It was dark, the night lit by a bright moon as the man continued his desperate escape. If he'd had a pistol to hand, he'd have made his stand and ended it in bullets and blood. One step ahead of them for well over a week now, running for his life had begun to grate his nerves. To stop, weaponless, would inevitably mean his death. So, in the face of his growing anger, he kept running.

Like a dog with its tail tucked. A mangy yellow cur. Rankling like poison, the thought festered in his blood. Building toward wild rage that only led to one thing.

They had caught up with him in Julesburg, in the southern part of Unorganized Territory. How'd they'd tracked him that far he couldn't guess, unless they'd resorted to bribing the stage driver, or threatening him.

Escaping by snatching a pinto off the hitching line he made for the mountains two days away. Setting the horse free upon reaching the slopes put him back at a disadvantage. The killers would not be far behind him now. After such a long run, they'd show no mercy once catching up with him. Weary, run down to basic survival instincts, he had to find a place to hole up and rest. He craved sleep and solid meals.

His boots made no sound as he made his way through the dense brush. For several hours he'd been working his way toward the gray rock canyon before him. Experience told him it was the best place to find a hole to crawl in and disappear for a while.

Close to collapse, keeping one step ahead of a mounted posse began to unravel his memories. Stray thoughts turned to home, wishing he had one of his brothers here to help him. But the Rivers men had always stood on their own, shying away from asking for help. Even if they did know of the fix he was in and came running, they'd likely not make it in time.

Besides, how many times had he faced up to his own troubles and lived? Ask the Pollock boys how tough he was. They might hate him for being born of Rivers blood, but none would label him less than dangerous. He'd earned the reputation he had.

The Rivers' clan had been started by Noah, who had met and married Lorna O'Toole. Together they'd had six sons. The daughter had come at the last, both mother and child dying in the endeavor. From that moment on the boys had learned to stand alone and face their troubles head on. It wasn't due to a lack of feelings between them, and any would lay down his life for his brother, but Lorna had been the softness of them.

With her gone the Rivers' boys grew up solitary in thought, aloof in reasoning and actions. Thinking back on it, Red could only recall his father weeping once, after Lorna died. It was at the freshly turned graves of his wife and daughter. Red had been nine at the time. He'd been strongly influenced by the fact that his brothers had stepped up and not taken to grieving openly.

Life had moved on. With food to get, wood to chop, crops to plant, neighbors, and Indians to fight with, grieving was a luxury. He was fourteen before he realized he could no longer picture his mother's face, barely remember her laugh. She was mentioned but rarely and only on occasions of extreme seriousness, for Noah Rivers did not permit trivial talk of her. The grieving husband had never quite gotten over her death, and it showed. Shaking his head, Red pushed the memories away. Since leaving home he rarely thought of those left behind.

The land around him seemed to close in as he pushed deeper into the mountains. He took care to leave as little trail as possible, wanting to buy as much time as he could. Barnes, Ludlow, and Fennel weren't much on tracking, but Stone and Meade...those two could follow a bird on the wing. At some point the bounty hunters had gotten involved, which turned the cat-and-mouse- chase into an extremely deadly game.

The brush did not whisper against his clothing as he moved on, climbing up into the higher slopes. Beginning to sweat with the effort, his told himself the pounding of his heart was exertion, and not fear.

They had caught him once and almost made an end of him. The same mistake would not be made twice. Hanging was never a pleasant way to die and the young man on the run was grateful it hadn't been his turn to cash in. The recollection of the manila rope digging into flesh made him cold. Continuing despite the rain that began to pour, he had no way to stay dry, and before long was soaked to the skin, shivering.

"Better that then dead," he muttered dryly, then grinned. "Unless I catch a fever. Then I'm dead anyway out here. Blast it. I hate gettin' sick."

He almost passed it, going by without noticing, but the deep darkness caught his eye. Stopping, Red get a better look. A cleft of sorts cut right across the rocky wall, covered by scrub brush. Moving closer despite the darkness, the man put his hand out, surprised that it disappeared within the deep blackness. Cautiously inching forward, he stepped through, letting the tangle of brush sweep closed behind him. It would only take minutes for the pouring rain to wash away his tracks.

