Excerpt of The Bond Unbroken by Diana Grayson

Abilene, Kansas, June 23, 2002

Prologue

"We the jury, find the defendant, Richard Westfield . . . not guilty."

The jury foreman's words were met with an immediate, almost deafening silence before pandemonium broke out in the packed court room.

Police detective, Katlin McKinnen, could feel the blood pounding in her temples as she struggled to control her fury. "And another rapist goes free," she hissed under her breath. Despite her anger, a detached part of her brain observed the scene, cataloging and assigning to memory the smallest detail and reaction among the spectators.

The room was divided into two diametrically opposed factions. On the left side of the room, behind the defense attorney and the defendant, sat the family and friends of the accused. Emotions ran high; from satisfied smiles, snickers, and snide remarks from Rick's buddies, to the smug arrogance of his father who was at the moment patting his son on the back with one hand as he shook the hand of the high priced defense attorney with the other. Richard Westfield Sr. was a man whose money and power had somehow influenced his son's acquittal.

The only discordant note to the victorious side of the room was the mother of the accused. She sat stiffly in her seat, the epitome of class, style, and elegance, dressed in the latest designer fashion, every hair in place. Despite what should be a joyous outcome, her eyes were downcast, fixed on the white lace handkerchief she was twisting into a tight coil in her lap. A single tear rolled slowly down one pale cheek. Katlin knew the woman had to be relieved her son wouldn't be going to prison, but she could only imagine the pain and shame a mother must feel knowing her only child is a rapist. There wasn't a shred of doubt in Katlin's mind that Susan Westfield was aware of both her son's and her husband's less than honorable activities.

Glancing toward the right side of the courtroom, Katlin saw that the reactions to the verdict were much like her own. Emotions ran from stunned disbelief to verbal protests of outrage.

Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the girl seated directly behind the prosecuting attorney. Sharon Hall, the young girl who had shown such strength and courage during the trial, until the verdict had been read. Katlin had been watching her as the jury foreman rose to his feet and cleared his throat before speaking. Sharon's shoulders had been squared, her back was straight, and her head was held high. Now she appeared to have withered, as if the reservoir of strength she'd drawn from had been depleted, and she had closed in upon herself. Her head was now bowed, as if when Richard Westfield had been declared innocent, the victim had been judged guilty.

Sharon lifted her head, turned in her seat, and scanned the courtroom until her eyes fixed upon Katlin. Dull and lifeless, her tear filled blue eyes held such a wealth of mute despair mingled with accusation that Katlin felt the impact hit her like a slap in the face.

Unable to withstand Sharon's reproachful gaze, Katlin's eyes dropped to the car keys clutched so tightly in her hand they left painful indentations in her palm. To say she'd only been doing her job sounded trite and woefully inadequate under the circumstances. There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do, to change the unjust verdict.

What caused Katlin's stomach muscles to coil into painful knots was the knowledge that she had convinced Sharon Hall to press charges against Westfield by playing upon the girl's strong sense of compassion, compassion for the other victims sure to suffer the same experience at Westfield's hands unless someone had the courage to stop him. Abilene's ace detective, Katlin McKinnen, had a job to do. She'd been determined to stop Rick Westfield. To accomplish that goal she had put a gentle, trusting girl through the ordeal of a sensational rape trial. And for what purpose? Rick Westfield was free to rape again. And rape again he would. He believed he could do anything he damn well pleased without being forced to suffer the consequences of his actions. Thanks to the publicity resulting from the rape trial which was a travesty, a sick joke on what passed itself off as a justice system, Katlin couldn't imagine any woman being willing to press charges against him in the future.

Wondering how they could live with what they had done, Katlin's eyes went to the jury box situated to the right, near the front of the court room. There was no way she could excuse the jury's participation in the farce she had been instrumental in setting into motion. Twelve jurors, five women and seven men who made up a careful selection which had included a mix of social and economic backgrounds. It didn't take brilliant deductive reasoning to recognize how "proud" they were of the verdict they had handed down. They wore shame faced expressions with eyes downcast, painfully reluctant to look in Sharon Hall's direction.

They knew he was guilty! Every man and woman seated within that jurors' box knew that no matter how they attempted to justify their actions, they had let a vicious rapist walk away scot free. How Westfield managed to get to the jury, they'd probably never know, but get to them he had.

Ignoring the sound of the judge's gavel smacking against wood in his effort to bring order to his court, Katlin reached for her handbag, rose to her feet, and walked stiffly to the closed double doors at the rear of the room. The court bailiff assigned to prevent anyone from entering, or leaving, stepped into Katlin's path. Without hesitation, she shot him an ice cold glare and felt no small measure of satisfaction when she saw him flinch in response then swallow.

"Detective McKinnen," was his only comment as he reluctantly stepped aside and opened the door wide enough for her to slip through.

Just before she stepped through the doors, Katlin glanced over her shoulder to find Rick Westfield watching her exit. As she met and held his gaze in her unblinking stare, the lips of the fair haired, blue eyed son of Abilene's most influential family, curved into a calculating smirk before he pursed his lips together in a mockery of a kiss for her benefit.

In order to make her escape from the Dickenson County Court House, Katlin had been forced to run the gauntlet of cameras, microphones, and by-line hungry reporters who reminded her of a school of piranha in a feeding frenzy.

At last reaching the relative privacy of her Jeep Cherokee parked in the lot across the street, Katlin rubbed the back of her neck in an attempt to ease some of her tension. She wondered how she could feel utterly heartsick and so furiously angry that she could castrate the worthless bastard at the same time?

