He had a fire burning quickly and started making coffee. Without hesitation, Sarah bit into the jerky he gave her and warmed her hands over the flames.

“The one you…fought with. Did you know him?”

“Yeah.”

He’d killed for her, she thought, and had to struggle not to weep again. Perhaps it had been a member of his own family, an old friend. “I’m sorry,” she managed.

“For what?” He poured coffee into a cup, then pushed it into her trembling hands.

“For all of it They were just there, all at once. There was nothing I could do.” She drank, needing the warmth badly. “When I was in school, we would read the papers, hear stories. I never really believed it. I was certain that the army had everything under control.” “You read about massacres,” he said with a dull fury in his voice that had her looking up again. “About settlers slaughtered and wagon trains attacked. You read about savages scalping children. It’s true enough. But did you read any about soldiers riding into camps and butchering, raping women, putting bullets in babies long after treaties were signed and promises made? Did you hear stories about poisoned food and contaminated blankets sent to the reservations?” “But that can’t be.”

“The white man wants the land, and the land isn’t his-or wasn’t.” He took out his knife and cleaned it in the dirt. “He’ll take it, one way or the other.” She didn’t want to believe it, but she could see the truth in his eyes. “I never knew.”

“It won’t go on much longer. Little Bear and men like him are nearly done.”

“How did you choose? Between one life and the other?”

He moved his shoulders. “There wasn’t much choice. There’s not enough Apache in me to have been accepted as a warrior. And I was raised white, mostly. Red man. That’s what they called my father when he was coming up outside an army post down around Tucson. He kept it. Maybe it was pride, maybe it wasn’t.”

He stopped, annoyed with himself. He’d never told anyone so much.

“You up to riding?”

She wanted him to go on, to tell her everything there was to tell about himself. Instinct held her back. If she pushed, she might never learn. “I can try.” Smiling, she reached out to touch his arm. “I want to-Oh, you’re bleeding.”

He glanced down. “Here and there.”

“Let me see. I should have tended these already.” She was up on her knees, pulling away the rent material of his sleeve.

“Nothing a man likes better than to have his clothes ripped off by a pretty woman.”

“I’ll thank you to behave yourself,” she told him, but she couldn’t muffle a chuckle.

It was good to hear her laugh, even if only a little. Most of the horror had faded from her eyes. But he wanted it gone, all of it. “Heard you made Lucius strip down to the skin. He claimed you threatened him.” This time her laughter was warmer. “The man needed to be threatened. I wish you’d seen his face when I told him to take off his pants.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like me to do the same.” “Just the shirt should do. This arm certainly needs to be bandaged.” She rose and, modesty prevailing, turned her back before she lifted the hem of her skirt to rip her petticoat.

“I’m obliged.” He eased painfully out of his shirt. “I’ve been wondering, Duchess, just how many of those petticoats do you wear?”

“That’s certainly not a subject for discussion. But it’s fortunate that I…” She turned back to him, and the words slipped quietly down her throat. She’d never seen a man’s chest before, had certainly never thought a man could be so beautiful. But he was firm and lean, with the dark skin taut over his rib cage and gleaming in the firelight. She felt the heat flash inside her, pressing and throbbing in her center and then spreading through her like a drug.

An owl hooted behind her and made her jolt. “I’ll need some water.” She was forced to clear her throat. “Those wounds should be cleaned.”

With his eyes still on hers, he lifted the canteen. Saying nothing, she knelt beside him again to tend the cut that ran from his shoulder to his elbow.

“This is deep. You’ll want a doctor to look at it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, then quickly away. “It’s likely to scar.”

“I’ve got others.”

Yes, she could see that. His was the body of a hero, scarred, disciplined and magnificent. “I’ve caused you a great deal of trouble.”

“More than I figured on,” he murmured as her fingers glided gently over his skin.

She tied the first bandage, then gave her attention to the slice in his side. “This one doesn’t look as serious, but it must be painful.”

Her voice had thickened. He could feel the flutter of her breath on his skin. He winced as she cleaned the wound, but it was the firelight on her hair that was making him ache. He held his breath when she reached around him to secure the bandage.

“There are some nicks,” she murmured. Fascinated, she touched her palm to his chest. “You’ll need some salve.”

He knew what he needed. His hand closed over her wrist. Her pulse jumped, but she only stared, as if she were mesmerized by the contrast of his skin against hers. Dazed, she watched her own fingers spread and smooth over the hard line of his chest.

The fire had warmed it, warmed her. Slowly she lifted her head and looked at him. His eyes were dark, darker than she’d ever seen them. Storm clouds, she thought. Or gunsmoke. She thought she could hear her heart pounding in her head. Then there was no sound. No sound at all.

He reached for her face, just to rub his palm over her cheek. Nothing in his life had ever seemed so soft or looked so beautiful. The fire was in her eyes, glowing, heating. There was passion there. He knew enough of women to recognize it. Her cheeks, drained of color by fatigue, were as delicate as glass. He leaned toward her, his eyes open, ready for her to shy away.

She leaned toward him, her pulse pounding, waiting for him to take.

An inch apart, they hesitated, his breath merging with hers. Softly, more softly than either of them would have thought he could, he brushed his lips over hers. And heard her sigh. Gently, with hands more used to molding the grips of guns, he drew her to him. And felt her give. Her lips parted, as they would only for him.

Boldly, as she had never known she could, she ran her hands up his chest. Was he trembling? She murmured to him, lost in the wonder of it. His body was rigid with tension, even as he took the kiss deeper, gloriously deeper. She tasted the hot flavor of desire on his lips as they moved, restless and hungry, over hers.

Eager for more, she pressed against him, letting her arms link tight behind him, and her mouth tell him everything.

He felt the need burst through him like wildfire, searing his mind and loins and heart. Her name tore out of him as he twisted her in his arms and plundered her mouth. The flames beside them leaped, caught by the wind, and sent sparks shooting into the air. He felt her body strain against his, seeking more. Desperate, he tugged at the torn neck of her blouse.

She could only gasp when he covered her breast with his hand. His palm was rough with calluses, and the sensation made her arch and ache. Then his mouth was on her, hot and wet and greedy as it trailed down. Helpless, she dragged her hands through his hair.

She had faced death. This was life. This was love. His lips raced over her until she was a mass of nerves and need. Recklessly she dragged his mouth back to hers and drove them both toward delirium. His hands were everywhere, pressing, bruising, exciting. With her breath hammering in and out of her lungs, she began to tremble.

His mouth was buried at her throat. The taste of her had seeped into him, and now it was all he knew, all e wanted to know. She was shuddering. Over and over, beneath his own, her body shook. Jake dug his fingers into the dirt as he fought to drag himself back. He’d forgotten what he was. What she was. Hadn’t he proven that by nearly taking her on the ground? He heard her soft, breathless moan as he rolled away from her.