Pitch black inside the fissure, he groped along slowly, blind and without compass. His boots echoed softly in the small space, telling him it was rock, not dirt. Suddenly a wall came out of the darkness, meeting his outstretched palm. Calloused fingertips explored the rough surface, guiding him along the wall until he came to a sudden gap. Feeling along he could not find the wall again. About to turn back Red stopped. A faint breeze, the smell of rain teased his nostrils.

Open air was before him somewhere, so he kept moving forward. Blackness began to recede into dim light as he came back out into the night. The rain was easing up, but he stayed under the shelter of stone, letting his eyes roam the wide land below him.

There was a valley that dipped down to his left, and even in the gloom he could see the long green grass and thick stands of trees. Rainwater glinted off the slim shine of moonlight. Somewhere in the distance, that same moon reflected off water. To the right was a tall range of mountains, sloping down into a small meadow above the valley. Their peaks were black teeth in the darkness. A faint light twinkled up there, and his eyes were drawn to it.

The rain had almost stopped when Rivers stepped out, making a silent approach. Going slow, cautiously easing down the steep rocky path, he angled for a nearby belt of trees. Once in the thickness of the conifers he eased up a little, letting his eyes go over the area again. The air was fresh and clean, the scent of damp earth and wet pine needles filling his nostrils. Ahead of him, a square slab of light came from a cottage window, giving off just enough light to tell the front door faced the valley below.

The other window had dark curtains drawn over the glass. A niggle of doubt crept across the back of his mind because it was an oddity. Things that didn't make sense were generally bad in his experience. Inching closer, he saw the cottage was half made of stone, not wood, and admired the mind behind such a decision.

Smoke rolled slowly from the chimney, the faint aroma of food drifted along the fresh air, causing his stomach to gurgle. He had not eaten more than a few wild onions and a handful of pine nuts in two days. Trying to decide whether to openly make himself known or hang back, a soft sound whirled him around. Catching the butt of the rifle solidly across his temple, Red dropped. The darkness around him went black.

Blinking his eyes open, he became aware of several things simultaneously. A wicked ache throbbed along his skull, heat from a warm fire washed across him, and a soft blanket draped over his body. For a moment Red could not place what had happened, then it came sharply back into focus. He'd been ambushed!

Despite the dull ache in his noggin, his mind was clear. Gingerly fingering his neck, he was surprised to feel a bandage. Who would slap him across the head with a rifle, then bother with wrapping his neck? Getting to his feet he instantly caught the blanket as it fell away, flushed with panicked embarrassment. Where were his clothes?

Swearing under his breath, a swift scan didn't reveal them anywhere and the cottage seemed empty. Someone had been around however and not knowing who made the young man wary. Wrapping the blanket securely around his waist he moved silently to the window, looking out at the bright summer morning. Horses were roaming freely in the yard, fat hens pecking here and there. He even saw several goats in the distance, busily snatching up the green grass.

Moving silently to the first bedroom, he quietly eased open the door. A large bed was made up in the corner, a dresser in the opposite corner, but the room was empty. Shutting the door he moved to the other, gently opening it. This room was completely bare, nothing in it at all. Frowning he closed the door as he turned, coming face to face with the black muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun.

He went stiff.

The weapon was in the hands of a woman looking several years younger than he was. She stood tall and quiet, her large gray eyes solemn and serious. Full lips were pressed firmly together, her head up, shoulders back. Her breathing came even and steady, giving no indication of uncertainty.

They sized each other up in silence, his eyes lingering on the Smith & Wesson lever action Volcanic Pistol on her hip. It was an odd choice for a woman. She was dressed in loose buckskin pants and a long-sleeved cotton tunic with leather lacing, also a curious choice. A dusky gray hat swept low over her forehead. His eyes strayed back over the smooth barrel of the scattergun pointed at his chest.

"Well lady, I'm at your mercy." Deep and smooth, there was a tiny hint of amusement there.

"What are you doing on my land?" If it wasn't for the gun pointed his way, the low throatiness of her voice would have been mighty pleasing.

"Had no idea it was anyone's land 'til I saw the light. Passing through, that's all. My clothes...?"

"Passing through?" Arching a brow at him, her eyes dropped to the raw flesh on his neck. "Seems like you're on the run. Law after you?"

His response was a silent shake of the head. He had no intention of involving a stranger in his affairs, even if it was a girl loaded for bear. Looking at her for a moment longer, he gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

"Still at your mercy, lady. I'm without clothes or weapons. You wanna put aside the scattergun?"

