Rosebud pushed her way down the crowded hall to the ladies’ room, her head swimming. Someone shoved her, but she barely noticed. Three kisses, and she was supposed to be out, but she was in deeper than she’d ever thought possible. They were leaving and she didn’t know where they were going, but she’d officially stopped caring the moment he’d touched her. That clear moment of sheer heat made thinking an unnecessary, unwelcome action. Instead, the only action she wanted was to peel his jeans right off him and see exactly what she’d been missing.

Three kisses, three years. How could she have forgotten what she was missing? Maybe it was because James had never made her feel quite this hot, and certainly never this weak. Unlike the other white men she’d known before college, James had never treated her like The Indian, which had been a relief. But he’d never really treated her like a lover, either. She’d just been a girl he knew, just as he’d always been a boy she knew. Just some guy she occasionally went to bed with.

To Dan, she was a woman, pure and simple. Not merely a lawyer or an Indian, but all of those things and more. In his arms, she felt alive. To hell with dams and lawsuits, family members long gone and still here. Right now, she was really living.

Which was why she chose to ignore all the drunk and disorderly people around her. It didn’t matter how evil their glances were. The only eyes she was concerned with were Dan’s.

She pushed her way into the ladies’ room. The bathroom wasn’t big, but it was packed. The air was thick with hair-spray, cheap perfume and industrial-strength air freshener as women crowded around each sink and mirror, a sea of bottled blond, exposed bra straps and short skirts.

By the time the door shut behind her, the whole bathroom had come to a silent halt. Mascara wands froze in midair, cigarettes dangled from lipsticked mouths and every eye was on her.

Damn. Her euphoric high dissipated in a heartbeat. That waitress was in the corner, giving Rosebud a look she’d seen before, too many times to count.

She’d seen it the first day of junior high, when her aunt had arranged for Rosebud to go to a successful white school off the rez. She still remembered the way the girls had acted like she was a blatant threat. No one had talked to her for months, but the rumors had reached her ears anyway. She stole purses, did drugs, screwed the teachers, ate garbage, had the IQ of a dog and on and on.

What was she to do then? She’d only been twelve. She wasn’t the fighter Tanner had been, so she did what Aunt Emily told her. She said nothing. She looked at no one. She’d done the best work she could do. The first time she’d said something in social studies—in February—the teacher was shocked that Rosebud actually knew how to speak English.

After that, Rosebud had found her own way. She didn’t brawl like Tanner, but she refused to be silent. The next time she’d heard the whispers, she went on the offensive. Her mouth was her gift, so she used it. But that was then, in the relative safety of a public school. The worst that had happened was the fat lip she’d gotten for pointing out that one of her tormenters wasn’t smart enough to know that her boyfriend was cheating on her with her so-called best friend.

This was now, in the middle of a dive bar in a state with concealed carry laws on the books. She was not welcome. She swallowed, torn between a flash of panic and her always intense need to be in control of the situation. Control? Please. This was fast becoming one of the more dangerous situations she’d been in.

No fear, she decided as she strode to the only open stall, her head up and her shoulders back.

Just as she sat down, the stall door shuddered under the weight of a sudden, silent kick, quickly followed by a second. Rosebud managed not to scream, but she clutched her purse to her chest. The third hit was higher, like someone using the palm of her hand, but the fourth one was another kick. Rosebud braced a leg against the door as it bowed, and each succeeding kick felt like a sledgehammer driving into her hip socket.

Peeing while every single woman smacked or kicked the door on their way out was nothing if not challenging, but finally, the room was silent. Rosebud managed to finish. Before she opened the stall door, she listened, but she couldn’t hear the sound of breathing over the reverberations of the band. Just to be sure, she dug in her purse until she came up with a ballpoint pen. Her gun would have been better, but guns and university libraries didn’t mix. A ballpoint would have to do.

She slung her sack over her shoulder and slowly opened the door. Empty, thank God. Even that waitress was gone. Rosebud washed quickly, reviewing her exit strategy. She had twenty-five feet of hallway to get through, and then another fifteen feet to get to Dan. She assumed he was still at their table, waiting for her. If she went low and fast, she might be able to snake through the crowd without anyone noticing her.

Hell, who was she kidding? Almost half the place knew she was in here.

I am not afraid, she thought, as if thinking it would make it so. Taking a few deep breaths, she clutched the pen like a knife. She’d stab anyone who tried to stop her. Sometimes, self-defense was the only defense. Forty feet. She could do it. She barreled out the door.

