In the distance, a train whistle calls. By the time it reaches where I am, across the desert, it has whiffed up and down on air currents that rush toward me with the oven-smell of baked earth. It sounds plaintive and hollow.

I miss my clean streets, smooth and curving, meandering seductively along green Memphis parkways.

The sound of far-off trains make me sad. My dad used to say it's because I didn't like the idea of rushing headlong away from what I know. But I think it's because my mother used to read me a story about a hobo who'd put his little dog in his rucksack just before he'd crawl up into an empty boxcar and take off, cold and hungry, unsure why he kept riding the rails but knowing he'd never have a real home. She used to read it to me in the daytime, when it was just the two of us at home and she wanted me to take a nap. I asked her about that book once just before she left us. She said she didn't remember it.

She could be like that when she wanted. Trying to revise the history of my childhood. Trying to spook my future.

"Rain storm's coming," he says. "See the squall line?"

I follow his finger as it points off to the right. I believe the train whistle came from that direction. I can't see the train but I can see a large band of tight-knit disturbance in the atmosphere. A sheet of wavy air is capped by blue-black clouds that are angry and spitting fire. The sheet of approaching rain covers about a third of the horizon.

"I've never seen anything like that," I say. "Is that normal? The way it moves straight at us?"

"It's just you can see it better when there's nothing in between you and it, Grace. But it does look to be a gully washer coming right for the ranch."

"Will we make it back before it hits?" I ask as he tightens his grip on me and spurs the horse faster.

"Plenty of time."

But fat drops splash around us long before we get to the barn ... and shelter. I see them smash into the ground before us. The horse's head tosses and he snorts. Ben leans forward as the wind picks up. His face is now next to mine. He is pressed in solidly to my back, grips around my waist ... we move as if we are one person under his control.

I lean my head back into his shoulder, deciding to just experience this. He will bring us back to the barn and I may never feel another rainstorm chasing me again. Water drips but the body of the storm is still not here.

The air crackles with approaching lightening. I feel the electricity of the storm in my chest. The temperature takes a nose dive and the wind is almost painful. I look toward the sheet of rain that seems close enough I could put my hand out and it would be soaked before I pull it in. The force of the windborne sand makes me squint to see.

And then he has raced us into the barn's open door and it is shocking how sudden it happens. He wheels the horse around as he reins it to a dime stop.

The rain has caught us but we found shelter before it could soak us. Now, the brunt of it is here and it pounds down, beating the earth into submission and raking relentlessly against the barn's roof. It's so noisy, it's hard not to get swallowed up in the fury.

"That was amazing," I shout to be heard. "Look at it out there!"

"We got things to do," he says, speaking right into my ear so I can understand him. He picks me up and drops me over the side of the horse as I hang on to one of his hands until my feet touch ground. He pulls himself out of the saddle smoothly, hands me the reins, tells me to hold on tight. The horse and I stare at the rain until Ben hauls the doors closed and latches them tightly. Before he can get the other pair shut, two of his men are inside, working on it. Closing us all in against the rain.

"The house closed up?" he asks the men.

"Some men are on that, Boss," one says.

"The sluice gate?"

"Open."

"Where'd you put the cars?"

"Two in the maintenance shed and two in the garage next to the main house."

"You did good," Ben says.

I am standing at his side, listening. The horse, like me, is eavesdropping. The two men look at me, then the horse, like they've just noticed us.

One of them slides the reins from my hold and makes a smooching kiss noise to the horse, guiding him over toward a stall where he takes off the saddle before the horse goes inside where the other man is already spreading some grain in a bag on the stall door.

"You're shivering," Ben says, his voice right next to me. I would not hear him otherwise as the sound is still furious.

"I'm okay ... Hey, do you worry about every storm in the desert?"

"There's usually at least some flooding with one this big and sudden. The creeks and arroyos can fill up too fast. And the lightening ... you'd be surprised what it can do."

From behind me, he rubs his hands on my arms as I hug them in against myself. I don't really think I'm cold but being damp from what rain did drop on us does seem to be making me shiver uncontrollably. But it feels very awkward to me to have him touch me. Especially with his men as witnesses. Considering how belligerent I was when he dragged me off and have now returned seemingly compliant.

I see them look toward us ... it must look different than it is. They trade comments and sniggers.

And I know they think their boss bagged me out there. That he screwed me and has me back to doing his bidding.

It shouldn't matter to me.

I know that.

Dinner that night is communal. I offer to help with the preparation when they start drawing straws to see who'll cook among them. The three who lose seem kind of amused and thankful when I offer. Maybe they think any woman's cooking is bound to be better than theirs. But the truth is that I am bored.

We waited out the worst of the storm in the barn until one of the men raced from the house through slackening showers. He brought raincoats and plastic sheeting. We covered ourselves and all ran out. I hesitated at the doorway when I saw a solid flash of lightening nearby. Without a pause, Ben grabbed my hand and pulled me along with them, splashing through ankle-deep water to get into a more comfortable place.

