The Oregon Trail. Over more than thirty years, perhaps half a million hardy pioneers started the two-thousand-mile journey that began in Missouri and ended in the lush valleys of Oregon ... if they were lucky. Probably at least ten percent died along the way of disease, accidents, and Indian attacks. These ill-fated thousands are buried in mostly unmarked graves along that terrible road.

So considering the danger, why would anyone begin this trip? Many were looking for new opportunities out West, some were on the run from the law or their own troubled past.

Emma Trent, a beautiful blond widow with a mysterious past, is traveling alone with her half-breed child, hoping to make a fresh start. The train she joins up with is unlucky and poorly equipped. Most of its travelers have already been turned down by better trains. Desperate for a wagon master to lead them, these pioneers are ready to agree to any terms for a hard man with nothing to lose who knows the trail.

Rider, a half-breed gunfighter, is on the run from the law. Unknown to the pioneers, five years ago he was a Shoshoni warrior named Rides the Thunder. At home in both the white and red world, he is welcome in neither and under a death sentence in both. Will he risk his life to lead this wagon train through the terrible Shoshoni country?

He will ... for a price. The eager leaders of the train are willing to give Rider anything he wants. Anything. All he has to do is name it. Is it gold he desires? No, he wants the yellow-haired beauty to warm his blankets for the length of the trip. Some argue it isn't moral, but without Rider, the train will be stranded on the hostile plains and at the mercy of the elements and war-painted braves. The leaders agree to Rider's demands. Yes, he can have the girl.

But Emma has good reason to hate and fear most men and all Indians. Someone forgot to tell her about the gunfighter's unholy deal!

Late June, 1862. The frontier settlement of Independence, Missouri.

Rider wanted the girl from the first moment he saw her standing by a covered wagon on the morning he rode into town.

The yellow-haired girl did not look back at him as if she desired him, too. What intrigued him as he rode past was the glare of utter hatred and revulsion with which she returned his hot glance.

Intrigued, he reined in his Appaloosa stallion and studied the blonde. If he were still among the Shoshoni, he would consider stealing the woman and using her to warm his blankets until he tired of her, then swap her for a rifle or a good horse. Clad in faded blue gingham, she clenched her small fists and glared back at him with eyes as pale as her dress, the gold band on her left hand reflecting the hot sun. It was almost a comic gesture, he thought, seeing that though she was tall and sun-browned, she would be no match against his strength.

However, since the white man who owned this beauty would surely fight to the death to keep her, Rider would forgo the temptation of her warm, ripe body. He didn't need the kind of trouble the white girl would bring him--not with all the other problems he had right now.

Reluctantly, Rider nudged Storm into a walk and rode on past the motley cluster of covered wagons, touching the tips of his fingers to his black Stetson as he passed her. She didn't return his nod, only frowned more deeply, pressing against the big wheel of her wagon, her body tense as if ready to fight should he dismount and approach her.

Rider didn't look back as he rode down the dusty street. He had lived in two worlds, Indian and white, and was under a death sentence in both. At the moment, with those bounty hunters on his trail, what Rider needed most was a drink, some food, and a little rest for him and his horse before they moved on. Later, there would always be plenty of pretty women for his amusement and they wouldn't glare at him with revulsion and hatred as the girl with sky-blue eyes had done. He could still feel those pale eyes burning holes in his back as he threaded his way through the bustling crowds of people, buggies, and wagons heading for the small saloon sign down the street.

& & &

Emma Trent glared at the grim gunfighter's muscular back as he rode away. When he reined in to look her over, she had recognized the hunger--that man-need in his dark eyes--and it made her shudder with terrible memories that she had thought buried almost four long years. She must not allow herself to remember, but it was impossible when this half-breed gunfighter appraised her with cold, dark eyes as if he'd like to throw her down right there in the dust of the street and mount her.

Emma clenched her fists, her stomach churning, knowing instinctively that this big, silent man was someone who took what he wanted and dared anyone to stop him. The way he had stared at her made it very clear how much he desired her body, and she had no one to protect her should he decide to take her. The early morning sun reflected off the silver conchos on that hat and the fancy beadwork on the bridle as he rode away. Indians. She had plenty of reason to hate and fear them. Yet Emma could not stop herself from staring after the rider until his broad-shouldered back in its black shirt faded into the crowd in the street.

