"The pistol. Toss it."

White hot fury boiled in his gut. "Damn you-"

She fired a second time, sending gravel flying from a spot beside his left boot. "No more warnings, Ash. Next time, I shoot you. I'll start with your knee."

Still cursing, he flung the pistol into the water.

"Good. You follow it. Take off your boots and wade into the water."

"You'd better kill me. I'll hunt you down for this," he swore.

"Move." She picked up his rifle.

War-et growled and moved to Tamsin's feet.

Ash's chest felt constricted; his breathing came in deep shuddering gasps. His skin stretched taut across his temple, and his head pounded. It took every ounce of his will to keep from rushing her, ripping that Colt out of her hands, and strangling her. How could he have been so damned stupid?

The cold water rose to his waist, shocking him, making his thinking clear and precise.

"I'm sorry," she called as she swung up into Shiloh's saddle. "I really like you, Ash Morgan. I just don't like you enough to die for."

Chapter 11

Tamsin struggled all day, often having to dismount and lead the horses through rockfalls and tangles of thick-growth pine. Again and again, she found the way impassable and had to retreat to try another pass through the mountains. By dusk, she was utterly lost, not certain that she'd traveled more than a few miles from where she'd left Ash and the mountain lion.

She hadn't been able to lose the black dog. At first, she'd tried to chase the animal away. But War-et hadn't obeyed; he'd just kept following. Now that the light was fading, however, she was glad of his company.

Hungry, muscles aching, Tamsin crouched in the shelter of an overhanging rock face. Her two horses she unsaddled and turned loose to graze, but she didn't let Shiloh off his rope for fear that he would wander away.

She'd quenched her thirst and filled her canteen from a spring in the canyon wall two hours earlier. Now she wished that she'd made camp there. She had nothing left to eat but dry venison and nothing with which to wash it down.

"A fine fix," she muttered to War-et as she fed him pieces of her supper. He whined and crept closer to her.

Even her campfire was a pitiful effort. She'd dragged a rotting log into the front of the shallow cave and started a small fire beside it. The wood was too damp to burn without smoking, and she'd waited too long to gather additional fuel.

"It's going to be a long night," she said wearily.

Guilt over what she'd done to Ash had ridden beside her all day, pricking her conscience and making her wonder if she shouldn't have done what he wanted and gone back to be tried by a court of law.

California and a new life far from a Tennessee torn by war and bad memories seemed an impossible goal. A single tear trickled down her left cheek.

Then something damp and scratchy brushed Tamsin's hand. She looked down to see War-et's homely face. "You stupid dog," she whispered. "You're as lost as I am." But she stroked his ragged head and made no protest when he wiggled into her lap.

"You've probably got fleas." The dog licked her chin and wagged his curly tail enthusiastically. "One vermin bite and you're out on your ear," she warned as she hugged him close.

Tamsin's eyelids grew heavy. The flickering flame was hypnotizing, and she felt herself nodding off.

Her dreams were a shadowy turmoil of nightmare and memories as she relived Ash Morgan's kisses and the surreal terror of the stalking cougar. Sweat poured from her body. War-et's warning bark became a puma's snarl. Tamsin broke free of Ash and tried to run, but her feet seemed frozen to the ground. When she looked back, Ash's features had hardened to a grotesque mask.

"No!" Tamsin's eyes widened. Suddenly the figure looming just beyond the fire wasn't Ash's but the form of a painted Indian.

The brave shrieked a war cry and leaped over the burning log brandishing a spiked club. Still dazed, Tamsin raised her pistol and fired point-blank. The warrior fell back into the flames as Tamsin scrambled to her feet.

The stench of burning cloth and hair filled her nostrils as she fled toward the spot where she'd left Shiloh tied.

The horse was gone.

Heart in her throat, she dashed headlong into the woods, heedless of the branches striking her head and the vines tangling her legs. She'd not gone twenty feet when another howling Indian crashed through the undergrowth and blocked her way.

Tamsin stopped in her tracks as a dark shadow raced past her and lunged at the brave nearly hidden in the trees. She couldn't see well enough to tell man from dog, but she could hear the thud that changed War-et's snarls to agonized whimpers.

Sickened, Tamsin ran back toward the fire, nearly colliding with Dancer's charging fury. The stallion's shoulder struck her a glancing blow as he pounded past with teeth bared and ears laid flat against his head. She spun through the air and landed in a tangle of brush as the squealing stallion reared and lashed out with his front legs.

The Indian's war hoop shattered as iron-shod hooves crushed flesh and bone. For the space of a dozen heartbeats the only sound Tamsin heard was Dancer's enraged snorting.

Shaking, still clutching her pistol, she tried to rise. But before she could disentangle herself from the clinging vines, a sinewy arm clamped around her throat and an overpowering stench of bear grease filled her head.

Choking, half-mad with fear, Tamsin swung the Colt, striking her assailant. She heard him grunt with pain and felt the pressure on her throat ease. Gasping for air, she twisted away. A heavy blow knocked her to her knees, and she twisted onto her back.

The Indian flung himself on top of her, and she dragged the gun up and pulled the trigger. Pushing free of his thrashing body, Tamsin crawled away.

Without warning, another warrior seized her by the hair and yanked her head back. He spat a jumble of angry words that she couldn't understand, but she needed no translation. The cold steel of a knife blade pressing against her throat spoke volumes.

She tried to raise her pistol to shoot him, but powerful fingers clamped around her wrists, twisting until the weapon dropped from her hand. In shock, she closed her eyes and tried to pray as she prepared herself for the death thrust.

Seconds passed like hours. She could feel wet, sticky drops oozing down her neck and his hot breath on her face. The sound of the brave's harsh breathing rasped in her ears.

Inhaling deeply, she looked into the ocher-streaked face above hers. Fierce eyes, ringed with circles of paint, stared back at her. She caught a glimpse of a naked chest and bands of copper around the arm that held the knife to her throat.

"You die!" Venom radiated in the soft, almost lyrical English.

Shards of terror pierced Tamsin's breast. "White. You're white," she whispered hoarsely.

"No speak!" The blade wavered. She felt a sharp sting but not the piercing agony that she expected.

Another man shouted to her captor. He answered, then slowly released his grip on her hair and removed the knife.

Teeth chattering, Tamsin rolled to a sitting position and drew searching fingers over her lacerated throat. When she glanced down at her hand, it was smeared with blood. Her breath came in strangled gasps, and she trembled as intense cold seeped through her bones.

The white Indian with the ringed eyes kicked her. "Get up!"

She staggered to her feet.

Four braves, one with torch in hand, moved from the shadows. Two carried a broken body and laid it beside the dead man at the campfire. A huge warrior with a shaved head and human finger bones thrust through his earlobes crouched over a third fallen figure. The injured man, obviously badly hurt, moaned softly.