Coffee was brewing. We warmed up with mugs of it. My fingers curled around mine. I blew into the coffee, letting the mist come up to sprinkle my damp face with warmth.

Later, after the rain was nearly gone, Ben and most of the men took off to check for damage and make any repairs. He left his young guy, whom I've come to find out is named Bert, to stand outside the bedroom door while I showered and stayed in confinement until they all returned.

I didn't realize until after I'd gotten dressed that I never thought about the fact I was wearing clothes from him again. Mine were wet and they smelled. Without thinking, I opened a bureau drawer, as if I were at home and expected to find changes of clothing in my bedroom. And there they were.

But as soon as I was standing before the mirror, combing my hair and then putting on lipstick ... I looked at myself and wondered ... what's out of place here? And then I realized what it was. I didn't recognize the shirt or the slacks. I opened the drawer again ... there were a few more shirts folded in there. Some jeans. Shorts.

How did he do that?

And still I waited with nothing to do. I wandered over toward the bed. I sat on the mattress, testing it out, thinking of his body sprawled out where I sat. Smiled to myself over silly thoughts to fill a bored woman's mind.

On the bedside table, there was a purple bandana. It was haphazardly folded and seemed to have been absent-mindedly dropped there. I knew it was his. He'd had it in his pocket earlier. He'd used it to dry his face after we got in the barn and were waiting out the storm.

Once, I knew a man who invited me to stay the weekend with him after we'd been dating a little while. In the moment I picked up Ben's bandana and unfolded it, playing with it, I remembered exploring that man's bedroom the first morning while he ran out to get us donuts and coffee.

This was how I felt, holding that bandana. To have under my control, when its owner could not know, an unimportant object that he'd used but that I could not have touched without some level of intimacy that let me into a man's inner sanctum, I suppose.

Maybe this is what reminded me ... I may have been a hostage this day but someday, I would not be. And when I left here, what clues would I have missed that would be important to the investigation to bring these men to justice?

Walking over to the bureau, I picked up his kit bag. I'd seen him that morning, as he went about his morning ritual, and he'd taken it into the bathroom.

Inside its zippered top, I looked. Was there information or a clue that could be used when I was released and someone would ask me about him, about what I'd learned that could help track him? So I looked inside.

Razor. I pictured him neatening up his beard, shaving his throat.

Toothbrush ... and toothpaste. I pictured his sated smile in the sunlight, after he whispered something in my ear, after he'd loved me long and slow ... and I know I should not have been thinking of this but it's the truth.

Cologne. I studied the label and memorized it. Now I wonder ... will I buy a bottle of it, later, when I am free of his influence? Or will I see it in a drugstore some day when I am buying deodorant and I pass it as I walk down the toiletries aisle? Will it hurt to see that bottle? Or will I retch?

A business card. Bearing the embossed logo of the Cochise Country Sheriff's Department. On the front, the name of the sheriff and the main number to the department along with its address and website. On the back, written in black ink, another local phone number. Was this his idea of humor? Or were they as crooked as Jeannette's FBI contacts surmised?

I fingered carefully through other items, toiletries I'd expect to find, hoping to unearth something like a prescription bottle so we could track him back through his pharmacy and then to his doctor. But, then my finger touched something hard, faceted, brittle.

The piece of smoky brown quartz. I remembered him leaving the little group of us that stood in the kitchen drinking coffee after we'd come in from the storm earlier. And how he'd come back to us, not too later, and his hair had been combed. At the time, I had thought nothing of it more than to note off-handedly that he must have gone to relieve himself and had combed his hair as a natural part of washing up after. Does it mean anything significant that he'd tucked this quartz in there so he'd have it with him when he left? Something to remember today? Or to remember me? Or was it just a secure place to put something he may think has monetary value as a gemstone?

This was when I put the kit bag down. He wasn't that careless to leave anything traceable in there. And nothing in there was going to tell me who he really was, if there was any way to safely and accurately tell some truth about his character that would help me understand the mind games.

Eventually, I sat in the window seat and watched the dimming light outside. It would be evening soon. There was nothing to do but wait and think about what he'd said to me up there on the mountain.

About needing me to believe he was telling me the truth about the ransom.

And to believe in him that he meant it when he promised I'd be free soon, ransom or not.

This is what I was thinking about when I heard him walking down the hall. I was looking at the door when he walked in.

He was muddy. But he seemed somehow ... energized. I didn't look for new tricks or games from him just then anyway. We'd reached some level of détente up there on the mountain. He picked up his kit bag, glanced at me on the way to the bathroom and said, "Good. You found the clothes. I brought them over from the daughter's bedroom. You two seem about the same size."

Then he closed the door and I heard him in there, showering.

I pictured him with this unseen, unimagined daughter of whoever owned this ranch. For some reason, I felt jealous that he'd met her when she was just a friend's daughter. Like she had some advantage to meet him that way, an easier time with him.

The woman in bar said he had unexpected soft spots. I heard her saying that in my memory. Was this his secret? He charmed each woman by letting her see soft spots in him that he knew she wanted to see? Or was there something inside him that came out with women when they were alone and could be soft with each other? How did that sit side by side with the man who could kill so calmly?