"No." Something in her tone that made him look sharply at her. She returned his gaze flatly. "I reckon you still got plenty of fight in you if you took the notion to try."

"I'd not hurt a woman." Red was surprised at her implication, and a little disgusted. He'd once been witness to the hanging of a man who'd violently assaulted a girl back in Texas. It didn't pay to take ungranted liberties.

Her grunt was dismissive, but she backed up, using her left hand to pull a chair out and sit down. Since that day all those years ago, she'd had brief contact with other people, mostly the ranch hands of the 33 Connected. That had led her to understand most western men would not even think of harming a good woman. Which meant her experience was all the more unusual. Indicated the other chair with a nod of her head, she kept her lips firm.

"Grab some food and have a seat. I know you must be hungry."

Red cautiously edged forward and peered in the kitchen. A plate loaded with food set on the counter along with a pot of coffee. Picking up the plate he set it on the table then went back for the coffee and a mug. He eased into the chair across from her, not wanting to risk asking about his clothes again just yet. She said not a word but watched him eat with the fixed attention of a wolf on a wounded hare.

He forgot her for a moment. Fresh scrambled eggs, buttermilk flapjacks, bacon, and a hefty slice of berry pie were enjoyed with the leisure of a man who'd not eaten in a while. The coffee was piping hot and good, very good, and he gulped it down then poured another cup. The demanding cry for sustenance was momentarily silenced. When at last he sat back he noticed her shoulders had relaxed somewhat, but not her eyes.

"I guess I was pretty hungry. Thanks." He smiled semi-sheepishly. The faint trace of a smile crossed her lips.

"I got no argument with you, mister, but I don't take to trespassers', and you are not welcome here. Soon as your clothes are dry, I'll see you off."

"I'd take that kindly, ma'am, so long as I'm goin' on my own power."

Her lips moved faintly this time as a fleeting smile curved them.

"I can't see a reason to shoot you without cause." Settling back in her chair, she resettled her hat over her brow. "You got a name, mister?"

"I suppose I do." He did not relish the reaction that came with his name, but it was the way it was.

"Care to share or shall I start guessing?" Her tone made him smile, but he took a moment to think.

"Travis, ma'am. Call me Travis." Few people knew his first name, and he'd deliberately tried to keep it that way. Serious gray eyes never left his.

"Travis," his name hung enticingly on her lips as she studied him. It sent goose bumps along his flesh, and he flinched as she noticed. Embarrassment turned the edges of his ears pink, and he suddenly felt a flash of vague irritation.

"Well? You goin' to let it lie at that? What do I call you?"

A flicker of darkness went across her features. Without moving, her relaxed posture vanished, suddenly coiled like a wild cat ready to spring. Slate gray eyes were flat, fixing him with a cold look of rage that was not directed against him. Her lips curled in disgust.

"Why don't you make a name up for me?" The words were bitter as they left her mouth. "I never had much use for one, or much call to need one."

"You pullin' my tail?" The young man couldn't tell, but something dangerous hardened her expression.

"You either pick a name or stick with Ma'am. I got no preference."

"Alright, let me think for a moment." Leaning back in his chair, Red crossed his arms over the thick muscles of his chest. It was partly in thought, partly to cover up. Why was he naked anyway?

Taking his time, he studied her. Piercing gray eyes, high cheekbones, a fine, straight nose. Her chin was solid and strong, but somehow it did not offset her beauty. She was beautiful, he suddenly realized, but he didn't think she knew it. Nothing about her indicated the normal feminine vanity, but there was something more about her, an indefinable air of mistrust and caution. Rubbing fingers across the thick stubble growing on his face he sighed.

"Well, I gotta say, you don't seem like any woman I ever met before, so I'll have to call you something equally rare."

"Astound me."

"Faith. I'll call you Faith."

Her eyes widened at that. He could tell of all the names she may have had in mind, that was not on the list. For a long moment she didn't speak then nodded slowly, considering it.

"Faith. I reckon I can accept that," swallowing carefully, she met his gaze. "Do you got a particular reason for choosing that name?"

"You bet I do." Red didn't elaborate, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Care to share?"

"Well, I'm sittin' here in a blanket, no clothes, no weapon, no horse. A mighty fierce woman has the business end of a shotgun trained on my middle. I guess in these here situations, a man needs himself a little faith."

Despite herself, she smiled.