important.
The anger that seethed through him lightened for a moment as he thanked
God that Nalte happened to be an exceptionally honorable man. Nalte had
known when he first bargained with yon Heusen that the man who intended
to sell a blond woman to him had to be somewhat of an outcast in his own
society. But he had not imagined the things Jamie told him. Jamie
explained that yon Heusen had made war on Tess and had tried to make the
people around him believe it was the Comanche or the Apache who had car-
tied out the raids.
That had infuriated Nalte, and it had almost given him Tess.
Almost. Nalte wasn't quite ready to let go.
Jamie clenched his teeth and his fists as he hurried past the circle of
tepees and into the night. He wanted to reach the stream, to bathe his
face in its coldness.
Yet even when he reached the stream, the water could do nothing to
soothe him. He could not forget Tess's eyes-huge, violet and luminous
upon his.
She had been so straight and rigid, and yet she had seemed so very small
and vulnerable when she had talked to him in the tent. She had explained
the past few days with a simple dignity, and he had been so relieved to
discover that she had received a minimum of abuse that his knees had
gone weak. He had wanted to wrap her in his arms and promise her
everything would be all right, that no one would ever hurt her again.
But he hadn't been able to do that. He couldn't make any promises. He
didn't even dare touch her lest the emotion or the passion tear him
apart and lead to Nalte's fury. But he had never hungered more deeply
inside for her.
She was always fighting; she was always strong. She had endured so much
that she could be no less than strong. And yet now she had that air of
vulnerability about her. She did need him. And he wanted to be all
things to her.
He splashed more water on his face, and his temper cooled. He owed Jon
so much--and not his anger. Yet he had been angry, seeing her trustingly
in his friend's arms, seeing the tears in her eyes, the emotion within
them. He wanted her. He wanted her in his arms.
He closed his eyes, and saw again the picture of the young woman with
the luminous violet eyes and the soft storm of golden-red hair falling
over her shoulders and down her back. So quiet and still, and somehow
achingly soft in the bleached white buckskins. There'd been a strange
serenity about her, a serenity she could not possibly be feeling. He'd
felt impotent to be just standing there talking to her. He was her gun,
her hired gun. He'd said that he'd protect her, but he hadn't been able
to. Others had descended upon her, and she had endured fear and
suffering at their hands. He'd been praying for a miracle. Praying that
she hadn't been so abused that he'd never manage to live with himself
again.
He'd never felt good about killing a man. Never. Not during the war, not
after. But he'd wanted to kill yon Heusen's men when they had taken her.
He'd wanted to do more than kill them--he'd wanted to tear them limb
