choked on it. While he battled it back, Doug took out a pack of matches and lit the cigarette. Since he was running low, they’d have to share a while. Saying nothing, he took the cigarette from Whitney and drew smoke in deeply.
He’d never seen Barns in action, but he’d heard. What he’d heard wasn’t pretty, even up against some of the obscenities that happened with regularity in places Whitney’d never heard of.
Barns had a penchant for women, and small, fragile things. There was a particularly gruesome story about what he’d done to a sharp little hooker in Chicago—and what had been left of her after he’d done it.
Doug watched Whitney’s slender, elegant fingers as she took the cigarette again. Barns wouldn’t get his sweaty hands on her. Not if he had to cut them off at the wrist first.
“What else?”
She’d only heard that tone of voice from him once or twice before—when he’d held a rifle in his hand and when his fingers had closed around her throat. Whitney took a long pull on the cigarette. It was easier to play the game when Doug seemed half-amused and half-frustrated. When his eyes went cool and flat in just that way, it was a different story.
She remembered a hotel room in Washington and a young waiter with a red stain spreading over the back of his neat white jacket.
“Doug, can it be worth it?”
Impatient, he kept his eyes trained on the rise above their heads. “What?”
“Your end of the rainbow, your pot of gold. These men want you dead—you want to jingle some gold in your pocket.”
“I want more than jingles, sugar. I’m going to drip with it.”
“While you’re dripping, they’ll be shooting at you.”
“Yeah, but I’ll have something.” His gaze shifted and locked on hers. “I’ve been shot at before. I’ve been running for years.”
She met the look, as intense as he. “When do you plan to stop?”
“When I have something. And this time, I’m going to get it. Yeah.” He blew out a long stream of smoke. How could he explain to her what it was like to wake up in the morning with twenty dollars and your wits? Would she believe him if he told her he knew he’d been born for more than two-bit hustling? He’d been given a brain, he’d honed the skill, all he needed was a stake. A big one. “Yeah, it’s worth it.”
She was silent a moment, knowing she’d never really understand the need to have. You had to be without first. It wasn’t as simple as greed, which she would have understood. It was as complex as ambition and as personal as dreams. Whether she was still following her first impulse, or something deeper, she was with him.
“They were heading north—the first man said Remo’d told them to. They figure to flush us out in here, or drive us out where they can pick us up.”
“Logical.” As if it were pricey Columbian, they passed the Virginia tobacco back and forth. “So for tonight, we stay put.”
“Here?”
“As close to the huts as we can without being spotted.” With regret, he stubbed out the cigarette as it burned into the filter. “We’ll start out just after dawn.”
Whitney took his arm. “I want more.”
He gave her a long look that reminded her of a moment by the waterfall. “More what?”
“I’ve been chased and shot at. A few minutes ago I lay behind that tree wondering how much longer I was going to live.” She had to take a deep breath to keep her voice steady, but her gaze never faltered. “I stand to lose every bit as much as you do, Doug. I want to see the papers.”
He’d wondered when she’d back him into a corner. He’d only hoped they could be closer before she did. Abruptly, he realized he’d stopped looking for opportunities to ditch her. It seemed he’d taken a partner after all.
But it didn’t have to equal fifty-fifty. Going to his pack, he searched through the envelope until he came to a letter that hadn’t been translated. If it hadn’t been, his deduction was it wasn’t as vital as those which had. On the other hand, he couldn’t read it. Whitney might pass on something useful.
“Here.” He handed her the carefully sealed page before he sat on the ground again.
They looked each other over, wary, distrustful, before Whitney lowered her gaze to the sheet. It was dated October, 1794.
“Dear Louise,” she read. “I pray as I write this letter will reach