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  She saw only his eyes, dark and in­ten­se, frin­ged with thick las­hes, and so sha­do­wed by his hat that they ap­pe­ared black. But she was un­ner­ved. She lo­oked away. He pus­hed a can­te­en to her mo­uth and she drank hard and long, ca­re­less of the wa­ter that spil­led down her thro­at and on­to the front of her shirt.

  "Slow down," he sa­id. "You'll get sick."

  He didn't gi­ve her a cho­ice, re­mo­ving the can­te­en as ab­ruptly as he'd gi­ven it to her. He ro­se lit­hely to his full he­ight. The sun had slip­ped be­hind a wispy whi­te clo­ud, and this ti­me Re­gi­na co­uld see him. The first thing she no­ti­ced we­re his legs, clad in tight, worn de­nims, bra­ced apart in a ri­gid stan­ce, the chi­se­led mus­c­les of his thighs vi­sib­le thro­ugh the thin fa­ded fab­ric. His fists we­re clen­c­hed on com­pact hips. He was we­aring a gun in a le­at­her hol­s­ter so well-used it was smo­oth and shiny ex­cept for the ro­ugh strap aro­und his thigh. Her sto­mach clen­c­hed up in­to a knot. Se­e­ing a man with a gun was abo­ut as com­mon­p­la­ce as wa­king up to find one­self alo­ne on the ran­ge with a stran­ger.

  Her ga­ze had al­so dis­co­ve­red the over­si­zed oval sil­ver belt buc­k­le he wo­re, one that ne­eded a go­od po­lis­hing, and the fact that his whi­te cot­ton shirt was wet with swe­at and ne­arly open to his na­vel. His skin was dark, his chest si­newy and sprin­k­led with co­ar­se black ha­ir, his belly flat. Re­ali­zing his sta­te of des­ha­bil­le and the ex­tent of the in­s­pec­ti­on she was ma­king, her fa­ce fla­med. Qu­ickly she lif­ted her glan­ce to his fa­ce, but in the pro­cess, she as­si­mi­la­ted many mo­re de­ta­ils. His sle­eves we­re rol­led up, ex­po­sing his mus­cu­lar fo­re­arms. Des­pi­te the he­at, he wo­re a he­avy le­at­her vest, which was dis­co­lo­red from the sun and wind and ra­in and al­so left ca­re­les­sly open.

  She co­uld not help no­ti­cing his strong fe­atu­res. His chin was blunt, his jaw hard but not squ­are, his no­se per­fectly stra­ight. He had a day's growth of be­ard. His eyes we­re still sha­do­wed by the dusty gray hat he wo­re, so she co­uld not de­ter­mi­ne the­ir co­lor.

  Now that her ga­ze had fi­nal­ly re­ac­hed his, the­ir eyes met aga­in. His re­ve­aled not­hing. But she was awa­re of her ac­ce­le­ra­ted he­art ra­te. This man lo­oked li­ke an out­law. And she ap­pe­ared to be alo­ne with him-to­tal­ly alo­ne. Was he an out­law? Did he in­tend to hurt her?

  "Don't be af­ra­id,” he told her. "I'm Sla­de De­lan­za." She felt as if he ex­pec­ted her to know him, but she didn't. "What-what do you want?"

  His glan­ce was pi­er­cing. "I've be­en lo­oking for you all af­ter­no­on. Ever­yo­ne's wor­ri­ed. You've got a big bump on yo­ur he­ad, and a few ab­ra­si­ons."

  Des­pi­te the qu­es­ti­on he se­emed to be as­king, re­li­ef swam­ped her. She didn't know this man, but she un­der­s­to­od that he was he­re to aid her, not hurt her.

  "What hap­pe­ned?"

  His qu­es­ti­on to­ok her by sur­p­ri­se. She blin­ked.

  "I he­ard you jum­ped off of the tra­in. Yo­ur hands and kne­es are scun up." His vo­ice had be­co­me very tight.

  Now she sta­red.

  "Are you hurt?"

  Re­gi­na co­uldn't an­s­wer. It was be­co­ming hard to bre­at­he. Her mind was not fun­c­ti­oning the way it sho­uld.

