made it only a half hour ago, and it should still be warm."

Ruel shook his head.

"Later, then." Ian returned the dipper to the bucket and gently wiped Ruel's forehead. "This Mila appears to be very loyal to you."

"In a hole like this you cling to the people you can trust."

"I assume you're bedding her? She did try to take that machete for you."

Ruel smiled with genuine amusement. "I admit I have a certain talent in that direction, but even my conceit won't permit me to think a woman would risk being beheaded by a machete to keep me between her legs." He deliberately changed the subject. "But she'll keep an eye on me until I'm better. You don't have to stay."

"Are you sure you won't have something to eat? It will strengthen you and I'd like to be able to travel in a fortnight."

"I'm not going with you."

"Of course you are. What do you have here? Mila tells me Barak has recovered and taken over your claim."

"Son of a bitch," Ruel muttered.

"Probably." Ian grimaced. "But I admit to being glad he occupied himself stealing from you instead of wreaking vengeance on me."

"You should have thought of that before you interfered."

"Possibly." He smiled faintly. "Particularly as you weren't able to fight my battle for me as you did when we were boys."

"You were never merciless enough. You could have bested anyone in the glen, but you never learned to go for the jugular. You can't let anyone—"

Ian interrupted. "I suppose the minute you're on your feet you're going to go after Barak and try to retrieve your property?"

Ruel thought about it. "No."

"Very sensible." Ian tilted his head to study Ruel's expression. "But not at all like you. As I remember, you always believed in taking an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth."

"Oh, I still do," Ruel said. "But these days, when the issue isn't important, I sometimes let fate exact vengeance for me."

"Which means?"

"The claim here was played out a week ago." He smiled with supreme satisfaction. "I'm going to enjoy thinking about that bastard breaking his back working that claim and getting no more than a pouch of gold dust for his trouble."

"I see." Ian paused. "Then your gold mine was another failure like Jaylenburg?"

Ruel stiffened. "What do you know about Jaylenburg?"

"Just that you staked a claim, stayed there for six months, and moved on." Ian dipped the cloth again and wrung it out. "You've moved on a good deal. Australia, California, South Africa . . ."

"You seem very knowledgeable."

"Not really. I paid a young man to find you, but he always managed to just miss you until Krugerville." He shook his head as he laid the cloth on Ruel's forehead. "You're not a boy any longer. You can't chase rainbows for the rest of your life."

"I've never chased rainbows." Ruel smiled faintly. "I was always after the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, never the rainbow itself."

"Gold." Ian pulled a face. "You always told me that you'd find your gold mine and become the richest man in Scotland."

"And I will."

"You ran away from Glenclaren when you were only fifteen and haven't found it yet."

"How do you know?"

Ian glanced around the crudely furnished hut and then up at the cracks in the ceiling. "If you did, you've become more miserly than old Angus MacDonald."

Ruel found his smile widening. "And how is the charming Maggie MacDonald? Did you ever wed?"

Ian shook his head. "You know Margaret has her duty to her father. She will not wed while he needs her by his sickbed."

"Still? Good God, at this rate you won't be wed until you're both doddering on the grave."

"It will happen as God wills." Ian changed the subject. "What is Cinnidar?"

Ruel stiffened, his gaze flying to Ian's face. "Cinnidar?"

"It seems to be on your mind. You kept repeating it while you had the fever."

"Anything else?" ,

"No, just the one word . . . Cinnidar."

Ruel relaxed. "It's not important. Just a place I visited once."