No ordinary cowboy, that one. The silver on his hat and gun belt, the good leather of his boots, the fine horse, but especially the pistol he wore low on his hip, told her this was a hired gun--a cold killer with a mouth like a slash across his weathered dark face, his ebony hair long, too long for a white man. She watched him as he disappeared into the bustle of the road, breathing a sigh of relief that he was gone and wondering if he'd been hired to gun down someone in the dust of this rough town's streets? What difference did that make to her as long as he didn't return to put those dark, capable hands on her.

A whimpering cry from inside her wagon made her turn, forgetting the gunfighter completely in her concern for her child. Hoisting her faded skirts, she climbed up on the wagon seat behind the patient oxen and reached down to pat the sleeping toddler. "Shh, Josh, it's all right. Go back to sleep now."

Her son quieted under the soothing touch of her hand as she patted his black hair and smiled down at him. Three-year-old Josh was a half-breed, too, just like the tough gunfighter who had just ridden past, but that was not the toddler's fault. Even as Emma stroked Josh's black hair, she couldn't help but think that if this had been Ethan's son, the boy would have been as fair and blond as her dead husband.

The child dropped off to sleep again and Emma took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she climbed down from the wagon. The fat banker, Mr. Pettigrew, in his derby hat, and several men were walking toward her. She knew by the grim set of their mouths and the way they avoided her eyes that the news would not be good.

"Miz Trent," Pettigrew wheezed as he took off his derby and fiddled with it, avoiding her eyes, "we men have talked it over, as well as our womenfolk, and well, as elected leader of this train, it's my duty to tell you we don't think you belong with us--"

"Belong? Tell me, Mr. Pettigrew, just where do I belong?" Her temper flared because she knew the answer: nowhere, not in any respectable white community.

The men shuffled their feet in the dust, ashamed to look at her.

The tall, elegant Southerner, Weatherford B. Carrolton, cleared his throat. "Now, see here," he drawled in a deep Mississippi accent, "there's no need for such resentment, young lady."

"Don't use that arrogant tone to me," Emma shot back. "I realize none of you think a respectable woman would keep a child like mine--"

"It ain't just the half-breed kid, Miz Trent--" the banker began apologetically.

"Josh," she snapped. "His name is Josh."

"Be that as it may," Mr. Weeks said, "it's a long way to Oregon--lots of problems ahead of us."

"If you're worried that I can't pull my weight, that I'll be too much trouble," she said, facing them as adversaries, "I'm a frontier girl. I can tan hides, handle a rifle, milk cows, hitch up my own team, and--"

"It ain't just that, Miz Trent," Pettigrew said and wiped the sweat from the inside of his derby before putting it back on his thinning hair. "My Francesca, well, all the womenfolk are afraid men will get to fightin' over you, seein's as how you're purty, real purty, and you got no man."

The others nodded in silent agreement.

She had been right; the women had been gossiping about her. Francesca Pettigrew, Millicent Carrolton, and the others had appeared to be whispering about Emma since she'd pulled in here yesterday with her covered wagon. Emma had noted the cold looks from the other women. She knew the gossip would center on the parentage of her half-breed son.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry or start shrieking. Most of these men were looking at her as if they'd like to tear her clothes off. "Your women think I'm a slut? That I'll fall into the grass with any man who looks at me?"

The men's faces turned an angry, ruddy color and they glanced at each other, obviously not used to hearing women talk with such spirited defiance.

Weatherford B. Carrolton cleared his throat and adjusted the blossom in his boutonniere. "Now, ma'am. There's no need for such unladylike talk," he drawled. "It is a long trip, Miz Trent, and seein' as how you don't belong to a man--"

"I belong to me!" she flared back. "Don't you people understand? I've sold what little I had to outfit this wagon and buy these oxen," she gestured behind her. "I thought I'd get a fresh start in the Oregon country, but I can't get there alone."

A fat old farmer from Ohio sniffed disdainfully. "Most of us think we don't need women like you in the Oregon country alongside honest, respectable folk. After all, there's that half-breed kid--"

"And that's the most of it, isn't it, Mr. Adams?" Emma fired back. "You've heard the gossip and keep thinking, 'if she was a respectable woman, why didn't she kill herself and spare society the disgrace?' Well, I got news for you folks. That's the coward's way out and I'm not takin' it!"