Midas, New Mexico October 1898

Rafe LaCroix looked down at the woman sleeping alone in Doc Randall's bed and muttered a curse. He wasn't surprised that the old goat had kicked the bucket. The last time Rafe had passed through Midas, a growing town in northern New Mexico, Randall had been knocking on death's door. He'd even talked about taking on a partner — some hotshot doctor from back East.

At the mention of "back East," Rafe had stopped listening. If he never crossed the Mississippi again, he'd die a happy man. As far as he was concerned, that muddy divide cut a line between the happy times in his life and the bitterness he tasted every damned day. It also marked the spot where he'd become a man about five years too soon.

Shaking the vicious memory from his mind, Rafe looked down at the lady doctor and pondered his options. Would she be willing to go with him if he politely woke her up? He doubted it. He'd spent half his life thinking up lies, but even he couldn't make himself believe he had a wife giving birth or a sick child — not when he thought about his bloodstained duster and the careless stubble on his chin.

He looked like hell and smelled even worse. No woman in her right mind would leave the safety of her bed with the likes of him. She'd have to be crazy or stupid, and he doubted that a woman with a house full of medical books was stupid. Crazy was another matter. Rafe couldn't take the chance that she'd say no to him — not with Nick delirious and calling out for his mama. Leaving his friend alone had just about killed Rafe, but he didn't know squat about festering wounds, nor did he have the stomach to take off the leg.

Damn his bad luck. A lady doctor complicated the situation — especially this one. He'd always been partial to brunettes, particularly leggy ones with high breasts and upturned lips, and she had those attributes and more. Her upstairs bedroom held the warmth of a woodstove and she had tossed off the covers, giving Rafe a moonlit view of bare skin where her shift had slid down her arm. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath, and her mouth was twitching as if she were living a dream. She also had pretty feet and strong calves. She'd be good in the saddle in more ways than one.

Rafe liked to look at women, that was for sure. But he figured sex was more like a horse race than a visit to a Boston art gallery. A man got excited when the gun went off, settled in for the ride and then finished strong. As for the race itself, he liked to win. Looking at the lady doctor, he wondered if she had similar inclinations. Damn him for a fool…he didn't have time for this nonsense. But that would change as soon as he and Nick reached Mexico. In another week he'd be swigging tequila in a cantina and visiting the ladies who'd gladly invite him upstairs, both for his money and his good looks. But first he had to take care of Nick.

Manhandling a woman went against Rafe's gut in the worst way, but the thought of burying Nick bothered him even more. He pulled back the canvas flap of his duster and put his hand on the butt of his gun. With her bed tight against the wall, trapping her was a piece of cake. He made his voice barrel-deep. "Lady, wake up."

He watched as she blinked away her dreams and took in the sight of him — his gun belt, his Colt .45 and the bulge in the front of his trousers. In a single motion, she gasped, clutched the blanket to her breasts and pulled her knees to her chest as she scooted against the headboard.

"Get out!" she cried.

Rafe roughened his voice. "Not without you. I'm guessing Doc Randall's six feet under and you took over for him. Am I right?"

"Yes, but that doesn't give you the right to barge in here."

Rafe felt her gaze all over his cheeks and chin. He'd pushed his hat low to keep from being recognized, but he couldn't hide completely. A beam of moonlight had cast his shadow on her bed, revealing his height and lanky build. It also lit up the blue coverlet she'd pulled across her breasts and revealed her intelligent brown eyes.

Rafe lowered his chin to deepen the shadow across his face. "Get moving."

"Tell me why."

"You don't need to know. Just get dressed."

"And if I refuse?" Her tone made him think of river ice — cold and hard but quick to melt in the warmth of spring.

"Then I'll change your mind for you." Raising his head slightly, he turned his eyes into shiny stones to let her know he meant business. Sidestepping, he opened her wardrobe and threw a dress across the foot of the bed. "Put that on."

The woman looked at it with stark longing. She wanted to cover herself, but the dress was out of her reach and she didn't want to rock forward to retrieve it. Nor did she want to give in to him.

"It's your choice," he said, smirking. "You can do what I say, or I'll tie you up and carry you out of here. It's a bit chilly, though. That cotton isn't going to keep you warm. It's not going to hide those breasts of yours, either."

As her eyes narrowed with loathing, Rafe rocked back on one heel to emphasize the gun strapped to his side. They both knew he wouldn't use it — she had something he needed — but he wanted her to see the worn holster and the blood on his coat. He had her cornered, but he knew that women could be sly and brave, more so than men who relied on brute strength. He might have enjoyed watching the lady wrestle with the choice he'd given her, but he didn't have time. He indicated the dress with his chin. "Get going."

She gave him a hard stare. "I'll go with you, but not alone." Rafe reached inside his duster, pulled out a length of cord and snapped it tight. "You'll do as I say. Is that clear?"

Her eyes flashed with rebellion. "I'll do what's right and so will you. Put that rope away."

Rafe enjoyed trading sparks with a woman as much as any man, but this wasn't the time. He lifted a set of leg irons out of an inside pocket and dangled them in front of her nose. "I'd rather not use these on you, but I won't hesitate. You can walk out of here or be carried like a trussedup deer. It's your choice."

Just as he'd hoped, the lady saw the wisdom of rocking forward on her knees and snatching up the dress. With the red calico clutched to her chest, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and glared at him. "Turn around."

