Three

      “Smooth, Rio. Real smooth,” Rio muttered as he lay on the front porch at midnight The threatening Rocky Mountain storm was as thunderous as his mood; building the lean-to for the horses hadn’t helped to settle his taut nerves, the pounding sensual need in his body.

      He watched a porcupine shuttle across the rainy ground. The lady was shy, and his kiss had stunned her. As worldly and sophisticated as Paloma appeared, she knew little about a man wanting her. He’d known in that moment when he’d locked her body to his that there had never been a woman in his life to compare-and never would be. She fitted him and hadn’t a clue that he wanted her. He snorted and flipped on his side. “Perverse female.”

      He dragged his hand through his hair. He ached for the woman, for the child pushed beyond her limits, for her limits.

      After their escape, he’d had to have Paloma’s mouth, to know that she was alive, that he was alive. He’d tossed away tenderness and dived into his needs, surprised by her shy answer, just that slight, sweet lift of her mouth to his. He’d wanted to take her there on the ground, to celebrate life, to place his child within her. But when he’d looked down into her dazed dirt-stained face, the rising color of her cheeks, he knew she was an innocent. He wasn’t prepared for the tenderness then, for the need to hold and comfort and gently make her his bride. The emotion was traditional, shocking him. Bride.

      Paloma would laugh at that tender thought. He snorted again and Frisco answered with a nicker. Paloma was wary and uncertain of him now. “Fine thing, when you want to put your ring on the lady’s finger and she hasn’t got a clue. Now that does a lot for my confidence with women,” Rio muttered before giving himself to the fresh pine-scented air and letting the rising wind sweep him into sleep.

      He awoke to his own terror, to the fierce rain beating the earth, flowing in silvery sheets from the roof. He awoke with images of war-frightened children from his stint in the military’s special forces sliding across his eyes, and then the little boy in the mine. He awoke to the woman crouched beside him, dressed only in a man’s large T-shirt. Her slender hand rested on his chest and he shot out his hand gripping her wrist, binding him to her and away from the nightmare. “You were dreaming,” she said softly, her hair drifting across his damp face as her other hand smoothed his cheek. The mist from the rain had dampened her T-shirt, plastering it to her body. “Come inside.”

      “How much did you hear?” The echoes of his cry shamed him. The nightmare repeated his defeat. He couldn’t save the boy—the image of the small torn body lying at the bottom of the muddy mine shaft haunted him. In a desperate attempt to link himself with life and hope and warmth, he flattened Paloma’s soft palm against his cheek, kissed it and let her natural exotic fragrance envelop him. Again she looked stunned, as if unprepared for the caress.

      “It was that same mine, wasn’t it?”

      “I don’t want to talk about it.” The soft question stunned him; not even his family had dared enter his torment—they’c left him alone. A plain-speaking woman, Paloma knew how to flop his secrets in front of him. He glared at her, but his hands kept hers close, locked to his body and his face as the gray rain slashed down at the mountain.

      She wasn’t quitting he realized as she said, “Your heart is pounding as if you’ve just run a race and you’ve—” She studied him closely. “Your face is damp with sweat, not rain I know the difference. I’ve been there.”

      “If you’re feeling sorry for me—don’t.” He closed his eyes remembering how he’d run through the forest fire, sides aching, and then with a rope tied to a tree he’d lowered himself down into that damned mine, hand over hand, praying.... One touch of his hand to the boy’s cold throat told him of death He’d seen other children, children he hadn’t been able to rescue in war-torn lands and he’d known.... When Rio opened his eyes, he met furious blue ones.