She only made the first twenty feet before she ran into a wall of bikers. Actually, it was just one biker, but he made a wall all by himself, completely blocking the last few feet of the hallway. “Well, now,” the man said, leering down at her.

The overwhelming smell of onions and whiskey smacked her upside the face. She couldn’t see past the do-rag embroidered with flames on his head—where the hell was Dan? Before she could sidestep him, he grabbed the arm that had the pen. “My buddy bet me twenty bucks I couldn’t get you to dance with me, Pocahontas.”

That was her least favorite racist nickname, the one that irritated her like lemon juice in a paper cut. She tried to twist out of his grip, but the jerk held tight as he pulled her toward the dance floor. At least they weren’t in the hall anymore. Her eyes shot around the bar, but she didn’t see Dan. Where the hell was he?

“Sorry,” she said, forcing herself to smile while she tried to peel his fingers off her biceps. Why were bikers always so burly? “I’m afraid you’re going to lose that bet.”

“One dance, little squaw. I saw you out there dancing with that cowboy. I want some of that sugar.”

Squaw. She took it back. That was her least favorite nickname. “Let me go,” she said with more force, hoping she sounded serious instead of just terrified.

It didn’t work. “You think you’re too good for me? Is that it? You’re just some damn Injun!” He hauled her up, closer to his face.

“Hey!” That did it. Screw this scared thing. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She kicked toward his groin as hard as she could, ever thankful she’d worn her boots today. “I said—”

The biker snarled a curse at her. He didn’t let go, but he did bend double. Confident that she’d connected with his nuts the first time, Rosebud tried for two.

Suddenly, her head whipped back with enough force that she lost her footing. Between the hold the biker had on her arm and whoever had a death grip on her hair, she was suddenly, completely helpless. Fight or no, she was going down. “Dan! Help!”

The biker staggered to his knees, pulling her down with him, but she couldn’t go far. “You little slut,” a female voice screeched behind her as her head jerked back again. Rosebud saw stars. “What did you do to my man?”

“Dan!” Rosebud screamed at the top of her lungs. Pain and fear were duking it out, and the fear was winning.

Her head jerked again. A sharp pain on her forehead blinded her to everything else. That waitress wouldn’t scalp her, would she? “Savage,” the woman’s voice said, close to her ear, as calm and as clear as the noon sun. “I’ll teach you to show your red face around here.”

Oh, hell, she would. She was.

Rosebud heard bones crunch, but instead of feeling the searing pain that should have gone with it, she only heard the biker’s howl.

“Let her go.” Dan. Even better, he sounded furious—worse than when he’d realized she’d shot at him.

Her arm was free. In the next second, her head was free and she fell. But instead of hitting the floor, she fell into familiar arms and was up on her feet before she knew what was going on. Blinking the tears out of her eyes, she saw that Dan was standing on the biker’s hand. He had one arm looped under both of hers to hold her up, and in the other he had a knife. A knife? Rosebud’s eyes narrowed in on the flash of metal, but it still took a few seconds for her to realize it was a steak knife from dinner.

“She kicked my balls!” The biker wailed from the floor. Dan responded by grinding his heel in a little harder. “My hand!”

“I don’t want any trouble,” Dan said, his voice low—but she heard him loud and clear. He swung around, blade out, pulling Rosebud with him. The music, she realized. The band had stopped playing. The entire bar was silent. Off to her left, the unmistakable sound of a pump-action shotgun filled the air. “No trouble,” he repeated.

They were going to die, all because Dan asked her out on a date and she’d had the nerve to say yes.

“Walk,” Dan said under his breath. His hand was clamped around her ribs, so when he took a step forward, he practically carried her with him.

Rosebud was too afraid to look in the direction of the shotgun, too afraid to look at anyone but Dan in case they took that as an act of aggression. She kept her eyes focused on his hand and the blade. A steak knife was a hell of a lot better than a pen. He held it like he wasn’t afraid to use it, but it still didn’t beat a shotgun. She didn’t want to die in this bar. The steak hadn’t even been that good.

Dan spun around again, careful to make sure she followed. They were backing toward the door, she realized. Freedom.

“She started it!” That had to be the waitress, screeching at the top of her lungs.

Rosebud tensed, afraid that was the straw and she was about to become the camel’s back. She couldn’t even protest her innocence. Her throat was clogged with terror—if anything came out, it would be a scream.

