There was no escape that didn't lead to death, or capture. Unless...

Coulter lay, unmoving. Even his trigger finger re¬mained still. All of her rattling in the drawers, her clumsy search, had failed to rouse him. And that's when she knew.

He'd been awake all along.

Slowly, she straightened. Slowly, she paced toward him. He remained motionless. Drawing near the bars, she stopped.

"Mr. Coulter."

His left hand reached for the hat, and when it came away, his eyes were clear—hollowed, yet unblurred by sleep.

"Mr. Coulter, I would like to speak to you."

He rose slowly, his eyes slicing down her body in a thorough, scrutinizing movement. Lean and broad-shouldered, his cheekbones slashed across his gaunt features, making his face appear craggy, sinister. Hard weathered eyes stared at her through the bars. Terrible eyes, merciless, coldly hypnotic...the eyes of a rattler—coiled, cunning and ready to strike. This was a man who would not be caught unaware...

"I have the keys to your cell in my hand. If you agree to my terms, I'll release you. Otherwise, I'll leave you here for the sheriff."

There was no curiosity in Coulter's expression, no surprise at her offer, and Elizabeth felt a cold chill.

"What terms?"

Swallowing hard, she raised her chin a notch, meeting his stare. "I'm going with you."