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"Don't move. Don't even breathe."

The man's low, emotionless voice was enough to freeze Sarah Kennedy in place. But even if his voice hadn't stilled her, the rest of him would have.

Moving and breathing just weren't possible.

Sarah was stretched out full-length on her stomach, pinned to cold slickrock at the edge of a drop-off, flattened beneath a stranger's overwhelming weight. The man covered her from head to heels.

"Lord, but that's a lot of man, she thought fearfully. Not fat. Just big."

"Too big."

Even if the stranger gave her an opening, she wouldn't have a chance in a fight against him. Despite his size, he was quick and quiet as a hawk.

Sarah had never even suspected that she was no longer alone beneath the stone overhang of the shallow cave.

The stranger's body was as hard as the cold rock that was squashing her breasts and gouging her hipbones even through her winter clothing. The man's leather-gloved right hand was across her mouth with a grip that meant to stay there no matter how she twisted or tried to bite him.

She didn't waste her strength in useless fighting. An unhappy marriage had taught her that even a young, healthy girl didn't have much chance against an old man her own size and weight.

The man pinning her down right now was neither old nor her size and weight.

And that wasn't the worst of it.

Despite the dry winter chill, the stranger's left hand was bare. It held a six-gun that looked entirely too well used.

As though Sarah's captor understood that she wasn't going to fight him, his grip eased enough for her to breathe.

But not enough for her to cry out.

"I won'thurt you," the man said very quietly against her ear.

Like hell you won't, she thought. "That's all most men are good for. Hurting women."

Silently she swallowed against the fear and nausea roiling in her stomach.

"Easy now, little one," the man murmured. "I don't mistreat women, horses, or dogs."

She hadn't heard that saying since her father's death. It startled her even as it gave her a flicker of hope.

"But if those Culpeppers gathering at the bottom of the cliff get their hands on you," the stranger continued, "they'll make you pray for death. Your prayers will be answered, but not nearly quick enough to suit you."

A chill washed over Sarah that had nothing to do with the winter night or the icy rock she was lying on.

"Nod if you understand me," the man said.

Despite his educated accents and the hint of a drawl, his voice was low, soft, deadly.

She nodded.

"Now, nod if you believe me," he added dryly.

An absurd desire to laugh shot through her.

Hysteria, she thought. Get hold of yourself. You've been through worse and come out right side up.

Again, Sarah nodded.

"Girl, I hope you're not lying to me."

She shook her head vigorously.

"Good," he murmured. "Because sure as God made little green apples, as soon as you scream we're going to be up to our butts in hot lead."

Once again she felt a crazy desire to laugh. She controlled it.

Barely.

Slowly the stranger's hand came away from her mouth.

Sarah took a long, deep, silent breath. The air she drew into her body tasted of leather and was spiced with an intriguing scent.

Apple, she realized. He's just eaten an apple.

A bit more of the aching tension left her body.

Her husband had demanded sex only when he was drinking, not when he was eating.

Even more reassuring to her, there wasn't the faintest trace ~, of liquor on the stranger's breath. Nor was there any hint of liquor on his skin or clothes. All she could smell was a trace of soap, leather, heat, and . . . apple.

That's why I'm not as scared as I should be, she realized. He may be an outlaw, but he's sober, smells clean, and likes apples.

Maybe he's no meaner than he has to be.

The slow easing of her painful tension communicated itself to the man whose body was covering hers like a heavy, living blanket.

"That's better," the man murmured. "I'm going to take some of my weight off you. But don't you move at all. Not a bit. Hear me?"

Sarah nodded.

With a silence and speed that left her feeling a bit dizzy, the man shifted to one side. Rock no longer dug into her breasts and belly. Now the weight and strength of the man lay lightly along her right side.

He was still there, still poised. If he wanted to, he could cover her again as swiftly and silently as he had before.

"You all right?" the man asked softly.

She nodded.

Then she wondered if the man would understand her silent communication now that he wasn't close enough to feel her every heartbeat. It was as dark as the inside of a boot beneath the overhang of rock.

"Good girl," he murmured.

He must have eyes like an eagle, Sarah thought. Lord, if only I had the wings of an eagle I would fly away.

The thought sent a shudder of pure longing through her.

"Now don't go all contrary on me," the stranger said softly. "We're not out of this mess by a long sight."

We? she asked silently. Last time I looked, I was alone and there wasn't any mess at all!

Men's voices, the creaking of saddle leather, and a horse's impatient snort drifted up from the blackness at the base of the cliff.

In the night stillness of the red rock desert, sound carried a long, long way.

All right, she amended silently. I was alone and a mess was gathering around me.

Now I'm not alone. Danger is right within reach.

And it smells of apples.

Sarah struggled against a smile.

She lost.

Case Maxwell saw the flash of her smile. He wondered what the girl found worth smiling about in this unholy mess.

And despite the darkness, despite the heavy men's clothes she wore, Case had no doubt that it was a female he was lying halfway across. She was soft, slender, and smelled of summer roses.

Must be Sarah Kennedy, he decided. Either that or Big Lola. They're the only white women for several days' ride.

Somehow he doubted that the girl he had discovered in the shallow cave was Big Lola. Word had it that Lola was man-sized, man-hard, and tough as any sporting gal who had ever ventured west of the Mississippi.

The slender waif who was trying not to smile didn't have the attitude"or the smell" of a sporting gal.

Sarah Kennedy, he said to himself. Has to be.

As it had during the Civil War, his mind worked quickly, assembling the information he had on the subject of a girl called Sarah Kennedy.

Widow. Young. Avoids men, quiet as a shadow, and even harder to lasso.

A kid brother called Conner, an old outlaw known as Ute, and Big Lola live with her on Lost River Canyon ranch.

Wonder why nobody mentioned that Sarah smells of summer roses and has a smile quick as lightning?

Just what the hell is. she smiling about, anyway?