I've decided I don't want to know. He's right ... I can't trust him. I don't need to know more than that in order to deal with him and avoid the pitfalls of his manipulations.

When he came back out, he was wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips. He has a body that I really do like. I can admit that since I was attracted to it when I first met him, long before I knew he was a criminal, a murderer. So it was okay that I watched him, almost absent-mindedly, as he walked around like that. And that I was still watching him when he dropped the towel on the floor and began dressing in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt that buttoned down the front.

"See something you like, Gracie?" he said to me, pulling the shirt up over his arms and settling it atop his shoulders. He was looking down as he began buttoning up, his fly still open so he could smooth the shirt down under his waistband before zipping up and buckling his belt.

"What else am I supposed to look at? I presume you don't mind since you were strutting your stuff in front of me."

"Mind? Hell, girl, the only thing I mind is that you're not over here helping me get dressed ... would enjoy those pretty little hands of yours on my zipper. Care to do the honors? Course, if you do, I'd never get dressed, would I?" he said, refusing to let me say something smart like that without coming back with something he thought might embarrass me.

"You promised, Ben," I say, a warning in my tone.

He looks at me over his shoulder, a grin at my discomfort. "I promised I didn't expect you to sleep with me in here if you stayed to let my men think I've got you under control. Didn't say anything about not trying to seduce you."

"That's so typical of you. Say one thing and got something else in mind to trick me."

"Shall we go into the main room ... and see if you can keep up your end of the bargain?" he says, now gesturing toward the door.

I let him open it for me and give him a look as I walk out before him. "Just watch yourself."

"Oh, I'd rather let you watch me, Gracie. You blush so pretty and all."

By the time we make it out to the main room, his men have begun making themselves at home while others are still walking in after washing up. This was, apparently, Ben's idea.

I know what he is doing.

He has used the excuse of all the work they had to do to handle the storm and fix up the light damage that happened to suggest they all get together for a celebratory dinner. But there are really other things at play here. I suspect the celebration is not about the storm but about the robbery, about which we have not talked yet, Ben and I.

Something else is also going on. He wants them to see me being obedient toward him. Not in the sense that I bow and scrape but that I sit by his side quietly and ladylike, give him no trouble, and make it obvious he is in control of me. This is a mark to them - that he remains the leader they admire. And it is also the coda to the challenge to his authority from what Ham and Dibbs did in disobeying him.

It will prove that he, Ben Wade, is more than capable of dealing with a willful woman ... and safeguarding a valuable hostage who represents a healthy income to them.

Perhaps it would smart more if I did not have his vow that he will not seek to humiliate or embarrass me in this process. It will be that much more effective for him, a better mind game, if his hold on me is easy and light. That he has so dealt with me that I need no bindings, no threats, no abuse but have bent to his will.

He knows, by my actions, that I believe him about the ransom. That I believe he will set me free.

It is oddly affecting, as the men gather. I try to stay in the background and observe but Ben seats me on one of the couches before the fireplace. If you erased everything between when we met and now, you might look in on this scene and imagine that I am his lady, his wife, his sister ... someone he honors. Someone he treats with charm and deference.

And I feel like Wendy with the Lost Boys. As if I am mother, sister, girlfriend to them all ... as if I am a gentling influence on their rougher ways.

At dinner, someone remarks how everyone suddenly seems to have learned how to use their forks. Ben says that's just the way it is when a lady is about ... and men have to accept their civilizing influence.

I have my glass to my lips and keep my eyes down.

This was his way of changing the subject. I know this. It has little impact as a tactic. The discussion returns to Atlanta. To their success. To their boasting.

Apparently, one of the guards was wounded. It makes my stomach turn to hear them dismiss this. 

I feel a hand touch my knee. I meet Ben's eyes. He tilts his head as if he's asking a question I cannot understand. And he receives a response he cannot interpret.

They ask Ben if he knows what the next job will be. He glares down the table. Says this is not the time or place.

Of course not. They cannot talk about their future plans with me around.

I ask if anyone would like to help me clear the table. I offer to do the dishes. I rise to begin gathering up the plates. He says, quietly, for me to leave all the utensils on the table.

Two of the men hop up. I imagine he's signaled them. They will help with the clean up but they will also watch me.

We may have détente but Ben Wade will never drop his guard with me. I have already been told that while in the kitchen, I am to stay away from drawers ... that if I need a knife, I ask someone to cut for me. I should be grateful he let me touch one at dinner rather than leaning over to cut the cured ham on my dinner plate for me.

As we are finishing the last of the dishes and they are putting things back in drawers and cabinets, Ben walks in. He asks if I'd like to sit on the porch with him.

"Tell me about Atlanta," I say to him when we walk outside and I see no one near enough to hear us if we talk low.

"You heard. It went as planned."

"Where's the money, Ben?"

"You don't get to ask me that."

"Why not?"

