"What in the-"

A sense of horror and humiliation suffocated her.

He released her slowly and took a step back. She grabbed for the torn edges of her shirt and tried to pull them together.

Eyes the color of frozen pewter stared down at her. "So. My stable boy isn't a boy after all."

She clutched the shirt and tried to hide her humiliation behind belligerence. "What difference does it make? I needed a job."

"And you got one by passing yourself off as a boy."

"You're the one who assumed I was a boy. I never said any such thing."

"You never said any different, either." He picked up the blanket and tossed it to her. "Dry yourself off while I get myself a drink." He moved toward the hallway door. "I'll expect some answers when I come back, and don't even think about running away, because that'd be your biggest mistake yet."

After he disappeared, she flung down the blanket and raced toward the basket of apples to retrieve the revolver. She sat at the table to hide it in her lap. Only then did she gather her tattered shirttails together and tie them in a clumsy knot at her waist.

Cain stalked back just as she realized how unsatisfactory the result was. He'd ripped her undershirt along with her shirt, and a deep V of exposed flesh extended down to the knot.

Cain took a sip of whiskey and stared at the girl. She was sitting at the wooden table, her hands folded out of sight in her lap, the soft fabric of her shirt clearly outlining a pair of small breasts. How could he have believed for a moment that she was a boy? Those delicate bones should have been a giveaway, along with her eyelashes, which were thick enough to sweep the floor.

The dirt had thrown him off. The dirt and the cussing, not to mention that pugnacious attitude. What a scamp.

He wondered how old she was. Fourteen or so? He knew a lot about women, but not about girls. When did they start growing breasts? One thing for sure… she was too young to be on her own.

He set down his whiskey tumbler. "Where's your family?"

"I told you. They're dead."

"You don't have any relatives at all?"

"No."

Her composure annoyed him. "Look, a child your age can't run around New York City alone. It isn't safe."

"The only person who's given me trouble since I got here's been you."

She had a point, but he ignored it. "Regardless. Tomorrow I'll take you to some people who'll be responsible for you until you're older. They'll find a place for you to live."

"Are you talkin' 'bout an orphanage, Major?"

It irritated him that she seemed amused. "Yes, I'm talking about an orphanage! You sure as hell-heck-aren't going to stay here. You need some place to live until you're old enough to look after yourself."

"Doesn't seem to me I've had too much trouble up till now. Besides, I'm not exactly a child. I don't think orphanages take in eighteen-year-olds."

"Eighteen?"

"You havin' trouble hearing?"

Once again she'd managed to shock him. He stared down the length of the table at her-ragged boy's clothing, a grimy face and neck, short black hair that was stiff with dirt. In his experience, eighteen-year-olds were nearly women. They wore dresses and took baths. But then, nothing about her bore the slightest resemblance to a normal eighteen-year-old.

"Sorry to spoil all your nice plans for an orphanage, Major."

She had the nerve to smirk, and he was suddenly glad he'd spanked her. "Now, you listen to me, Kit-or is your name phony, too?"

"No. It's my real name, all right. Leastways it's what most everybody calls me."

Her amusement faded, and he felt a prickling at the base of his spine, the same sensation he'd felt before a battle. Odd.

He watched her jaw set. "Except my last name's not Finney," she said. "It's Weston. Katharine Louise Weston."

It was her last surprise. Before Cain could react, she was on her feet, and he was looking down into the barrel of an army revolver.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Without taking her eyes from him, she came around the edge of the table. The gun pointing at his heart was stead)' in her small hand, and everything fell into place.

"Doesn't seem to me you're so particular about cussin' when you're the one doin' it," she said.

He took a step toward her and was immediately sorry. A bullet whizzed by his head, just missing his temple.

Kit had never fired a gun indoors, and her ears rang. She realized her knees were shaking, and she tightened her grip on the revolver. "Don't move unless I tell you, Yankee," she spat out with more bravado than she felt. "Next time it'll be your ear."

"Maybe you'd better tell me what this is all about."

"It's self-evident."

"Humor me."

She hated the faint air of mockery in his voice. "It's about Risen Glory, you black-hearted son of a bitch! It's mine! You've got no right to it."

