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eagerly, not caring that it was neither cool nor particularly fresh but only that it quenched her burning throat. Her hand loosed its grip on the pistol in her pocket. Rueben had told her that the Arapaho were known as the Blue Sky people because of their kindly behavior toward outsiders. Unless this man was lying, he was not likely to harm her.
    â€œDon’t drink too much. It will make you sick,” he cautioned, pulling the bag away. When she moaned, he lowered her head and poured a little of the water into his palm. With an odd, rough gentleness, he smoothed the water onto her forehead, her cheeks, her throat and her cracked lips. She whimpered, wanting to lick the moisture from his hand, to take his long fingers in her mouth and suck them dry.
    When he took his hand away and stoppered the bag, she tried to plead for more with her eyes, but he ignored her distress. “You can’t stay here,” he said, glancing toward the trees.
    Charity nodded, knowing what his words implied. She would have to get up, no matter how much it hurt. Bracing against the pain, she worked one arm beneath her and rolled onto her side. The strain of that simplemovement on the skin of her blistered back sent arrows of hot agony shooting through her body. A scream rose in her throat. She gulped it back. Their lives could depend on her keeping quiet.
    For a moment she stilled, feeling the baby shift and resettle inside her. She heard the sharp intake of his breath as he bent to examine her back.
    â€œHow bad is it?” she asked.
    â€œBad, but I’ve seen worse.” He exhaled sharply. “I can do something to help, but not here.” He rose to his feet and moved around her so that he could look into her face. “Give me your hands,” he said. “It will hurt, but you must let me pull you up.”
    â€œI know.” Charity extended her hands and felt his grip close around them. His fingers were long and sinewy, and his palms possessed the timeworn toughness of pliant leather. She held on, knowing she had no choice except to do as she was told. If she remained here, she and the baby would die.
    Twisting, she bent her legs so that they would catch her weight and push her upward. “Ready,” she murmured. “Make it quick.”
    â€œNow!” He jerked her upward. She sucked her scream inward as the pain swept through her. On her feet now, she sagged dizzily against him. His body went rigid at her touch, as if a serpent had crawled across his chest. This man had not been happy to find her, Charity realized. To him, she was nothing but a danger and a burden, as much to be hated as to be pitied. Only some strange quirk of conscience had kept him from riding away and leaving her to die.
    Seized by a flash of pride, she pushed herself away from him. “As you see, I’m quite all right!” she declared, swaying like a drunkard. “Get me to a safe place where I can rest. After that, you can wash your hands of me and be on your way!”
    His anthracite eyes flashed her a look of cold contempt. “Don’t be a silly child,” he snapped. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”
    Glancing beyond the wagons, she noticed that he had brought a second horse. But that horse, a short-legged brown pinto, was wearing a loaded packsaddle with no room for a rider. Unless her rescuer planned to abandon his supplies, they would have no choice except to ride double.
    He seized her wrist and pulled her toward his mount, then hesitated. Charity could guess what he was thinking. If she rode in front of him, the contact with her burned back would cause her excruciating pain. But her bulging belly would not allow her to fit easily behind him.
    He deliberated for the space of a breath. Then, wasting no more time, he sprang onto the horse’s bare back, shifted forward almost to its shoulders, and used his grip on her elbow to swing her up behind him. The sudden pull on her arm caused