He shakes his head, agitated, looks off as he leans against a post that braces the porch's overhang. When I come nearer, he says, "You ask something like that, it tells me you finally figured there's more going on than you're supposed to."

"In what I do, you learn early on to always follow the money."

He reaches out and with one hand on my elbow, he drags me close. His eyes burn with something I can't put a name to. He leans in. He wants no one to hear what he will say to me. "Don't follow the money, Grace. I won't be able to protect you if they find out."

"I have wondered," I whisper. "Wondered who was doing your advance work. And who was providing you cover for the retreat. I have yet to see evidence it was someone with you here. Someone else involved. And that's made me wonder who really held the purse strings on these jobs as they got bigger. I will not be the only one wondering such things."

"Then let others do the asking about that."

"So you're not really in charge?"

"I am in charge of this gang. But ... we are not the only ones in the organization."

"Are we talking money laundering or is there a layer above you giving the orders?"

"Grace, I'm warning you."

"Who is really negotiating the ransom for you?"

"Associates. Now, I want you to stop this. Stop it because I say so, Grace ..."

"I knew someone else was involved. Because you haven't been in communication with anyone while up here from what I can see ... and yet you are all so confident the ransom is being arranged. Someone on the outside had to be involved ..."

"You keep this up, there will be consequences," he says, his voice tight and lethal. My breath hitches at last, as if I've spent it all, all I knew and all I'd guessed. His voice softens, curls around me to plead, "I don't want anything to happen to you ... I won't always be able to protect you."

I swallow as he relaxes his grip and slides his hand behind my back. He uses subtle pressure to draw me in closer. Anyone watching would think this a prelude to a kiss between lovers.

"So if the organization you work for finds out I have figured out some of this ... they will not let you release me? Is that what you mean?"

He bends toward me, his mouth brushing my ear. His voice seductive. "Just drop it, Grace. Can't you?"

"You have always known what I am, Ben. What were you thinking - that you had me so mesmerized that I wasn't still trying to put it together?"

Now he steps into me, solidly, smoothly. He gets a look on his face, somewhere between a slow grin and a wolfish charm. I put a hand on his chest. "Oh, Gracie. So predictable ... you think I really didn't see this coming? Remember who you're dealing with, honey."

"You cannot cover this way ... stop it," I say, as he moves against me.

"Here's the thing, right, Gracie? Can you trust me? You know you can't. So why would you think I'm not just telling you what you want to hear anyway? You're the one with the theories ... Am I just playing you? You don't know, do you?"

He releases me when I back away. Looks at me with amusement playing at his lips. Without any warning, I ask him, "Where were Ham and Dibbs tonight?"

"Recuperating."

"From what?"

"From justice."

My jaw tightens. I look off, at the night sky looking like a slate of back jasper with glitters of silver flecks. "What did you do to them?"

"Their punishment was meted out by their comrades. With my permission. It builds good character ... and means I don't make them into my enemies while we bring them into line. And, before you ask, if they do anything to you again, they will die, Grace. It's not about you. It's about order and discipline."

"It's about the group."

"Yes. Right."

"You and your way of being clever."

"Is that a compliment?"

I don't answer. Just look at him.

He takes the bed again that night. There is no discussion. He doesn't seem to care one way or the other.

The thing is, being in this room alone with him is disturbing.

I sit in the window seat, the lights out, him sleeping. I tried sleeping but cannot manage it in the same chair I slept in last night. Instead, I sit in the padded window seat and pick out a star. Closing my eyes, I visualize the trajectory between it and home.

Where are they? The people who are supposed to be looking for me, I mean. The ones probably dicking around with the ransom even now. They have this stupid policy about ransoms. I just want this over. I just want to go. Surely I'm not being abandoned?

Why is it that I sit here and don't even try to sneak out?

When did I stop thinking of home as my haven and start dreading the return? It was when I gave in and gave him the password to help with the robbery. But ... oh, but, when did that morph into me no longer actively seeking to break out of my captivity here? It's so hard to admit ... I don't even know if I'll have a job, friends, my good name ... anything that matters to me ...

I hear the floor creak. When I turn, he has risen from the bed. He says nothing to me as he approaches. His hand cups my cheek. I didn't mean for him to ever hear me cry, to have this evidence of how I am barely hanging on, without even the comfort of believing that I will be welcomed home when this finally ends.

"Not much longer," he says softly. "Any day now."

"Do you promise?"

"Will you tell me you believe me if I do?"

"Yes."

"I promise."

"I believe you."

He kneels on the floor. He leans in, his arms sliding in on the window seat, until he's surrounding me. He puts his head in my lap. 

It's late at night. He is offering me comfort.

What happens here, between us, I think ... I think I believe but I know I'm probably always going to be wrong. Or be right but never know it.

But still, I put my hand on his head and caress his hair as he settles in against me. He makes my heart race, this close to me, touching me with intimacy not because I've invited him but because he knows how to do it. He reads women and understands their reaction to him ... he knows my attraction for him is physical and disobedient. He knows that holding me like this, his face where it is, not asking permission for him to be a man with me ... he knows what he is doing. And so do I. Isn't that really what has me feeling this way? That I knew all along I should squelch every attraction or sympathy for him ... and that I didn't is going to be impossible to explain when I am home?

