Kristin rose and left them bickering. She went upstairs and was surprised to find that Cole was already in bed. She thought he was asleep, but when she crawled in beside him, trying not to disturb him, he turned over and took her in his arms. She tried to study his eyes in the darkness, but she could see only their silver glow. She tried to speak, but he silenced her with a kiss. Tenderly at first, and then with a growing passion, he made love to her. When it was over, he held her close, his bearded chin resting against the top of her head. He didn't speak, and neither did she. She knew he lay there awake for a long time, and she wished she could reach out to him, wished she knew what to say to him. She could not apologize, for she had done nothing wrong. She kept silent.
Eventually Kristin fell asleep.
Sometime later, something woke her. She didn't know what it was at first. She heard something, some hoarse, whispered words that she didn't understand. Struggling to free herself from the web of sleep, she opened her eyes, just as Cole's arm came flying out and slammed against her shoulder.
She sat up in bed, calling out his name. He didn't answer her, and she fumbled for a match to light the oil lamp on the bedside table. The glow filled the room and fell on Cole.
The bare flesh of his shoulders and chest was gleaming with sweat. The muscles there were tense and rigid and knotted. His fingers plucked at the sheet that lay over him.
His features contorted, his head tossing from side to side, he screamed, "No!" His entire body was stiff and hard.
"Cole!" Kristin pleaded, shaking him. "Cole —"
"No!" he screamed again.
She straddled him, took him by the shoulders and shook him hard, determined to wake him.
His eyes flew open, but he didn't see her. He called out again, and then he struck out at her, and the force sent her flying to the floor. He jerked upright as she fell. Stunned, Kristin sat on the hard floor, rubbing her bruised behind.
"Kristin?"
He whispered her name slowly, fearfully.
There was something in his voice that she had never heard before, a frightened tone, and it touched her deeply.
"I'm here," she whispered ruefully.
He looked over the side of the bed and swore. He leaped swiftly from the bed, and took her in his arms. She felt the pounding of his heart, felt the tremors that still racked him as he laid her down on the bed again.
"I hurt you. I'm so sorry."
His voice was deep, husky. She felt her own throat constrict, and she shook her head, burrowing more deeply against his naked chest. "No. You didn't hurt me. I'm all right, really."
He didn't say anything. He didn't even move. He just held her.
She wanted to stay there, where she was, forever. She had never felt so cherished before. Desired, admired, even needed. But never so cherished.
"You had a nightmare," she told him tentatively.
"Yes," he said.
"I wish you would tell me —"
"No."
It wasn't that he spoke so harshly, but that he spoke with absolute finality. Kristin stiffened, and she knew he felt it. He set her from him and rose. She watched as he walked over to the window, and as he stood there in the moonlight a dark web of pain seemed to encircle her heart. He walked with a pride that was uniquely his. He stood there for a long time, naked and sinewed and gleaming in the moonlight, and stared out at the night. Kristin watched as his muscles slowly, slowly eased, losing some of their awful rigor.
"Cole —" she whispered.
He turned back to her at last. He walked across the room, and she was glad when he lifted the covers and lay beside her again, drawing his arm around her and bringing her head to his chest. He stroked her hair.
"Cole, please —"
"Kristin, please. Don't."
She fell silent. His touch remained gentle.
"I have to leave tomorrow," he said at last.
"Where are you going?"
"East."
"Why?"
He hesitated for a long time. "Kristin, there are things that you probably don't want to hear, and there's no good reason for me to tell you."
"No questions, no involvement," she murmured. He didn't answer her, but she felt him tighten beneath her.
"It's late," he said at last. "You should —"
She rose up and touched his lips with her own, cutting off his words. She wondered if she should be angry, or at least cool and distant. Nothing had changed. He had married her, but he still didn't want any involvement.
That didn't matter to her. Not at that moment. She only knew that he was leaving, and that in these times any man's future was uncertain at best. She ceased the flow of his words with the soft play of her tongue and leaned the length of her body over his, undulating her hips against his groin and the hardened peaks of her breasts against his chest. She savored the sharp intake of his breath and the quick, heady pressure of his hands upon her back and her buttocks.
Now it was her turn to inflame him. She nuzzled her face against his beard, and she teased his throat and the hard contours of his shoulders and chest. She tempted him with her tongue and with her fingertips and with the entire length of her body. She moved against him, crying out again and again at the sweet feel of their flesh touching. She teased him with her teeth, moving lower and lower against him. He tore his fingers into her hair and hoarsely gasped out her name. She barely knew herself. She was at once serene and excited, and she was certain of her power. She took all of him without hesitation. She loved him until he dragged her back to him and kissed her feverishly on the lips, then drew her beneath him. There was a new tension etched into his features, and a new blaze in his eyes. Taut as wire, he hovered above her. Then he came to her, fierce and savage and yet uniquely tender.
She thought she died just a little when it was over. The world was radiant, painted with shocking strips of sunlight and starlight, and then it was black and she was drifting again.
He held her still. He didn't speak, but his fingers stroked her hair, and for the moment it was enough. His hand lay over her abdomen. Tentatively she placed her fingers over his. He laced them through his own, and they slept.
But in the morning when she awoke, he was gone.
Three days later, Kristin was pumping water into the trough when she looked up to see a lone rider on the horizon, coming toward the house. For a moment her heart fluttered and she wondered if it might be Cole returning. Then she realized it couldn't be him. It wasn't his horse, and the rider wasn't sitting the horse the way he did.
"Malachi!" she called. He and Jamie would be with her for another few days. She frowned and bit her lip as she watched the approaching rider. It wasn't Zeke, she knew. Zeke never rode alone. Besides, there was no reason for her to be afraid of Quantrill's boys. Cole had gone through with the wedding to protect her, and anyway, Quantrill was supposed to be moving south for the winter. There was no reason to be afraid.
She was afraid anyway.
"Malachi —" she began again.
"Kristin?" He appeared at the door to the barn, his thumbs hooked in his belt, his golden brows knit into a furrow. He hurried over to her and watched the rider come. His eyes narrowed.
"Anderson," he murmured.
"Who?"
"It's a boy named Bill Anderson. He's… he's one of Quantrill's. One of his young recruits."
"What does he want? He is alone, isn't he?" Kristin asked anxiously.
"Yes, he's alone," Malachi assured her.
Jamie appeared then, coming out of the barn, his sleeves rolled up, his jacket off. He looked at Malachi. "I thought Quantrill was already on his way south. That's Bill Anderson."
Malachi nodded. "He seems to be alone."
The rider came closer and closer. He was young, very young, with a broad smile. He had dark, curly hair and a dark mustache and beard, but he still had an absurdly innocent face. Kristin shivered, thinking that he was far too young to be going around committing murder.