Rafe gave her a wicked smile. "Not a chance."

"You're the one in a hurry. Not me."

"I'm also the one with the rope." Rafe respected her for holding her ground, but they were wasting time so he hardened his gaze. "Save the shyness for someone else. I've seen too many naked women to be impressed by a flat- chested spinster. Now move it."

She wasn't all that flat and she was too young to be a spinster, but Rafe needed to douse the fire licking at his belly. Judging by the heat in her eyes, she'd be a passionate lover, the kind of woman who'd fight to take more ground. The flames in his gut burned even hotter when she arched her brows like the cynical woman she wasn't.

"Since you're already an expert on breasts, you won't mind turning your back," she said.

"I'm not a fool." He nodded at her nightstand. "If I give you the chance, you'll thump me with that medical book."

When she didn't budge, Rafe stared at her fingers, pale and knotted in the dress. He couldn't waste all night, so he grabbed for her wrist. At the same moment, she slid her bottom off the bed and scrambled to her feet. She solved her modesty problem by turning her back on him.

He watched as she raised the dress over her head and let it fall past her shoulders, covering the white nightgown in a curtain of red calico. The dress caught on her hips, emphasizing her bottom as she shook the fabric free. Hunching forward, she worked the front buttons, glancing over her shoulder to give him the evil eye. Each time she turned, her braided hair swished like a mare's tail.

Rafe liked the looks of her. She was taller than he'd thought and more slender. Definitely coltish. She'd probably been a tomboy growing up — the kind of woman who'd know how to use her long legs in all the right ways. And if she didn't know, he'd be glad to teach her.

Ah, hell. He had no business thinking about such things — not with Nick scared and shivering in a damp cave. "Hurry up," he growled.

Ignoring him, she lifted a pair of her cotton drawers off a chair, stepped into them and somehow tied the strings without giving him more than peek at her calves.

Rafe was about to make a smart remark when she dropped to a crouch and reached under her bed. "I need my shoes."

As quick as fire, he snatched her wrist. "What else is under your bed?"

Their gazes locked, hers boiling like strong coffee and his resembling blue ice. Just as he expected, the heat of her turned his icy stare into steam.

When she tried to pull back her hand, he squeezed harder. Staring into her angry eyes, he reached under the bed and curled his fingers around the double barrel of a shotgun. The lady was full of surprises, but so was he. With lightning speed, he released her hand, raised the weapon to his shoulder and aimed it at the family photograph above her bed. "Nice Remington."

"Be careful," she said. "It's loaded."

He considered firing it into the wall to scare her, but he didn't want to risk waking a neighbor. Instead he cracked open the barrel, removed the two cartridges and saw they were full of rock salt. The pissant ammunition told him a lot about the lady doctor — she'd protect herself, but she didn't have the heart to kill. After dropping the cartridges in his pocket, Rafe pushed to his feet, letting the weapon dangle from his hand. He'd keep it as a souvenir or maybe give it to Nick for his birthday.

"Go on," he said. "Get your shoes."

He watched as she pulled out a pair of mannish boots. Sturdy and practical, they were perfect for tonight's journey. She lifted them by the tops and faced him. "I need stockings."

"Which drawer?"

"I'll get them." She stepped toward the highboy.

"No, you won't." Rafe planted his feet in front of her and squared his shoulders. She probably had a two-shot Derringer hidden between her camisoles. She needed to remember who was in charge. "I'm not in the mood for another surprise…unless it involves black lace and garters."

"Then you're going to be disappointed."

Rafe jerked open the top drawer and rummaged through her underthings — all cotton and plain. He tossed a handful on the floor. "You're right. I'm bored already."

Her eyes blazed with fury at the violation. He couldn't blame her. He'd gotten annoyed when Nick had gone through his saddlebag looking for a can opener, and the contents had been far less personal than her unmentionables.

She gave him a look of pure disgust. "The stockings are in the middle drawer."

He pulled on the knob, reached inside and tossed a ball of cotton on the bed. "Hurry up."

She sat on the mattress, untangled the stockings and pulled the first one over her bare toes. "Why don't you tell me why you're here? I'm going to find out soon enough."

"My partner got shot in the leg. It's festering."

"When did it happen?" she said, tugging on the second stocking.

"Five days ago."

Disgust filled her eyes as she wiggled her foot into her boot and yanked on the laces. "You're an idiot for waiting so long. He'll be lucky if he doesn't lose his leg."

The small room turned as fiery as a furnace. Rafe had known the minute Nick got shot that he needed a doctor, but he couldn't risk being found — not with Mexico a few weeks away. Instead he'd dosed Nick with whiskey and probed for the lead with his fingers, only to discover that the bullet had broken into fragments. He'd thought he'd gotten all of them, but he couldn't be sure. By the time he'd finished, Nick had passed out and Rafe hadn't been able to stomach a sip of water, let alone a swig of the whiskey he needed as much as his friend.

He blocked out the memory by staring at the lady doctor's fingers as she looped the laces on her second boot. The moonlight turned her knuckles bone-white, but there wasn't anything fragile about the way she made a bow and jerked it tight.

Standing straight, she said, "I need my medical bag. It's in the clinic."

"Then we'll fetch it." He wasn't about to let her get behind him on the outside stairs. Putting his palm on the butt of his gun, he gave a mocking bow and a sweep of his arm. "After you, miss."