"What kind of men do you date?" he asks me, surprising me, distracting me from morose worries. "They work in offices? Wear ties to work? Take you out on Friday nights ... dinner, a show?"

"I don't date that much anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a good girl. Right? Isn't that what you'll say no matter what I tell you? You think it's the answer to everything about me."

"I love it when you get all haughty with me, Grace," he says and I hear in his voice that whatever comfort he might have thought he wanted to offer me is taking a different turn when he's this close and touching me. His hands give a light squeeze as he rubs his cheek in over my lap ... and I swear I think I hear him sniffing where his face is buried.

A moment later, he changes tactics on me again. Does he do this on purpose ... to probe my mind or to get me on alert? "Why is it you hate the desert so much?"

"I don't hate it as much as I did. You have influenced my opinion."

He glances up at me and smiles. I see the smile clearly; the moon, even not at its zenith, gives enough light. This one smile changes everything about him. I have seen this smile from him before. It once had the power to change my opinion of him, to believe I was seeing something there, in him.

"Come sleep in the bed with me. Just rest somewhere comfortable, Grace. I promise, I won't touch you. You trust me, right?"

"No."

He grins now. Gives a low, dirty chuckle. "You're learning, Gracie."

"Go back to bed. I'm fine now."

"C'mere, Gracie," he whispers slowly. The words rumble in his chest, as if he won't let them out all the way until I am close enough to satisfy him. "Let me just dry those tears."

His hands are on my hips, turning me to face where he kneels. I shake my head, pull down on the hem of the gown I found in the bureau and am wearing tonight in this room with him. Knowing he put this in there for me to find. Knowing he's wanted to see me in it. And remembering how he looked at me, just before he turned off the light, turned over in the bed, put his head on the pillow and told me good night.

The gown is made of plain cotton. It is white. It comes midway down my thighs when I stand. It has berry-colored tiny flowers on it. I think it looks entirely too cute.

He wears blue and black striped pajama bottoms that I suspect he found in another bedroom and wears to do something I won't expect from him. But he wears no top. I think he looks entirely too dangerous to be this close to when we are alone.

"You don't have to be so strong," he says, his hands now on my knees and pressing up along my thighs. "Just let me hold you. I promise, I won't go further."

"God. You think you know what I need, don't you? But you're wrong, Ben, and ..."

"I know you like being in my arms."

"It's not the same anymore, Ben."

"It can be. If you let it."

"I'm cold."

"I know you are ... c'mere, Gracie ... let me warm you up," he says. His voice reaches a place inside me that makes me uncomfortable ... and aroused. "Come ..."

He takes my hands, tugs on them ever so slightly. I know, right there, he's made his move. He refuses to ever force me. He insists I make the decision ... for he always wants to be able to say to me, like he already has, that I gave this to him and he never had to take it.

When I have left the window seat and slid into his embrace, he whispers against my ear. Soft words, sweet images of how he sees me. Reminders of kissing, making love.

But all we do is cuddle. He would go further except his theory about me forces him to wait on me. He is confident it will come again, the act of making love with me. He is patient. He will find the way to get me to receive his advances and reciprocate.

In his arms, I fight the attraction and my arousal. But in all the world, on this night, there's only one person I know who welcomes me. And it is him.

"What would it take?" he asks, his eyes hidden beneath lashes as he looks down.

"If you could drop your guard long enough ... I would not feel used."

My fingers examine his face. His eyes drift up to look into mine. His hands stay on top of my night gown. It feels excruciatingly adult and forbidden. I lean into him and initiate the kiss. He squeezes in on me as the kiss deepens, takes off ... leaves us both panting and sweating. His tongue laps up the sweat at the base of my throat.

He flips around, lowering me to the wooden slats of the floor. They are smooth, warm, hard. His thigh is between my legs.

Suddenly, he stops and turns away. He curses, low and mean. His head is down and I cannot see his face. He pulls further away, dislodging my hands from his neck and back.

"I wouldn't do this for any other woman I've met, Grace," he says hoarsely. "Take that for what it's worth and it ain't worth much, I assure you."

"Are you trying to prove to me that I need to trust in your word?" I say, smiling for some odd reason.

He looks at me as he stands up, offers me a hand to help me rise. "We made a deal, right? It's not gonna be me who breaks it."

But later, as I listen to his breathing deepen and he is no longer tossing about the mattress, I settle in on the chair and wish I was over there with him. I know he was trying to find my new price. It's the only reason I'm not over there, I suppose.

Because I think he both wants me to fight him and wants me to give in.

What I want, I can't have.

"How did you come to hook up with this group?" I ask him.

Bert shuffles his feet, shrugs his shoulders. He squints off toward the far horizon. "He said not to let you do this."

"Do what? What am I doing?"

