Dazed, Sarah continued to stare out the window. She could hear screams and whoops and the thunder of horses’ hooves. Like devils, she thought dully. They sounded like devils. That was impossible. Ridiculous.

The United States was nearly a century old. Ulysses

S. Grant was president. Steamships crossed the Atlantic in less than two weeks. Devils simply didn’t exist in this day and age.

Then she saw one, bare chested, hair flying, on a tough paint pony. Sarah looked straight into his eyes. She could see the fever in them, just as she could see the bright streaks of paint on his face and the layer of dust that covered his gleaming skin. He raised his bow. She could have counted the feathers in the arrow.

Then, suddenly, he flew off the back of his horse. It was like a play, she thought, and she had to pinch herself viciously to keep from swooning.

Another horseman came into view, riding low, with pistols in both hands. He wasn’t an Indian, though in Sarah’s confusion he seemed just as wild. He wore a gray hat over dark hair, and his skin was nearly as dark as that of the Apache she’d seen. In his eyes, as they met hers, she saw not fever, but ice.

He didn’t shoot her, as she’d been almost certain he would, but fired over his shoulder, using his right hand, then his left, even as an arrow whizzed by his head.

Amazing, she thought as a thudding excitement began to race with her terror. He was magnificent- sweat and grime on his face, ice in his eyes, his lean, tense body glued to the racing horse. Then the fat lady grabbed her again and began to wail.

Jake fired behind him, clinging to the horse with his knees as easily as any Apache brave. He’d caught a glimpse of the passengers, in particular a pale, dark-eyed girl in a dark blue bonnet. His Apache cousins would’ve enjoyed that one, he thought dispassionately as he bolstered his guns.

He could see the driver, an arrow piercing one shoulder, struggling to regain control of the horses. He was doing his best, despite the pain, but he wasn’t strong enough to shove the brake down. Swearing, Jake pushed his horse on until he was close enough to the racing coach to gain a handhold.

For one endless second he hung by his fingers alone. Sarah caught a glimpse of a dusty shirt and one powerful forearm, a long, leather-clad leg and a scarred boot. Then he was up, scrambling over the top of the coach. The woman beside her screamed again, then fainted dead away when they stopped. Too terrified to sit, Sarah pushed open the door of the coach and climbed out.

The man in the gray hat was already getting down.

“Ma’am,” he said as he moved past her.

She pressed a hand to her drumming heart. No hero had ever been so heroic. “You saved our lives,” she managed, but he didn’t even glance her way.

“Redman.” The passenger who’d drunk the whiskey stepped out. “Glad you stopped by.”

“Lucius.” Jake picked up the reins of his horse and proceeded to calm him. “There were only six of them.”

“They’re getting away,” Sarah blurted out. “Are you just going to let them get away?”

Jake looked at the cloud of dust from the retreating horses, then back at Sarah. He had time now for a longer, more interested study. She was tiny, with East stamped all over her pretty face. Her hair, the color of honeycombs, was tumbling down from her bonnet.

She looked as if she’d just stepped out of the school

room, and she smelled like a cheap saloon. He had to grin.

“Yep.”

“But you can’t.” Her idea of a hero was rapidly crumbling. “They killed a man.”

“He knew the chance he was taking. Riding the line pays good.”

“They murdered him,” Sarah said again, as if she were speaking to a very dull pupil. “He’s lying back there with an arrow through his heart.” When Jake said nothing, just walked his horse to the back of the coach, Sarah followed him. “At least you can go back and pick up that poor man’s body. We can’t just leave him there.”

“Dead’s dead.”

“That’s a hideous tiling to say.” Because she felt ill, Sarah dragged off her bonnet and used it to fan hot air around her face. “The man deserves a decent burial. I couldn’t possibly-What are you doing?” Jake spared her a glance. Mighty pretty, he decided.

Even prettier without the bonnet hiding her hair.

“Hitching my horse.”

She dropped her arm to her side. She no longer felt ill. She was certainly no longer impressed. She was furious. “Sir, you appear to care more about that horse than you do about the man.”

He stooped under the reins. For a moment they stood face-to-face, with the sun beating down and the smell of blood and dust all around them. “That’s right, seeing as the man’s dead and my horse isn’t. I’d get back inside, ma’am. It’d be a shame if you were still standing here when the Apaches decide to come back.”

That made her stop and look around uneasily. The desert was still, but for the cry of a bird she didn’t recognize as a vulture. “I’ll go back and get him myself,” she said between her teeth.

“Suit yourself.” Jake walked to the front of the coach. “Get that stupid woman inside,” he told Lucius. “And don’t give her any more to drink.”

Sarah’s mouth fell open. Before she could retaliate, Lucius had her by the arm. “Now, don’t mind Jake, miss. He just says whatever he damn pleases. He’s right, though. Those Apaches might ram back this way. We sure don’t want to be sitting here if they do.” With what little dignity she had left, Sarah stepped back into the coach. The fat woman was still sobbing, leaning heavily against a tight-lipped man in a bowler.

Sarah wedged herself into her corner as the stage jumped forward again. Securing her bonnet, she frowned at Lucius.

“Who is that horrible man?”

“Jake?” Lucius settled back. There was nothing he liked better than a good fight, particularly when he stayed alive to enjoy it. “That’s Jake Redman, miss. I don’t mind saying we was lucky he passed this way. Jake hits what he aims at.”

“Indeed.” She wanted to be aloof, but she remembered the murderous look in the Apache’s eyes when he’d ridden beside the window. “I suppose we do owe him our gratitude, but he seemed cold-blooded about it.”

“More’n one says he’s got ice in his veins. Along with some Apache blood.”

“You mean he’s…Indian?”

“On his grandmother’s side, I hear.” Because his bottle was empty, Lucius settled for a plug of tobacco. He tucked it comfortably in his cheek. “Wouldn’t want to cross him. No, ma’am, I sure wouldn’t.

Mighty comforting to know he’s on your side when things heat up.”

What kind of man killed his own kind? With a shiver, Sarah fell silent again. She didn’t want to think about it.

On top of the stage, Jake kept the team to a steady pace. He preferred the freedom and mobility of having a single horse under him. The driver held a hand to his wounded shoulder and refused the dubious comfort of the coach.

“We could use you back on the line,” he told Jake. “Thinking about it.” But he was really thinking about the little lady with the big brown eyes and the honey-colored hair. “Who’s the girl? The young one in blue?”

“Conway. From Philadelphia.” The driver breathed slow and easy against the pain. “Says she’s Matt Conway’s daughter.”

“That so?” Miss Philadelphia Conway sure as hell didn’t take after her old man. But Jake remembered that Matt bragged about his daughter back east from time to time. Especially after he started a bottle. “Come to visit her father?”

“Says she’s come to stay.”

Jake gave a quick, mirthless laugh. “Won’t last a week. Women like that don’t.”

“She’s planning on it.” With a jerk of his thumb, the driver indicated the trunks strapped to the coach. “Most of that’s hers.”

With a snort, Jake adjusted his hat. “Figures.”