  He squ­at­ted be­si­de her aga­in. The sun had yet to es­ca­pe its clo­ud co­ver, his fa­ce was clo­se to hers, per­fect in each and every de­ta­il, and she re­ali­zed he was a very han­d­so­me man. That re­ali­za­ti­on co­uld not overly in­te­rest her. Not now, not when he was as­king the­se frig­h­te­ning qu­es­ti­ons, not when the in­ten­sity of his ga­ze was un­ner­ving her.

  "Are you hurt?" he de­man­ded aga­in.

  She sta­red at him blankly, te­ars sud­denly for­ming and mis­ting her vi­si­on.

  He lo­oked at her oddly.

  She ma­na­ged to te­ar her ga­ze away from his. She tur­ned to lo­ok at the ra­il­ro­ad tracks that stret­c­hed out en­d­les­sly un­til the hills swal­lo­wed them up. She was trem­b­ling.

  With ef­fort, he sof­te­ned his to­ne. "You ne­ed a doc­tor?"

  Anot­her dis­t­res­sing qu­es­ti­on. He was not just up­set­ting her, he was bac­king her in­to a cor­ner, trap­ping her, and she didn't li­ke it. She wan­ted to lo­ok an­y­w­he­re but in­to his eyes, yet she was hel­p­les­sly drawn to his ga­ze. She didn't want to an­s­wer his hor­rid qu­es­ti­ons. "I don't know." She he­si­ta­ted. "I don't think so."

  He sta­red at her, then fi­red the next qu­es­ti­on with the pre­ci­si­on of an army mar­k­s­man. "What do you me­an, you don't think so?"

  Re­gi­na cri­ed out. "Ple­ase! Stop it!"

  His hands clo­sed on her sho­ul­ders, hard but not hur­t­ful. "This isn't a pretty pri­va­te scho­ol for yo­ung la­di­es! This isn't a Lon­don tea party! This is the god­damn re­al world! That tra­in lim­ped in­to town, ever­yo­ne hyste­ri­cal, a half a do­zen pe­op­le hurt, in­c­lu­ding a wo­man, and you we­ren't on it! A do­zen pas­sen­gers saw you jump off the tra­in and land hard. If you don't want to tell me what hap­pe­ned, you can tell the she­riff or the doc­tor when we get to Tem­p­le­ton!"

  "I don't know what hap­pe­ned!" she sho­uted back. And then, the mo­ment she sa­id the words, she was hor­ri­fi­ed, be­ca­use she re­ali­zed that they we­re true.

  He sta­red.

  She whim­pe­red as the vast, hor­rib­le im­p­li­ca­ti­ons of what she had sa­id sank in.

  "What did you say?"

  "I don't know," she whis­pe­red, clo­sing her eyes and trip­ping the hard gro­und. She didn't know. She didn't now an­y­t­hing abo­ut a tra­in or abo­ut a rob­bery, she didn't know why her glo­ves we­re torn and her hands ab­ra­ded, and she didn't know why she was stran­ded alo­ne in the mid­dle of the vast de­ser­ted ran­ge­land. She didn't know an­y­t­hing abo­ut jum­ping off a tra­in. She whim­pe­red aga­in.

  "You don't re­mem­ber what hap­pe­ned?"

  She still didn't open her eyes. It was wor­se than that, but she was af­ra­id to ac­k­now­led­ge, even to her­self, how much wor­se it was, so she sat the­re, trying not to he­ar him and trying not to think.

  "Dam­mit, Eli­za­beth," he grow­led. "You don't re­mem­ber what hap­pe­ned?"

  She was go­ing to cry. She knew he had cro­uc­hed down be­si­de her aga­in, and she knew he wasn't go­ing to le­ave her alo­ne, she knew he was go­ing to per­sist in his qu­es­ti­ons un­til she re­ve­aled all of the hor­rib­le truth. Her eyes flew open. In that mo­ment, she ha­ted him. "No! Go away from me, ple­ase go away!"

  He ro­se ab­ruptly, to­we­ring over her aga­in. His body cast a long, mis­sha­pen sha­dow as the sun aga­in slid free of the clo­uds. "May­be it's for the best. May­be it's for the best that you don't re­mem­ber what hap­pe­ned."

  "I don't re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing," she told him des­pe­ra­tely.

  "What?"

  "You cal­led me Eli­za­beth," she cri­ed.

  His ga­ze was black, wi­de, in­c­re­du­lo­us.

  "Am I Eli­za­beth?"

  He sta­red, fro­zen.