"Asking questions. He warned me. Said you'd do this."

"Damn, you're paranoid."

Now his eyes dart to my feet. He licks his lips. His blond hair is long enough to fly in the wind when he flicks his head back. "Boss says to keep you in sight, make sure you are safe, and to not let you ask me questions."

"Bert, he means questions about your next job. That's all. Look, I'm stuck here and it's boring. I was just trying to strike up a conversation. Haven't you ever just chatted with a woman before? It's kind of the polite thing to do when you're thrown together like we are."

"You could maybe ask me something else then."

I sigh and look around where we are. He has agreed to my request to hike out among the desert because I said I was needing to stretch my legs. Ben left early in the morning, before I woke. He left me a note ... said he'd had an errand to run and would be back before too long. To ask Bert if I needed anything. To stick with Bert until he returned.

At least I'm not handcuffed or locked in a room. I am actually surprised at the amount of freedom I'm given ... that he's left me with a young guy who may be easy for me to manipulate.

Or maybe this was something Ben found amusing. The thought of what I might be willing to do. Maybe it's a test ... or maybe it's his way of letting me test myself.

Bert took me walking on a path that led us to a series of ravines. He said maybe I'd find them interesting.

"Okay then, tell me something about you that you feel safe telling me," I say, as if it's all so very innocent.

"Like what?"

"I don't know ..." I am exasperated. I hate interrogating someone this way. "Where'd you go to school?"

"Marshall, Texas."

"Really? You know, I think the only cities I like in Texas are Austin and Houston."

"Austin's nice. Houston sucks."

I giggle at his remark and how he delivers it. "Don't hold back how you really feel now, Bert."

"Some day, I'm going to move to Colorado. You ever been there? It's so green and trees are so big."

"It can be so cold in the winter there."

"I like down around Colorado Springs. Got an uncle lives near there. He says he'll put me to work on his ranch until I find a spread of my own."

"Sounds better than this life, that's for sure, Bert."

"Thing is, you don't know shit. This is a good life. There ain't one of us not enjoying this and the money we're making. But Boss always tells me, this won't last forever and a man's got have a plan for what comes next. I'm thinking a few more jobs'll set me up just fine in the life I plan to have."

"And that's when you'll leave?"

"You got it."

"Will they let you?"

This is when we hear it. The subtle pounding of a horse heading our way. Out here, the wind is about the only thing that makes noise. And vibrations in the earth seem to travel forever and a day. We turn as one, Bert and I, to look toward the source of the noise. A lone rider approaches.

I know who it is. There is something about the way he holds himself maybe ... but more likely it is that I recognize the outline of his shape. It's like when I knew him on the tape of that first robbery in Memphis. It is something I have always had ... an ability to recognize the aspects of another person well enough to pick them out, even in disguise and even in another surrounding.

Before too many minutes, he has slowed the horse to a trot as he approaches us. The sun is behind him. Bert and I both have hands up over our eyes as we track his progress. He is atop the same chestnut he rode yesterday.

"You two look mighty cozy," he says, smiling in that smug way of his.

"Just took her for a walk, Boss," Bert pipes up quickly. It's easy to read his sense of guilt a mile off. A man like Ben would never miss it. "She tried to ask me things, just like you warned me. Good thing, too, Boss, 'cause then I knew to say nothing."

"Smart man. Never trust a woman who asks questions," Ben says, looking serious.

"Never trust a woman, period. My brother told me that long ago," Bert responds, also looking serious.

Men, I sigh inside. Why do they have such a fear of those of us with vaginas?

"You head on back. I think Miss Grace is itching for another ride with me," Ben tells him.

I hold up my hands in a gesture of surrender. "No way. I'm so sore from yesterday. I'll walk back with Bert."

Ben holds out his hand to me. Now he's looking right into my eyes. We have a deal still. I will feign total obsequiousness. He will make sure no further harm comes to me while I am with them. And we will not resume a sexual relationship.

"I really don't want to ride again," I say softly.

"Best way to work that soreness out is to get back in the saddle," he says. His voice is soft but deceiving ... he expects me to do this. He will not lose face before one of his men this way.

"Can I trust you on that?" I ask him, knowing this question will annoy him even as I approach and hold up my hand.

He says nothing. He simply leans way over, grabs around my wrist and hauls me up high enough to where his other arm can latch onto me around my waist. He gives a little grunt as he swings me over the saddle and settles me into place.

"Uh oh," I say so softly that only he can hear. "You're showing your age there, Ben."

"You gaining weight, Grace?" he responds in kind; his low murmur is husky and irritated. "Maybe we should work some of it off today."

With that, he jolts the horse into action. I hold on to the saddle horn. The pain in my body from the horse's running makes my eyes water. I forget all his instructions of the day before as I cannot seem to focus on anything but how unforgiving this is. His grip around my waist tightens. He sounds even more irritated as he reminds me what to do.

By the time the soreness seems to work out, my thigh muscles feel like iron weights that I cannot control. My bottom is in a coma. Not long after, he settles the horse into a walk.

