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  Jillian had scrambled to her feet again. Seeing Dutra, hearing another man she loved shout “Run!” as he drew the danger to himself in order to protect her, had been so nightmarish that for a few seconds she stood frozen, her gaze locked on the two men rolling in the mud and slashing rain, illuminated only by the flashes of lightning. Thunder was rolling around them.

  Behind her a light came on, spilling weakly across the veranda. The noise had disturbed the senhora.

  The switch that turned on the light also released something in Jillian, as if the two were connected. Fury filled her that this should happen again, such an incandescent rage that she felt herself swelling with it, an incredible force demanding release. She wasn’t aware of making a sound, but a low, inhuman howl vibrated in her throat. All she could see was Dutra, his ugly little head filling her vision, everything around him blacked out. Without thought, without effort, she was moving, plunging into the rain after them.

  She leaped on Dutra’s back, both hands clutching his wet, greasy hair and twisting savagely, hauling back with all her might. He howled with pain, his thick neck cording as he tried to resist the force jerking his head back.

  She heard Ben yelling, breathless bursts of sound, but she couldn’t tell what he was saying. She braced her feet against Dutra’s back and lunged backwards, her fists still twisted in Dutra’s hair. Great clumps tore loose from his scalp, and she tumbled to the mud, black strands hanging between her fingers.

  Dutra was shrieking with pain, maddened with it. He was astride Ben, his heavy weight grinding him into the mud. On his back, unable to get any leverage, it was all Ben could do to hold his own against the enraged bull. He couldn’t throw him off. Frenzied, Dutra began slamming Ben’s gun hand against the ground, trying to dislodge the weapon. Desperately Ben hung on, all of his willpower focused on holding on to the pistol, because it was his only hope.

  Jillian leaped to her feet. Behind her the senhora was shouting. The people in the shacks had awoken and were gathering around in the rain, silently watching.

  Dutra was on his knees astride Ben, positioned too high for Ben to use his knee. Jillian’s thought was very clear as she stepped forward with all the precision of a field goal kicker, her eyes focused on the target. She never paused, just moved in with her leg swinging at precisely the right point. Her boot crashed into Dutra’s groin with all of her strength behind it, aided by the whipping motion of her leg.

  Dutra screamed, the sound rising to an unholy shriek, his entire body arching back and to the side. Ben surged upward, bringing the pistol around. He shot once, the bullet hitting Dutra in the temple. The big man toppled to the ground.

  Wearily Ben dragged himself free of Dutra’s body and staggered to his feet. Jillian was standing a few feet away, rain dripping down her face, hair and clothes plastered to her. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Dutra; her fists were clenched, her chest heaving, as if she waited for him to move again.

  “Jillian?” He approached her cautiously. “He’s dead.”

  She didn’t reply. He remembered the low, chilling sound she had been making when she leaped onto Dutra’s back like a small Fury, like an animal’s snarl. Very gently he touched her arm, bringing her out of it. “He’s dead, sweetheart. I shot him.”

  She hesitated, then gave a small jerky nod.

  “You saved my life,” he continued in a low, calm voice. “What did you hit him with? It sure got his attention.”

  She didn’t speak for a moment, and then she turned to him, her eyes glassy. She met Ben’s gaze and said, “I smashed his balls,” in the polite little voice of someone in shock.

  Ben controlled his automatic flinch. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s get out of the rain.” He slipped his arm around her waist.

  She slid right out of his grasp, sitting down in the mud and leaving him holding air. He started to lift her in his arms, but something in her expression stopped him. He knew what she was feeling, having been through it himself. She had been in a killing rage; she had to get herself back. She wanted nothing more than to be left alone right now.

  The senhora shouted at him from the veranda. She was wearing a long white nightgown and held a machete in her right hand.

  He looked at Jillian. She was just sitting there, shoulders slumped and head bowed, rain pouring down on her. She was already soaked to the skin, so she wasn’t going to get any wetter. Reluctantly he left her and walked to the senhora.

  “Do you have some explanation for this?” she growled in her deep, harsh voice. “Who is that man?”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Would you make a pot of coffee, please? Or tea. Jillian will need something.”

  She drew herself up, glaring at him as if he had suggested her hospitality might be lacking. “Of course. I’ll bring towels out.” She turned her glare on Dutra’s body. “That will have to be disposed of.” Practically everyone from the settlement was out in the rainy night now, standing grouped around, staring at the body. She shouted at them, “Take him to the shed,” and several men stepped forward to take hold of the thick arms and legs, and they dragged Dutra off to be stored in the shed until morning.

  The senhora went back inside, and Ben returned to Jillian, crouching by her side. “Come on, sweetheart. The senhora is bringing towels. We’ll get dried off and drink some coffee. How does that sound?”

  Her gaze lifted to his. “Mundane,” she said.

  He managed a tight smile. “It is. That’s what you do after a crisis. The mundane things help put everything back in focus.”

  “All right.” She sighed and climbed to her feet, moving slowly and with great care, as if her muscles weren’t working all that well He put his arm around her waist again as they walked to the veranda. The rain was ending, the storm moving on, and he looked up to see stars through a break in the clouds.

  The senhora came out with a couple of towels. Jillian took one and wiped her face, then began rubbing her dripping hair. They had no dry clothes to change into, so that was about all she could do to repair herself.

  But the senhora was regarding them, her lips grimly pursed. “Perhaps I can find clothes for you,” she said. “My husband was a big man like you, senhor, God rot his nasty soul. And I have a skirt and blouse for you, poor little chicken.”

  Jillian felt like a poor little chicken. She was wet and muddy and exhausted. The senhora brought out the clothes, and Jillian went with Ben to the other side of the house where they changed clothes on the veranda in relative privacy. The senhora’s skirt was too long and too big, hanging to the middle of her calves, but the old woman had provided a gay sash and Jillian wrapped it around her waist like a belt, tying it in a snug knot. She had discarded her muddy boots but had no other shoes to put on. Ben was also barefoot.

  Here too the senhora came to their aid, producing two pairs of old leather sandals. The smaller pair was still too big for Jillian, but she could manage to keep them on her feet.

  Then they sat at the table and drank hot, sweet coffee, the caffeine moderating the effects of crashing adrenaline levels. Jillian sat in silence, her face pale, as Ben related to the senhora the bare bones of the situation. He left out most of it, certainly not mentioning the Empress, explaining only that Dutra had killed Jillian’s brother on the expedition and had been trying to kill them, too, as they were witnesses. It wasn’t much of an explanation, but the senhora didn’t press any further.

  Instead she said with a rather shocking casualness, “My people will carry the body inland in the morning. It wouldn’t do to bury him too close to the house. The smell, you know.”

  Ben wasn’t sure Dutra could smell any worse dead than he had alive, but kept that comment to himself. Neither of them mentioned notifying the authorities. The people in these isolated settlements tended to handle details like this themselves.

  “Senhora,” Jillian said, “please, may I use your facilities?” It was the first time she had spoken since thanking the senhora for the coffee.