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Striped frogs jumped out of the way, splash-landing into sodden swales. Dragonflies hovered close to the water's surface, their blue bodies gleaming in the sun. The air was abuzz with dark clouds of bugs that flittered back and forth in a graceless dance.
    He found a relatively dry spot next to Blizzard and tethÂered both horses together. Fearing the marshal would fall out of the saddle if left unsupervised, he helped Owen to the ground and settled him on a blanket in the skimpy shade of a low-growing willow.
    As quickly as he dared, he circled the marshy bog on foot, his sense of dread increasing with each hurried step. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called her name. "Sarah!"
    "It's 'bout time you got here!"
    His heart leaped at the sound of her voice. Unable to disÂcern where her voice came from, he squinted against the sun. "Where are you?"
    "Over here!"
    He spotted her, at last, in the middle of a murky pool. Alarm shot through him. "What in the world . . .!"
    "Don't come any closer," she warned. "If you get stuck, neither of us has got a prayer of gettin ' out. This stuff holds on tighter than a corset."
    "A corset, eh?" He couldn't help but laugh. He was so relieved to see her he almost jumped with joy. "You don't strike me as the type to have firsthand knowledge of such a garment."
    "You don't have to wear them to know how they fit," she snapped. "Now get off the stick and get me outta here!"
    Without another word he backed away, watching his every step until he reached hard ground again. "Don't move," he called. He then raced back to the horses. A coil of rope hung from the skirts of the marshal's saddlebags. He hoped it was long enough to do the job.
    Rope in hand, he started back. Moving as close to Sarah as he dared, he uncoiled the rope. "Grab hold of this," he called. "I'll haul you in."
    He tossed one end of the rope to her, and it fell a distance away.
    "You throw like you build a fire," she complained.
    Pulling the rope back in, he grinned. "I'm glad to see you've retained your usual sweet disposition."
    "Don't go gettin ' your hopes up high, Preacher," she said. Although her fate was in his hands, she made no attempt to agree with him or even placate him. "I might have one foot in the grave, but I ain't about to mend my ways."
    "That's two feet you have in the grave," he teased. "And if you mended your ways, I wouldn't have to keep rescuing you." He tossed the end of the rope again, this time hitting his mark.
    She grabbed hold of it, and he slowly reeled her in. When she was close enough to reach, he held out his hand and yanked her out of the mire.
    She followed him back to the horses with her arms straight out like a scarecrow's, complaining all the way. "Did you ever see such a mess in all your born days?" she cried.
    "We'll find a safe place for you to clean off," he said. "While you're doing that, I'll fix us something to eat."
    "I'll eat with you. But I ain't goin ' to Texas with you," she said. "So you can just forget that notion, you hear?"
    By the time they had moved to dry land and found clean water, she was in an even worse mood than before. Her pants, shirt, boots—everything—were caked with sand and she walked like a stiff board.
    Apparently, it wasn't in Sarah's nature to suffer in silence. She voiced her complaints nonstop till his ears began to ring.
    He pulled a blanket off the horse and handed her a pair of clean pants and a shirt. He then pulled out a bar of Blue India soap he had tucked away in his saddlebags and tossed it to her. She stared down at the soap in her hand, and her face softened.
    Without a word, she turned and disappeared behind a clump of trees.
    She was in a considerably better mood when she returned. Her damp hair fell to her shoulders in tangled curls. His clothes were too large for her, and she had rolled up the legs of his pants and the sleeves of his shirt. She flung her newly washed clothes over Moses' saddle to dry.
    He offered her a strip