“I don’t care who started it. I’ll finish it.” How in the hell could Dan manage to sound so calm? They were outnumbered two hundred to two, and he sounded like he was negotiating a business deal!

Rosebud heard the sound of chairs scraping over the floor, but they kept moving backward. “Get ready,” he whispered to her. A rush of night air hit her in the back of the neck, and then suddenly they were outside while all those angry faces were still inside. Dan let go of the knife and the tip stuck into a wood slat of the porch at the same time his fingers unglued themselves from her ribs. “The truck,” he said. “Now!”

They ran so fast that Rosebud couldn’t hear anything but her own sounds—her breathing, her heartbeat—so she couldn’t tell if anyone was behind her. She sure as hell wasn’t going to stop and check. Dan had a hold of her arm now, pulling her along with him in the mad dash to his truck. They made it in seconds. “Get down,” he ordered as he cranked the engine.

“Your shotgun?” she asked. Adrenaline flooded her system. Part of her wanted to fire that bad boy off. They wanted a savage? By God, she’d give them savage.

“No,” he replied, still pulling off calm even as the truck peeled out of the parking lot. He adjusted the mirror and zigged the truck left. “Just stay down for a minute. We’re almost clear.”

A huge boom exploded behind them, and Rosebud screamed as the truck lurched hard right. Dan floored it.

“They just fired over us,” he said, like this whole assault was no big deal. “We’re on the highway, darlin’. We’re okay now.”

Rosebud tried to nod, tried to do something, but the last ten minutes flashed through her mind again—the bathroom door shuddering, the guy’s repulsive breath as he manhandled her, the way her neck snapped when her hair had been yanked. She touched her forehead and her fingers came away with a smear of blood. Her stomach rolled. “I’m going to be sick,” she gasped.

“Hold on.” The truck picked up speed, and then took another hard right before coming to a screeching halt.

She flung the door open and stumbled out of the truck, landing on her knees on a gravelly patch of scrub grass. Her stomach gave up the fight.

Suddenly, her hair was pulled up and away from her face, and a warm hand rubbed between her shoulder blades. Oh, just wonderful. Here she was, throwing up her guts and a bad steak in front of Dan. She supposed it beat the hell out of gunshot wounds, but at this exact moment in time, things couldn’t get any worse. The sickening embarrassment brought on another round of heaving.

When she was finished, she sat back on her heels. Dan crouched down next to her, still holding her hair. “Better?”

“Um…um…” No. But even in her weakest moment, with the undeniable evidence all over the shoulder of the road, she couldn’t admit it.

Dan’s eyes searched her all over. She couldn’t meet his gaze—she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to again. “I’ll be right back.”

Rosebud sat there in a state of shock, and all she could coherently think was, You knew it was three and you were out, girl. And this is out.

Dan’s footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her, and then he held out a bottle of water and a damp cloth. She rinsed out her mouth, which helped tremendously. “Hold still,” he said, and he wiped her face for her.

The cut stung, but the pain told her it was small. “It’s not bad,” he said, his voice doing its level best to be calm. He cupped her chin in his palm and tilted her head toward the truck’s headlights.

Suddenly the terror that had been clogging her throat dissolved into hysterical cries. Clamping her eyes shut, she tried to bite them back.

“I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”

This time, the tears wouldn’t be bitten back, choked down or hidden until she was alone. “I’m going to cry now,” she managed to say as the sobs broke free. “But I don’t want this to negatively impact your opinion of me in the courtroom.”

Dan gave her a look that made it quite clear Rosebud had officially lost it. “It won’t.”

“And this in no way reflects on our date—before the attack,” she sobbed. She sounded hysterical. The fear and pain and relief all melted into one major circuit overload, one that apparently tripped several wires in her head, because suddenly she couldn’t stop babbling. “It was a nice date. I actually like you a whole lot. If only your name wasn’t Armstrong. If only you weren’t that Armstrong, Dan.”

The next thing she knew, the gravel wasn’t digging into her knees anymore. Dan was clutching her to his chest and carrying her back to the truck, but he didn’t set her down. Instead, he slid into the seat and held her on his lap, her feet dangling out the door. He rocked her back and forth as he stroked her hair and whispered, “I know, darlin’. I know,” over and over, which Rosebud took as a sign that she was still talking.

She had no idea what she was saying.