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had feared had happened: Gallagher had followed her and meant to
take his vengeance on her away from the homestead, where there was no one to
come to her aid. Then her skull was rammed painfully against a man’s hard
shoulder. Swiveling her head around, kicking and squirming in a frantic effort
to break free from the arms that bound her, Sarah got her first look at her
attacker. The narrow, sunburned face with its grizzled hair and red-rimmed eyes
definitely did not belong to Gallagher. Perversely, her terror increased
tenfold. Doubling her efforts to escape, Sarah felt her elbow connect sharply
with the man’s rib cage. He grunted, shifting his hold. She felt the hard
heel of her riding boot find his kneecap in a kick that almost brought him to
his knees. Cursing, he staggered backward. Taking advantage of the sudden
slackening of his hold, she bit down hard on the fingers covering her mouth and
twisted furiously at the same time. She did not manage to break away from him,
but her mouth at least was free. Another piercing scream escaped before his
hand crushed her mouth once more.
    As he dragged her back into the brush, Sarah sobbed with terror
even as she fought. He was a white man, which meant that in all likelihood he
was a convict. And he was not one of Lowella’s. Which meant that he was
on the run, a rogue. Maybe he was one of those who had burned and pillaged
Brickton, Lowella’s neighbor to the south, last month. Although Paul
Brickton’s cruelty to the convicts assigned to his station was notorious,
and an uprising there was almost rough justice, Sarah remembered that two of
the Bricktons’ sons had been killed. . . . She shuddered as she felt the
wiry strength of the arms controlling her struggles. Would he kill her?
    He had lifted her off her feet when Sarah felt him stagger again.
She writhed wildly in an effort to break free. His arms released her without
warning. Sarah cried out in surprise as she tumbled to the ground. Thick
bracken cushioned her fall, but pain shot through her elbows and bottom, which
made the first, hardest contact with the ground. Scrambling to take advantage
of her sudden freedom, she cast a scared glance up at her attacker. To her
astonishment, he was struggling as frantically as she had earlier against him.
A powerful-looking forearm was locked around his neck, strangling all
utterance. One arm was twisted behind his back. Her eyes wide, the ringing in
her ears subsiding so that she could hear the sound of masculine grunts and the
shuffling of two sets of feet on the bracken, Sarah looked over her
attacker’s head at her rescuer, who towered some inches above him.
Dominic Gallagher’s handsome face was grim with effort. His eyes, too,
were grim above the gash she had opened in his cheek as he tightened his hold
on the smaller man’s neck.
----

CHAPTER V
    “Hold still, you scurvy bastard, or I’ll break your
neck.” Gallagher’s Irish lilt was more pronounced than usual as he
growled at the man who still struggled fiercely in his hold. When the man
continued to fight, Gallagher’s arm tightened until his prisoner could no
longer breathe. Terror rounded the smaller man’s eyes; his mouth opened
and closed like that of a landed fish as he gasped for breath. Gallagher
continued to deny him air until the man was almost limp. Then, slowly, he
loosened his hold.
    “Next time there won’t be a next time.
Understand?” Gallagher was white about the mouth as he threatened the
other man. At first Sarah thought it was from anger, and then she noticed the
perspiration beading his forehead. The drops could be from the heat, but she
thought that he must be suffering some pain. His back couldn’t have
healed completely in less than two weeks; the exertion required to subdue her
attacker must have cost him dearly. She was surprised that he bothered. The
only possible explanation for his presence was that he’d followed her, as
she had