Drew was halfway out of town when he started to laugh. The sound echoed in the dusty, oppressive air of a Texas afternoon.

"Charlie Coltrain and a nun," he said out loud, though no one but his horse could hear. "What next?"

They had traveled well into the night before making camp; then they were back on the trail before first light. Charlie had to admit Angelina was a good traveler. Despite her small stature, she had a will of steel. She kept pace with him without complaint, and she wasn't a chatterbox. He appreciated that in a woman.

He figured they might be a day ahead of the Ranger, depending on how good the lawman was at tracking. They would have to keep going longer and faster than the man behind them if they wanted to escape over the border.

Charlie glanced over at Angelina for the hundredth time that morning. Her lips were compressed into a tight line, the only visible sign of her fatigue. The ugly brown dress was not the best item of clothing for riding a horse. The material had ridden up above her high-topped nun's shoes, and Charlie could see a tantalizing glimpse of honey-toned calf. He yanked his gaze away from her legs and his attention wandered upward, pausing at her head. In Bakerstown she'd bought a fascinator. She'd explained to him that the triangular shawl would be more practical than a sunbonnet. She could drape the cloth over her head during the day and at night use it for protection against the chill. Charlie conceded the point, though he privately held the opinion that the knitted black shawl was near the ugliest excuse for a head covering he'd ever encountered.

"Is there a reason you keep staring at me?"

Her cool, calm voice interrupted his musings, and he returned his gaze to the increasingly desolate land in front of them. The rolling green hills were gradually giving way to flatter land filled with chaparral and cactus.

"Do you know how to use a gun?" he asked, uncertain of where the question had come from.

"I can shoot one. Just don't ask me to hit anything or reload the thing when I'm finished."

"Beautiful," he muttered. "I think we should stop awhile."

"Now? I'm fine, Charlie. Really." She glanced back over her shoulder uneasily. "Don't you think we should keep going as long as we can?"

"We'll ride for a while after dark to make up the time. Right now, I'd feel better if I gave you a little lesson in the art of gunfightin'."

Charlie pulled his horse to a stop and dismounted. Angelina paused as well, but did not get down from her mount.

"I don't understand why you think I need to learn how to shoot. Of what possible use would such knowledge be to me in the convent?"

"You're not in the convent now, Sister. You're with me. And you might need the skill sooner than you think. If that Ranger catches up with us, I don't aim to return with him just to be hanged. I'm goin' down fightin'."

Angelina remained silent and Charlie looked over at her. She bit her lip, a gesture he'd come to recognize as a byplay of indecision.

"I don't want you to hang, Charlie, but I can't help you kill someone to stay alive."

"I'm not askin' you to. If something happens to me, you'll need to know how to use a gun to save yourself. I would think you'd know by now that most of the men out here aren't as hospitable as me."

Angelina chewed on her lip for a moment longer, then slid from her horse and joined him. "All right. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to know how to defend myself."

"Would have helped a few days ago, I'm thinkin'." Charlie drew one of his pistols from the holster and checked it for bullets.

"I don't know if I could actually shoot a human being, Charlie."

He held the gun out to her. She stared at the weapon as though it were a live snake, then reached out a tentative had to accept it.

"When the stakes are your life or theirs, you'll shoot, Sister. I guarantee it."

Her gaze met his over the pistol, and she shivered, then looked away. "What do you want me to do?"

She held the gun as though she might drop it at any second, and Charlie sighed with exasperation. This might take longer than he'd thought. He moved around behind her and reached around her shoulders to place his hands over hers.

At the first contact of flesh against flesh, she tensed. "Settle down," he whispered in her ear. "I just want to show you how to aim the thing."

She nodded her assent, the movement of her body causing her shoulders to rub against his chest. He shifted away from her and bit back a curse. In his business, control-over oneself and over others-was everything. He had never before had a problem controlling the urges of his body. Old age was hitting him everywhere.

Unbidden, an image came to him of another time he'd taught a young woman to shoot. His half sister Annie had only been six years old when he'd left for the war. Knowing his stepfather was the lowest form of life upon the earth, Charlie figured Annie might need a way to defend herself from her own father. Remembering, he fought back the disgust that flooded him every time he thought of that no-good Yankee Jayhawker. A childhood spent in the same house with Richard Bakker had succeeded in turning both Charlie and his brother Bill into avid Rebels. They'd left to join the Confederacy as soon as the news had reached Missouri that the war was on. The only good thing to come from Bakker had been Annie, and she hadn't lived to see her fourteenth birthday. God, he hated Yankees.

Angelina's behind bumped against Charlie's thighs as she attempted to get a good grip on the gun, and his memories fled. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to show her how to fix her sights on an object, adjust for the recoil and pull the trigger. Despite the long night and day of traveling, he could still smell the scent of soap that clung to her skin. He was used to women who scented their bodies with perfumes to cover up other odors. Angelina merely used plain lye soap and managed to smell more erotic than the most practiced whore.

"I think that's enough," he said tightly and took the gun from her now steady hand.

Angelina glanced at him with a frown. "Are you sure? I don't feel as if I know what I'm doing."

"It takes a lot of practice to be a good shot. As long as you can load a gun and look like you know how

to use it, you might be able to fake your way through a situation without having to actually shoot."

She smiled. "I like that idea."

"But you always have to be prepared to shoot. And remember, it's you or them. Don't go all soft and

nunnish when your life's on the line. Aim dead center, and you should hit somethin'. At the very least, you'll slow 'em down a bit."

She looked uncertain, but finally she nodded.

"We'd best eat somethin' and then get back on the trail."

They shared a meal of dried biscuits choked down with tepid water. Angelina didn't say a word. She just ate what she was given and then returned to her horse.

"You don't complain much, do you?

Angelina looked at him in surprise. "Why would I complain?"

"Most women wouldn't appreciate bein' dragged somewhere they didn't want to go at the pace we're

goin' there."

"I'm not most women."

"So you've told me." A question had been bothering Charlie for a long time, and he decided now was a

good time to learn the answer. "Angelina, why don't you want to go home?"

Her sharp intake of breath was the only indication she'd heard his question. She continued to stare

straight ahead, focusing on a point near the rapidly darkening horizon. She didn't answer for so long Charlie figured she wouldn't.

"My father," she said, so low he had to strain to hear her.

Charlie froze. Her words, coming so soon after his own remembrances of Annie, made him think the

worst.

"What did he do to you?" he demanded.

Angelina's head turned sharply in his direction. He could just make out her frown beneath the shadow of

her ugly black scarf.

"He would say he did nothing. He's probably right. It's not his fault. He was raised to believe that women are to be used in any way men see fit."

"Did he use you?"

Angelina might have looked innocent, but she wasn't stupid. Her gasp of horror told him she'd picked up

on the undercurrents of his question.

"That's disgusting," she hissed. "He's my father."

Charlie shrugged. "Don't be naive. That means nothing to certain men."

"I take it you've known such men."

"Yes." The word was clipped and final-a warning against any more such questions.

Angelina took the warning. "My father wanted to sell me into a marriage that would have doubled his

landholdings."

"What was the problem with that?"

She threw him a glance filled with anger. "I have a calling. But he cared nothing for my beliefs. He only

cared about owning the most land in Mexico and advancing his political career."

Charlie shrugged. "I can understand your father wanting you to marry. Maybe he just wanted you to be

happy."

"I'm happy at the convent."

"How did you get him to let you go there if he was so set on your marrying?"

"He had no choice."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Your father don't sound like a man who gives in easy. Why didn't he have a