  "Am I Eli­za­beth?"

  "You lost yo­ur me­mory?"

  His dark ga­ze was fil­led with dis­be­li­ef. She clas­ped her fa­ce in her hands. The po­un­ding at the back of her skull had in­c­re­ased. And with it, the fe­eling of con­fu­si­on, and the fe­eling of des­pa­ir. It was over­w­hel­ming. The truth was ines­ca­pab­le. Her mind was a blank. She didn't know what had hap­pe­ned; mo­re im­por­tantly, she didn't know who she was-she didn't know her own na­me.

  "Dam­mit," cur­sed the man cal­led Sla­de.

  She lo­oked up at his dark fa­ce. Her tor­men­tor co­uld now be­co­me her sa­vi­or. She des­pe­ra­tely ne­eded sal�
�va­ti­on; in a flash of un­der­s­tan­ding, she was awa­re of des­pe­ra­tely ne­eding him. "Ple­ase. Am I Eli­za­beth?"

  He didn't an­s­wer.

  Torn bet­we­en ho­pe and fe­ar, she lur­c­hed to her kne­es, clas­ping her hands tightly to her bre­asts. She swa­yed pre­ca­ri­o­usly clo­se to his thighs. "Am I Eli­za­beth?"

  His ga­ze slid over her. The ve­in in his tem­p­le throb­bed vi­sibly; he had re­mo­ved his hat. "The­re was only one wo­man mis­sing from that tra­in when it ar­ri­ved in Tem­p­le­ton-Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir."

  "Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir?" She fo­ught for a me­mory, any me­mory. She fo­ught to pi­er­ce the vast not­hin­g­ness in her mind. But she fa­iled. Not even a glim­mer of re­cog­ni­ti­on ca­me when she rol­led the na­me Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir over in her mind. Pa­nic was­hed over her. "I just can't re­mem­ber!"

  "Can't you re­mem­ber an­y­t­hing?"

  She sho­ok her he­ad wildly.

  "What abo­ut yo­ur com­pa­ni­on?"

  "No!"

  "Don't you even re­mem­ber be­ing on the tra­in?"

  "No!"

  He he­si­ta­ted. "And James? You don't re­mem­ber him?"

  "No!" Her con­t­rol bro­ke. Her na­ils dug de­eply in­to the de­nim on his thigh. She was crying, frig­h­te­ned, clin­ging.

  A he­ar­t­be­at pas­sed. He lif­ted her to her fe­et and aw­k­wardly put his arms aro­und her. Re­gi­na pres­sed aga­inst him, cho­king on her te­ars and her fe­ar. His chest was slick and hot be­ne­ath her che­ek. Thro­ugh the mes­me­ri­zing pa­nic, she was awa­re of be­ha­ving in a wildly im­p­ro­per man­ner.

  "Eli­za­beth." He spo­ke ro­ughly, but the­re was strength and re­as­su­ran­ce in his to­ne. "It's all right. We're he­re to ta­ke ca­re of you. And so­on you'll re­mem­ber."

  His calm was what she ne­eded. She let him push her away so they we­re no lon­ger in physi­cal con­tact with one anot­her. She fo­ught for lad­y­li­ke con­t­rol. When she had fo­und a sem­b­lan­ce of it, she lo­oked up, slowly and even shyly.

  He sta­red down at her up­lif­ted fa­ce. It was an in­ti­ma­te mo­ment af­ter the em­b­ra­ce they had sha­red. But she did not lo­ok away, be­ca­use he was all she had.

  “Thank you," she whis­pe­red, gra­ti­tu­de swel­ling her he­art. "Thank you."

  His che­eks red­de­ned. "Don't thank me. The­re's no ne­ed for that."

  She al­most smi­led, wi­ping her eyes with the back of her glo­ved hand. "How wrong you are," she sa­id softly.

  He tur­ned away. "We had bet­ter get go­ing. Rick sho­uld be wa­iting for us in Tem­p­le­ton. When the tra­in ca­me in wit­ho­ut you, Ed­ward ro­de out to get him."

  "Rick? Ed­ward?" Sho­uld she know the­se pe­op­le? The na­mes we­re as un­fa­mi­li­ar as all the ot­hers.

  "My old man," he sa­id ter­sely. His ga­ze ne­ver left her. "James's fat­her. I'm James's brot­her, Sla­de. Ed­ward's anot­her brot­her."