"You gonna make it?" he asks me.

"You are such a bastard," I say.

"Not always, Gracie. Sometimes, I can even be nice for no reason at all."

"Prove it."

"Ah. But then I'd have a reason, wouldn't I?"

I turn to give him a scowl. He grins at me. But there is something in his eyes that is anything but merry or playful.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

"Why would anything be wrong? I'm out here riding with my best girl ..."

"Stop it. You can tell me ... what's happened? Is it something with the ransom?"

"I can't tell you, Grace. Just accept it. I'm not like Bert so you can't wheedle it out of me ... I've been ahead of you since before we met."

"And besides, you don't trust women ... just like Bert doesn't, right?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. I believe I have a bit more ... shall we say ... experienced viewpoint on women. And I would say, there are some you can trust in. A few."

"Well, I suppose that's enlightened."

"However ... I just don't happen to have met any personally."

I roll my eyes and turn to look ahead of us. "Haven't you ever been in love, Ben?"

"I don't think so," he says. Something in the way he says it sounds like he didn't take the time to think of what he should have said to me. Like he forgot I was the enemy.

And maybe that's why I'm equally honest with him without meaning to be so revealing. "Yeah, well, it's not all it's cracked up to be. People do stupid things in the name of love."

"And what stupid things have you done in the name of love?"

"Nothing."

His chuckle is deep enough to be felt since his chest is pressed into my back. "Now there's a dishonest answer if I ever heard one."

"Let's change the subject." He chuckles again, louder now. I say, "So tell me, Boss, all about your vaunted plans for what comes next after this current gig plays out."

"I plan to ride this 'gig,' as you call it, forever," he says. "Why'd you get the idea I wasn't? You back to this feminine mind thing where bad men want to change and go good after they meet some fine lady?"

It's almost out of my mouth ... to say what Bert said about this ... but I realize that I don't want to betray Bert this way. Who knows if I'll need any grain of kindness from him later?

Instead, I turn it around ... since I know what he preaches to Bert, then I figure I've found a way inside some place he'd never show me.

"Well, it just seems a smart man like you would have everything mapped out. And that, above all, he'd know this can't last forever. I mean, really, did you think you'd be able to just keep robbing bigger and bigger transports and not be targeted by enough law enforcement agencies that it'd get impossible to operate?"

"You let me worry about that, Gracie. Okay?"

"So you've thought it out, haven't you? And you already have your options ... I find that interesting."

"I find that none of your business."

"You'd be right about that, Ben."

"See that rock formation below?"

He has walked us slowly around an outcropping at the base of the mountain's next elevation. There is a well-worn path that we follow. When we reach the other side of the outcropping, he hugs in tight against it for there is a drop off on the left.

At first, it looks like a large ravine. But then you realize there are trees down there that are thriving. But off to the side, there is what appears to be a mound of rocks in a semi-circle.

This is where he's pointing.

"Are we going down there or is there just something about it that ..."

"That's where we're heading today, Grace."

"How do we get there?" I say, looking ahead at a narrowing path that is strewn with a fair share of rocks that look to have rolled down the steep cliff we now find on our left. They are not so big the horse cannot step over them, but if one fell on you? It'd kill you, I bet. I look up the cliff's side and he says not to worry about that.

"As for how we get there ... well, that's the tricky part."

"Why is it tricky? Do we have to rappel down or something?"

"Cowboys don't rappel, Gracie."

"Well, I'm not jumping if that's what you have in mind."

He chuckles. "I'm not so much into jumping from this height either."

"Ben ..." I say, wrapping an arm around his arm that is holding in lightly over my waist. Because just then, I'm looking ahead and the trail disappears. "What are you doing? We have to go back ..."

"What? You think I can put the horse into reverse?"

"Are you purposely trying to scare me?"

"Well, I do so enjoy the way you're wiggling against me right now ..."

"Let me down ..."

"No. Trust me, Grace," he says, low and deep, right against my ear, just as we reach what looks like the end of this trail.

"You told me to never trust you," I whisper back.

"What if I've changed my mind about that?"

And just then, the trail does a tight switchback to the continuation of the path that had been hidden from view. It forms a sharp descent as well as a sharp turn. The horse, of course, hesitates, gathers his bearings, takes a tucking left turn. I am holding my breath and holding on to Ben's arm for dear life with both hands now.

It feels as if we are walking on an 85 degree incline. I cannot speak but if I could, I would curse him for this. I wait for the horse to slip, for him to flick us off his back, for the path to cave in. But we go down relentlessly with Ben clicking to the horse and talking softly to him while he strokes my hip to calm me.

And then the horse steps onto the wider surface as the path flattens and widens. I look around and we are in the bottom of the large ravine.

A hidden valley.

"I could kill you for that," I say. I notice the way it feels, now with the adrenalin coursing through me, to be held by him like this. To be alone with him. To be holding onto him, comforted by his strength. And aroused just by the force of his concentration on me.

"You'll thank me."

"You could have prepared me ... you just wanted to scare me."

