Give Me Tonight

"What're you waitin' up for?" he asked, smothering a yawn. "He said he wouldn't be back till mornin'."

"I don't feel like sleeping. Why aren't you in bed?"

"I keep wakin' up, thinkin' I heard a noise." He closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the sofa.

"Cade?"

"Hmm?" he grunted, his eyes still closed.

"I'm glad you're not going to North Carolina with the others. It's nice having you around."

His mouth turned down at the comers in a surly expression, as was his habit whenever confronted by sentiment. "I'm not go

Addie smiled slightly. "I know, Cade."

She closed her eyes too, lulled by the quiet and the boy's presence, and gradually the book slid from her lap onto the sofa as she let her head drop, too heavy to support any longer. "Watts," she murmured to herself, her forehead aching as she pondered the name and tried to remember, and slowly she was drifting, drifting, her heartbeat slowing.

She was cuddled close to Jeff, caught up against the side of his body, her slender fingers combing through the mahogany hair on the back of his neck. Her mouth brushed close against the comer of his as she leaned closer. "Help me with the name," he had urged.

Softly she whispered, her lips at his ear. "Try George Watts. He'll do anything for money, anything. I'm sure of it.”

"And you're sure about the rest of it too?"

"Of course I am. We don't really have a choice, do we?" She kissed him sweetly, with a silent promise.

Addie moaned in her sleep, turning her head restlessly.

After leaving the saloon, Ben rode back to Sunrise, every coherent thought gone from his mind. Bloodlust burned in his stomach, dug into his sides like claws, driving him to push the horse to its limits. The ground raced beneath them, but the ride seemed too slow, sickeningly slow.

The wooden line shack was the only shape that broke the horizon, that and the ruins of the fence. Through the cracks between the boards came the light of a lamp turned low. Ben flung himself from the horse almost before it stopped. In a few steps he reached the door, bursting it open with the heel of his boot. A chair crashed to the floor as Watts snapped to his feet… a Colt.45 appearing in his hand. He started to lower it as he saw it was Ben, then instinctively checked the motion.

Ben was aware of the gun trained on him, but in his rage he hardly cared. "Why?" he demanded, breathing hard, his pulse drumming. "Was it just for the money? Did you bargain with them or take the first price they named? You bastard. Tell me why you did it! "

Watts met his eyes calmly. "Because they offered enough."

"And what other reason?"

"No other reason."

Although it was what Ben had expected to hear, the confession was still a shock, a white-hot arrow through the chest. Blankly he stared at Watts' face, so resolute, so unashamed, and grief bubbled up in his throat. It was even worse that he had murdered Russ without a personal grudge, just for the money. It was below the worth of any man, but especially Russell Warner, whose death shouldn't have been bought cheaply.

Nothing Ben said or did could make Watts regret it.

Trembling with rage and despair, Ben sensed Watts' invincibility, the lack of emotion in that solid, square body. Watts was waiting for him to make a move, and then he would shoot him with the dispatch of an executioner. He intended to kill Ben, or he never would have confessed to the murder.

Ben gave one anguished thought to Addie and lunged forward, leading with his right shoulder to present less of a target. Watts pulled the trigger. There was a deafening sound and a Dumbing blow to his body. Thrown back by the impact of the bullet, Ben staggered against the table, knocking the lamp over. Glass crashed, and oil spilled over the floor. As he felt for his shoulder, his hand encountered warm, spurting wetness.

A gentle mist seemed to surround him, and he slid to the floor, struggling to keep from giving in to the soft darkness. There was a buzzing sound in his ears. His nostrils were filled with a sweet smell. Seconds passed, or maybe it was hours, as he fought to conquer the weakness in his legs. He had to stand up, had to move. The sound of crumpling paper was in his ears… no, it was the crackle of flames. He was surrounded by the smell of kerosene. Ben's eyes slitted open.

Watts grabbed a few belongings and headed out of the shack, leaving him to bum to death. One wall was already spitting flames up to the ceiling. Animal panic surged through Ben, and he groped blindly as Watts strode past him to the door. He managed to catch hold of a booted heel, and clung with all his strength.

Stumbling, Watts landed on the floor with a thud.

Ben rolled to avoid the swipe of Watts' free foot. The rickety building began to roar, roasting the two of them alive. They scrambled across the floor, grappling, grunting with pain. Watts tried to stagger to his feet and Ben hung on until they were both half-standing. For a split-second, Ben saw himself moving as if underwater. He tried to let go and stand on his own, but his reactions were too slow.

Raising his fist, Watts struck him on the jaw, sending him reeling to the doorway. The ceiling and walls folded in as if some giant foot had crushed the shack. Throwing an arm over his eyes, Ben stumbled outside and hit the ground, his body rolling once, twice before stopping.

It wasn't long before line riders and cowhands, alerted by the distant glow of fire, crowded on the scene with blankets, sacks and brooms, beating out grass fires. Left unchecked, a fire could race along miles of grazing land, covering entire counties, destroying property, killing men and livestock. Men came from both sides of the line to help, from Sunrise and the Double Bar. Ben regained consciousness slowly, watching with smoke-reddened eyes as the cowboys worked side by side, calling out warnings to each other. They succeeded in containing the fire to the shack, watching as it burned down to a pile of rubble and ashes.

The rest of the night passed in a haze. Although Ben had tended a number of gunshot wounds, he'd never experienced firsthand knowledge of them. As the bullet hole was pronounced clean and clumsily bandaged, it was all he could do to keep from snapping at the man who tended his shoulder to be more careful, the goddamn thing hurt worse than it looked. But complaining would have made him less of a man in their eyes, alienated their trust, so he kept his mouth shut except to down the whiskey they pressed on him. When they decided he'd had enough, he clambered up on his horse and slumped over the animal's neck as he was led back to the ranch house-an indignity, for someone else to have control of his reins, but better than being slung over the saddle like a sack of flour.

The entire Warner family was up by the time he was half-carried into the house. Addie's world had been suspended in motion from the moment she'd learned of the fire and knew Ben was probably in the middle of the commotion. She was frantic and relieved the moment she saw him. His clothes were bloody, his face haggard and soot-streaked. Every line of his body spoke of exhaustion and shock. She couldn't get words out of her mouth fast enough as she urged the men on either side of him to bring him into the parlor. As he slumped on the sofa, holding his head in his hands, she flew to the kitchen for a pair of scissors and the box of medical supplies, returning to find May fretting over the nicks the cowboys' spurs had left on the carpet and furniture legs.

Ben protested as Addie insisted on cutting away what was left of his shirt, cleaning his wound again and rebandaging it. Ignoring his muffled command to leave it alone, she tended his shoulder and washed his battered face. Eventually Ben went still under her hands, lulled by her gentle touch. Had May not been there, he would have pillowed his head in Addie's soft lap and gone to sleep. The idea was so tempting he considered using drunke