  She sho­ok her he­ad mi­se­rably. "Am I sup­po­sed to know you? Or know James?"

  His fa­ce was ex­p­res­si­on­less. "You don't know me or Ed­ward. But you know Rick. And you know James. You're his fi­an­c­йe."

  His fi­an­c­йe. She al­most suc­cum­bed to a fresh bo­ut of we­eping. She co­uldn't even re­call her bet­rot­hed, the man she lo­ved. De­ar God, how co­uld this be hap­pe­ning? Pa­in fil­led her skull, al­most blin­ding her. She stag­ge­red and Sla­de ca­ught her. His strength was bla­tant and com­for­ting.

  "You're not okay," Sla­de sa­id ro­ughly. "I want to get to Tem­p­le­ton. The so­oner you see Doc the bet­ter."

  She was too over­w­hel­med with her cir­cum­s­tan­ces to res­pond and only too happy to do as he wan­ted. In her sta­te, which was com­po­un­ded by ex­ha­us­ti­on, she co­uld not ma­ke even the smal­lest de­ci­si­on or pro­test. She let him le­ad her to his hor­se. She was be­gin­ning to fe­el numb, and be­ca­use the num­b­ness dim­med her fe­ar and hyste­ria and en­c­ro­ac­hed upon her des­pa­ir, it was wel­co­me.

  "You're lim­ping a lit­tle," Sla­de sa­id, his hand grip­ping her one arm. "You hurt yo­ur an­k­le?"

  "It's ten­der," she ad­mit­ted, unab­le to stop her­self from trying to sum­mon up a re­col­lec­ti­on of how she had twis­ted her an­k­le. It was an exer­ci­se in fu­ti­lity. Her dis­may must ha­ve sho­wed, be­ca­use for a bri­ef mo­ment she saw com­pas­si­on flit ac­ross Sla­de's fa­ce. He sto­od in­c­hes from her and she re­ali­zed that his eyes we­ren't black, or even brown. They we­re dark-blue, ke­enly alert, res­t­les­sly in­tent. They we­re the eyes of a highly in­tel­li­gent man. An in­s­tant la­ter the soft ex­p­res­si­on was go­ne, and Re­gi­na won­de­red if she had ima­gi­ned it.

  She lo­oked at the pa­ti­ent buc­k­s­kin. It had not oc­cur­red to her ear­li­er that they wo­uld ha­ve to sha­re a mo­unt, ca­ught up as she was in her di­lem­ma. Now was not the ti­me to in­sist upon prop­ri­ety and she was sen­sib­le eno­ugh to re­ali­ze it. He lif­ted her in­to the sad­dle. To her sur­p­ri­se, he did not le­ap up be­hind her. In­s­te­ad, he led the hor­se for­ward.

  Re­gi­na qu­ickly be­ca­me dis­t­res­sed. She had not tho­ught that he wo­uld walk. His nar­row-to­ed bo­ots lo­oked very un­com­for­tab­le. And it was un­be­arably hot. Whi­le she did not know the ti­me of day, she gu­es­sed it was mid-af­ter­no­on and that it wo­uld be ho­urs be­fo­re the sun even be­gan to set. "How far is the town?"

  "Ten, twel­ve mi­les."

  She was ag­hast.

  And he was re­so­lu­te. He led the hor­se, his stri­des long and lit­he, the mus­c­les pla­ying in his back, cle­arly vi­sib­le be­ne­ath his thin, damp shirt, for he had re­mo­ved his vest.

  "Mr. De­lan­za," she sa­id im­me­di­ately, unab­le to call him by his first na­me. He tur­ned slightly to lo­ok at her wit­ho­ut stop­ping. "Ple­ase. I can't let you walk. It's much too far."

  He squ­in­ted at her. "You-a fi­ne lady-are in­vi­ting me to sha­re that sad­dle with you?"

  "You ha­ve sa­ved my li­fe."

  "You're exag­ge­ra­ting a bit, don't you think?"

