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straightened, his gaze moved past her to a point beyond her shoulder.
    Sensing a looming presence, she whirled. For one insane moment she expected to see John Crawford leering down at her, which was absurd, since he was half a world away and had no idea where she was.
    Instead, it was Wilkins behind her, a saddle in one hand, a rope-strung bundle in the other.
    She lurched back. “W-What are you doing?” she almost shrieked. Perhaps she shrieked it after all, judging by his startled expression. He stepped back, as if to distance himself before she did something even more shocking, like speaking in tongues or bolting giggling through the cactus. Clearly he thought her deranged. Perhaps she was.
    “You shouldn’t sneak up on a person,” she accused in a shaky voice.
    “I don’t sneak.”
    Of course he didn’t. A man his size couldn’t sneak up on a fence post, especially carrying all that paraphernalia. She was definitely deranged.
    While the two men discussed where to stow Wilkins’s gear, she struggled to calm her breathing, infuriated that she had allowed emotion to overcome reason. Again. Why, after three months and thousands of miles, was Crawford still in her head, ready to pounce? Would she never be rid of him?
    By the time Phelps had climbed topside to load Wilkins’s belongings, she had regained a measure of control. Stepping around Brady Wilkins, she moved along the off side of the coach. “While you’re up there, Mr. Phelps, would you please retrieve my bandbox?” Rising on tiptoe, she tapped a half-buried hatbox with the tip of her parasol. “That one, please.” Stepping back, she hooked the parasol over her forearm and straightened her cape. “I would be most grateful.”
    “Aw, hell,” Phelps muttered. “Can’t it wait?”
    “I regret it cannot.”
    “It’ll take me an hour to unpack and repack.”
    “Surely not.”
    “Aw, hell.”
    With Wilkins’s help, it took less than five minutes. Gratified to have the ordeal over and anxious to get out of the sun, she pulled two Indian head coppers from her reticule. She handed one to the driver. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Phelps.”
    He stared blankly at the coin in his palm. “What’s this?”
    “A token of my appreciation.” Steeling herself, she turned to Wilkins. “And thank you for your help as well.” She extended the second coin.
    His big hands started up.
    She almost flinched but caught herself. She even managed to keep her hand steady.
    But instead of accepting the coin, he folded his arms across his chest. “No.”
    “You won’t accept my offering?”
    “No.”
    She had no response to such blatant rudeness. Nor was she inclined to stand bareheaded in this lung-searing heat and allow herself to be drawn into some tiresome game of insistence-and-refusal. Irritation overcoming fear, she grabbed Wilkins’s hand and slapped the coin onto his callused palm. “Accept it with my gratitude. I insist.”
    His magnificent eyes narrowed.
    But before he could voice objections, she snatched up the hatbox and marched around to the door of the coach. Men. Rot them all.
    The other passengers had already taken their seats—except for Bodine, who stomped angrily toward the front of the coach. Apparently his digestive indiscretions had resulted in his banishment to the driver’s box. Relieved, she climbed aboard.
    Even with Bodine gone, the air was ghastly. Breathing through her mouth, she removed from the bandbox a simple straw bonnet with lilac rosettes and a white silk scarf. After securing it with a fluffy bow, she set the empty box on the floor as a brace for her feet, then sat back, hoping they would get under way soon and force fresh air into the stifling coach.
    That prickle again, like fingertips brushing along her neck. She looked over to see Brady Wilkins in the doorway, frowning at the hatbox. “What the hell is that doing there?”
    “I put it there.” Mindful of the other passengers, she leaned forward and spoke in a low