We are walking between two sycamores. The horse seems to prance just a bit and I think it's because he's glad he survived but I know animals probably don't think that way.

"I keep telling you that I warn you when I want you to be afraid of what you should be."

"So you couldn't warn me about that?"

"What I'm trying to drill into you is to pay attention when I warn you. Got it?"

I swallow and slowly let my hands open so that I am not clinging to his arm. I know what he's referring to ... he wants me never again to say out loud around him that I am still trying to gather clues and build a case. Of course, he knows I'm doing it ... but he doesn't want me asking questions about this fuzzy "other" part of their gang. I have figured out that there is some kind of organization here, that the gang I am with is only part of the operation. Whoever is beyond the gang is who concerns Ben.

Well, if I can trust him on that.

Because he could still be playing me ... this could all be his clever way of pointing me in the wrong direction so that I will point the law enforcement in the wrong direction when I return home.

"I'm about to do something nice for you, Gracie," he says. His mouth is against the side of my neck. I shiver lightly. "And you said I couldn't."

"And what are you expecting in return?"

"Nothing."

We are at the semi-circle of rocks. He stops the horse, dismounts. Loops the lead around a low branch. Comes back, holds his hands up. This time, I just let myself drop over the side and it's easy to fall right into his arms.

For a long, slow moment, he holds me with his hands on my waist and my hands on his shoulders. But then he lets me slide down him. I cannot understand what I see in his eyes. I would recognize amusement or lust or anger or so many other looks. But this seems to me to be almost as if he's memorizing me.

When he sets me down so my feet are bearing my own weight, I groan with the ache from horse riding. I grip into his biceps to steady myself. But my pride takes hold ... bastard brought me out here knowing how sore I was ... I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing pain in my face.

I back away, stretch as if I was just a little tight, that's all.

He turns and begins walking around the rocks, which are easily as tall as he is. With difficulty, I force myself to follow him. 

On the other side, there is a wide area over which no trees grow. And in the center, edged in slate and a few small boulders is a pool of water ... with steam rising off its surface.

A natural hot spring.

I saw one in Chattanooga the first year we did that survival workshop. Every time I've gone back, I've found a way to get back to that spot and soak all the tightness out.

It makes me laugh to see this. I'm otherwise speechless. He leans against one of the boulders and watches me as I approach. My mouth is open.

He did something nice for me.

He brought me here to help me. He knew I'd be aching today. I glance at him. There is a smidgeon of guilt there ... but otherwise, he is obviously pleased at my reaction.

"I can't believe you did this for me," I say, finally. "Thank you. It's too perfect."

He blushes and looks away. "Yeah. Well. If you hadn't annoyed me, I would have made the ride here a bit smoother. So don't go thinking I'm a nice guy or anything."

"Sure. It's a deal."

He shakes his head and chuckles.

"How about I just think you're able to not be a bastard all the time? Would that work?" I say, now slowly lowering myself to sit on one of the small outcroppings of shale at the very edge of the water.

He steps in quickly to help me. Then he kneels, taking off my shoes because I cannot bend far enough easily enough to get the laces.

"I can manage my jeans," I say when he suddenly looks up at me with a grin.

"Why would you think I was thinking about that?"

"I think I've gotten to know you plenty well enough by now, Ben Wade."

He crooks his head to the side and regards me. "Do you? Know me, I mean? After all, you didn't know I could do something nice for you."

And he's right ... but so am I.

He walks off as I gingerly work my jeans down and then pull my shirt over my head. I am so eager to be in this hot bath that I lose track of him and everything else. I slip my legs in, walking down a natural step. And then I just ease my body in and feel reborn. All the aches. All the tightness. All the bruises. They begin melting away.

For a long time, I tread water, my head back, my eyes closed.

"Grace?" I hear him call me.

I open my eyes and scan ... he is sitting atop a shale ledge, right at the edge of this hot spring. He is not looking at me. I glide over close to him.

"I don't know how to thank you for this," I say. "I feel so much better."

"Something I need to tell you, Grace."

He is serious. When he gazes down at me, he looks angry and haunted at the same time.

"I knew something was wrong," I say.

"This is just between us, okay?"

"Okay."

"I'm not telling the boys until the morning ... but we have to clear out of here tomorrow."

"And?"

"And ... nothing. Nothing else."

"I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"You're upset about something ... it's in your eyes. And you wouldn't have told me this like you have unless there was something else ... something bad."

"Maybe it's something good for you, Grace."

My heart skips a beat and I swim to the ledge where he sits, so I can hang onto something solid. "The ransom?"

He nods.

"You're going to let me go tomorrow? And that's why you all have to leave?"

"Something like that."

"No, don't do that. Don't evade me. Tell me specifically ... are you setting me free?"

He swallows. Looks in my eyes. His voice is firm, devout. "I am going to release you tomorrow, Grace. I promise."

I don't know what's wrong with me ... I should be so elated ... I should not be able to contain my elation that this is about to be over. But there is something else wrong ... something he is not telling me. And it scares me.