  "No." She sho­ok her he­ad ve­he­mently. "I am gra­te­ful. I can't ri­de if you're wal­king. Not such a dis­tan­ce. Ple­ase." Her co­lor had de­epe­ned but she did not ca­re. She me­ant every word she had sa­id. He had res­cu­ed her; un­do­ub­tedly he had sa­ved her li­fe. She co­uld not re­pay him with cal­lo­us in­sen­si­ti­vity. He was all she had and she was acu­tely awa­re of it. A fe­eling of de­pen­dency was blos­so­ming and be­co­ming ur­gent. And she was even mo­re gra­te­ful now for his in­te­rest in her sen­si­bi­li­ti­es. He did not ap­pe­ar to be the kind of man who wo­uld be sen­si­ti­ve to a lady's dis­t­ress, yet he ob­vi­o­usly was.

  He stu­di­ed her with his too-sharp ga­ze be­fo­re ma­king a de­ci­si­on and jum­ping in­to the sad­dle be­hind her.

  Re­gi­na's in­s­tant ple­asu­re va­nis­hed at the fe­el of him be­hind her. She had not re­al­ly con­si­de­red the in­ti­macy of such a po­si­ti­on, and bri­efly, she was stun­ned by it. Ab­ruptly she told her­self that she did not ca­re and that un­der the­se cir­cum­s­tan­ces, ru­les we­re ma­de to be bro­ken. Yet she co­uld fe­el the ten­si­on in his body, a ten­si­on as gre­at as hers. Be­ca­use he was a gen­t­le­man re­gar­d­less of his ap­pe­aran­ce, he wo­uld ig­no­re it-as she wo­uld. And she did not reg­ret of­fe­ring to sha­re his mo­unt with him. It se­emed the le­ast she co­uld do af­ter all that he had do­ne.

  They ro­de in si­len­ce. Re­gi­na was con­su­med with tho­ughts of her di­lem­ma and pe­rip­he­ral­ly awa­re that he was in­vol­ved in his own bro­oding. The se­ed of pa­nic in her bre­ast, which had aba­ted slightly, to­ok its hint from the si­len­ce and ro­se up qu­ick
ly to fill the vo­id. It so­on ver­ged on fresh hyste­ria. No mat­ter how of­ten she told her­self that she was Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir and that all wo­uld so­on be well, the va­cu­um of ig­no­ran­ce she exis­ted in un­ra­ve­led the web of op­ti­mism she tri­ed to spin. She had to re­ga­in her me­mory-she had to. How co­uld she con­ti­nue li­ke this? She knew not­hing abo­ut her­self or her fa­mily, not­hing abo­ut the tra­in rob­bery which had bro­ught her to the­se di­re stra­its.

  "Try and re­lax," he sa­id gruffly. "Let it go for now."

  She grip­ped the pom­mel, won­de­ring at his sen­si­ti­vity, his words a wel­co­me dis­t­rac­ti­on. She must re­ma­in calm and sen­sib­le whe­ne­ver the­se bo­uts of hyste­ria thre­ate­ned. Ab­ruptly she shif­ted in the sad­dle so she co­uld pe­er up at his fa­ce. "Ple­ase tell me what hap­pe­ned. Tell me abo­ut the tra­in rob­bery. And tell me abo­ut James."

  He was si­lent for a long mo­ment, and Re­gi­na tho­ught he wasn't go­ing to spe­ak. When he did, his to­ne was mat­ter-of-fact. "You we­re on yo­ur way to Mi­ra­mar, to yo­ur wed­ding. My brot­her Ed­ward and I we­re sent by Rick to me­et you at Tem­p­le­ton. The tra­in ar­ri­ved la­te- wit­ho­ut you on it. We le­ar­ned from the ot­her pas­sen­gers that you jum­ped off of the tra­in du­ring the rob­bery-My brot­her ro­de back to Mi­ra­mar to tell Rick what hap­pe­ned. I set out to find you. It wasn't hard to do. I just fol­lo­wed the ra­il­ro­ad tracks."

  She sta­red at him, wi­de-eyed. For a mo­ment she tho­ught she had re­mem­be­red, for a mo­ment she tho­ught the ima­ges we­re the­re and she co­uld al­most see them: frig­h­te­ned pe­op­le, a gun, run­ning, fal­ling. But the mo­ment was go­ne be­fo­re she co­uld grasp it and ma­ke sen­se of the jum­b­led, for­m­less sha­pes and ide­as. She didn't re­mem­ber, but the me­re no­ti­on of be­ing in­vol­ved in a tra­in rob­bery was shat­te­ring. A shud­der swept thro­ugh her.