Always You by Jill Gregory Page A

she forgot her resolve to master her temper and did what she usually did under such circumstances: she attacked.
    “And when Wyatt’s killed you—or I have—I’ll take my cameo back off your carcass!” she hissed.
    Suddenly a ghost of a grin flickered over his face. “Reckon I’d like to sit here and jaw with you all night, but we’d both better get ourselves some shuteye. Sweet dreams, Princess.”
    “I hope you have nightmares.”
    “How could I, sleeping next to you?”
    Melora slumped back down on the bedroll as Cal slouched down beside her and closed his eyes. Odious, disgusting man! If her hands were free, she’d claw his eyes out. If she had her gun...
    Oh, what’s the use? she thought, breathing hard as she lay there on the ground, her body taut with hatred. Your hands aren’t free, and you don’t have a gun, and you’re not going to be able to escape tonight, so you may as well go to sleep. Because as smart and cunning as Cal thinks he is, and as much as he believes he’s thought of everything, one of these days he’s going to let his guard down, he’s going to slip up, and when he does, you’d better be ready.
    She closed her eyes, no longer feeling sorry for herself. She was filled with a deep, passionate purpose. If it was the last thing she did, she’d turn the tables on this loathsome desperado.
    * * *
    She didn’t know when she drifted off to sleep; she only knew when she came awake.
    It was still dark, the cool, deep blue darkness well before dawn, when the night is at its lushest and most dangerous. A rough hand covered her mouth, and an arm across her chest held her shoulders still.
    Her eyes flew open to see Cal leaning over her, his broad chest crushing her breasts, his fingers digging against her lips. “Shh. Horses. Someone’s coming this way.”
    Melora heard then. Muffled sounds in the brush, hoofbeats over rock, a low, guttural voice, another one answering.
    Quick as a wink Cal cut her bonds and the rope that bound them together, and the next moment he was standing, with his rifle pointed at the two riders who broke through the trees.
    “Hold it right there.” His rifle fixed itself in a businesslike way upon the broad chest of the man in front.
    Melora couldn’t see his eyes, but his clothes looked dirty and tattered, and with his wide red face partially covered by a bushy black beard and the big rifle at his side, she knew instinctively he was trouble.
    “Not another step, stranger,” Cal warned.
    But the bushy-bearded man didn’t seem to notice Cal’s rifle. He halted his big gray horse, held up a ham-size hand to his companion, a sullen, unkempt-looking scarecrow in a greasy duster, and spoke in a soft, clever voice.
    “Hold your fire, mister. Name’s Strong—Otis Strong. Me and Jethro here, we’re not looking for no trouble. But we seen your smoke from your campfire a while ago and headed this way. Lookee here, Jethro.” He smirked, half turning toward his companion. “We sure never expected to see a pretty lady out here in no-man’s-land, now did we?”
    “Keep moving,” Cal said calmly. “My wife and I don’t take kindly to strangers.”
    “We’re running mighty low on rations, mister. Maybe we could share your campfire tonight and buy some coffee off you and maybe some hardtack if you and the little lady can spare it—”
    Before he could finish speaking, there was a dull thud. Melora, who’d been watching the bearded man closely with growing distrust, turned in time to see Cal topple forward and hit the ground.
    She gasped in terror as she saw the third man. He stood over Cal, studying his prone form with a satisfied smirk, and she realized with a jolt of dismay that he’d evidently sneaked around the camp in silence and coldcocked Cal from behind.
    Melora sprang toward Cal, horrified by the blood seeping into the dirt beneath his head. He wasn’t moving, and his eyes were closed, and the fear that he was dead struck her like a fist in her