"That's not what the law says."

"I don't care about the law. I don't care about wills or courts or any of that. What's right is right. Risen Glory is mine, and no Yankee's takin' it from me."

"If your father'd wanted you to have it, he'd have left it to you instead of Rosemary."

"That woman made him blind and deaf as well as a fool."

"Did she?"

She hated the cool, assessing look in his eyes, and she wanted to hurt him as she'd been hurt. "I suppose I should be grateful to her," she sneered. "Hadn't of been for Rosemary's easy ways with men, the Yankees would've burned the house as well as the fields. Your mother was well known for sharin' her favors with anybody who asked."

Cain's face was expressionless. "She was a slut."

"That's God's truth, Yankee. And I'm not goin' to let her get the best of me, even from the grave."

"So now you're going to kill me."

He sounded almost bored, and her palms began to sweat. "Without you standin' in my way, Risen Glory will be mine, just what should of happened in the first place."

"I see your point." He nodded slowly. "All right, I'm ready. How do you want to go about it?"

"What?"

"Killing me. How are you going to do it? Do you want me to turn around so you won't have to look me in the face when you pull the trigger?"

Outrage overcame her distress. "What kind of fool jackass thing is that to say? You think I could ever respect myself again if! shot a man in the back?"

"Sorry, it was just a suggestion."

"A damn fool one." A trickle of sweat slid down her neck.

"I was trying to make it easier for you, that's all."

"Don't you worry about me, Yankee. You worry about your own immortal soul."

"All right, then. Go to it."

She swallowed. "I intend to."

She lifted her arm and sighted down the barrel of her revolver. It felt as heavy as a cannon in her hand.

"You ever killed a man, Kit?"

"You be quiet!" The trembling in her knees had grown worse, and her arm was beginning to shake. Cain, on the other hand, looked as relaxed as if he'd just awakened from a nap.

"Hit me right between the eyes," he said softly.

"Shut up!"

"It'll be fast and sure that way. The back of my head will blow off, but you can handle the mess, can't you, Kit?"

Her stomach roiled. "Shut up! Just shut up!"

"Come on, Kit. Get it over with."

"Shut up!"

The gun exploded. Once, twice, three times, more. And then the click of an empty chamber.

Cain hit the floor with the first shot. As the kitchen once again fell silent, he looked up. On the wall behind where he'd been standing, five holes formed the outline of a man's head.

Kit stood with her shoulders slumped, her arms at her sides. The revolver dangled uselessly from her hand.

He eased himself up and walked over to the wall that had received the lead balls originally intended for him. As he studied the perfect arc, he slowly shook his head. "I'll say this for you, kid. You're one hell of a shot."

For Kit, the world had come to an end. She'd lost Risen Glory, and she had no one to blame but herself.

"Coward," she whispered. "I'm a damn, lily-livered coward of a girl."

3

Cain made Kit sleep in a small, second-story bedroom that night instead of in her pleasant leather- and dust-scented room above the stalls. His orders were precise. Until he decided what to do with her, she couldn't work with the horses. And if she tried to run away, he'd bar her from Risen Glory forever.

The next morning, she fled back to the stable and huddled miserably in the corner with a book called The Sybaritic Life of Louis XV, which she'd sneaked out of the library several days earlier. After a while, she dozed off and dreamed of thunderstorms, bonnets, and the King of France romping with his mistress, Madame de Pompadour, across the cotton-laced fields of Risen Glory.

When she awoke, she felt groggy and heavy-limbed. She slumped dejectedly outside Apollo's stall with her elbows resting on the greasy knees of her britches. In all her planning, she'd never anticipated what it would feel like to look an unarmed man square in the eye and pull the trigger.

The stable door opened, letting in the feeble light of an overcast afternoon. Merlin scampered across the floor and flung himself at Kit, nearly knocking her hat off in his exuberance. Magnus followed at a more leisurely pace, his boots stopping near her own.

She refused to lift her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for conversation right now, Magnus."

"Can't say I'm surprised. The major told me what happened last night. That was some trick you pulled, Miss Kit."

It was the form of address she was accustomed to hearing at home, but he made it sound like an insult. "What happened last night was between me and the major. It's none of your business."