Her mind went back to Rick's mother. During the course of her investigation, it had been necessary to question the woman, and Katlin had driven away from the palatial Westfield estate, feeling sick to her stomach. Susan Westfield had everything money could buy, but she was also a miserably unhappy woman. All the expensive makeup in the world, applied with an expertly experienced hand, could not totally conceal the bruises from Katlin who was just as experienced at recognizing the signs of emotional and physical abuse. Mrs. Richard Westfield VI had done nothing, neither by word nor action, which would betray her son or her husband, but the abject despair and defeat in the woman's eyes told a different story.

What was she doing? What did she think she could accomplish? Katlin worked with battered women in the local shelter who more often than not returned to their abuser. She'd worked with rape victims who refused to press charges. Who could blame them? The trial was as traumatic as the actual rape. What the hell was the point? The system wasn't working.

"Pull yourself together, McKinnen," she told herself sternly.

Katlin leaned her head back against the headrest, closed her eyes, and began taking deep, cleansing breaths. As a child studying the Martial Arts, one of the first lessons she'd learned, and unfortunately often forgot, is the mind out of control is like a cattle stampede which leaves a wake of destruction in its path. Stilling the incessant chatter of her thoughts, Katlin mentally controlled her out of control emotions by visualizing them as the stampeding cattle now corralled and grazing contentedly. She then focused her mind on her physical responses. Her heart rate, which was moments ago racing due to the adrenaline rush caused by her anger, was beginning to slow to a normal rate as she brought her body, mind, and emotions together into one controlled unit.

Reaching up, she tilted the rear view mirror downward so she could inspect her appearance and with a groan of disgust pulled her makeup bag from her purse. She put eye drops into each eye to eliminate the tell-tale effects of her sleepless nights, used foundation to blend away the traces of dark circles, and a little blush to add color to her pale cheeks. By the time she was finished there were no visible signs to betray that this case, nor the anonymous threats she'd been receiving as a result, were getting to her.

It was the woman most people believed her to be who leaned forward, inserted the key in the ignition, and started the engine. Mask firmly in place, she was once again the woman who many of the men in the department called "The Ice Princess" behind her back. Katlin had some serious thinking to do about her life; past, present, and future. Then she had some decisions to make.

As the service revolver and leather case containing the badge of the Abilene Police Department slid toward him across the scarred, wooden surface of his desk, Police Chief Ben Thompson didn't know whether to feel surprised or disappointed, sad or angry. He reached out and stopped the progress of the unwanted objects before they toppled off the desk into his lap, then looked up at the expressionless mask of Katlin McKinnen's features. She was furious, her anger tightly leashed beneath the face she put on for the benefit of others. Her actions alone told him all he needed to know. What he didn't know was, what he was going to do about it.

"What’s the meaning of this, Katlin?" he asked almost cautiously.

"How I answer that question depends on whether I'm talking to my superior or to my Uncle Ben," Katlin responded, meeting his inquiring gaze head on.

How did he answer that? As her superior he had no option but to refuse her unspoken resignation. Katlin was not only the best detective in the department, she was also the most honest, loyal, and dedicated. The department couldn't afford to lose her. As her uncle he wanted her off the force so she would be a less likely target for whatever retaliation Westfield might attempt. Although he'd never voiced his suspicions, Ben believed he had already lost his best friend, Katlin's father, because Brian had been digging into Westfield's influence within the department. He didn't want to lose his niece to them as well.

"Damn it, Katie," Ben snapped in frustration, then reached down to extract a bottle and two glasses from his bottom desk drawer.

Katlin glanced at the drinks he was pouring then arched an inquiring eyebrow in his direction. "Drinking on duty?"

"Sometimes duty can be a bitter pill to swallow, and it requires something stout to wash it down," he answered as he pushed one of the glasses across the desk toward her. "Sit down," he instructed, nodding his head toward one of the worn vinyl chairs on the other side of his desk. "You’re upset about the verdict, and you have every right to be. It's bull shit. But, I did warn you it was a possibility when you requested the case."

"You and practically every other man in the department," Katlin shot back as she picked up her glass and lowered herself into the chair that was so old it creaked and groaned in protest despite her slight one hundred and five pounds. AI don't care who he is. He's guilty, and there is no way I was going to back down. Someone has to stand up against the Westfields and all they represent."

"Exactly," Ben agreed, glancing pointedly toward her badge and revolver before meeting her eyes. "It would take more than losing a case against a slime ball like Westfield to induce the Katlin McKinnen I know to hand in her badge. You're not a quitter, Katie."

He was right, and Katlin didn't deny it. She just didn't know how to explain what she was going through so he would understand. Stalling for time, she took a sip of the drink in her hand and gasped as the fiery liquid burned a path down her throat to settle like a molten rock in the pit of her stomach.

"It isn't just this case," Katlin began hesitantly, once she was able to speak. "Although it might have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The job is doing something to me, Ben. Something in here," she said, putting her free hand to her heart for emphasis. "And it scares the hell out of me. I don't want to become like my father, like one of those cops who are so detached they're no longer able to care or feel."

Once started, the words now seemed to flow, almost as if she were thinking out loud. "If I'm honest, I have to ask myself if I joined the force for myself, or did I do it hoping to win my father's approval, his acceptance . . . his love? And we both know how well I succeeded there." There was no bitterness in her voice, just a trace of weariness from stating a sad yet obvious fact. AI always had to work harder than everyone else, to be the best at everything I did, just to prove myself worthy of his love. It was never enough."

Ben didn't say anything, he merely listened, taking the occasional sip of his drink. Ben knew Katlin so well, the real Katlin beneath the tough controlled exterior, the one few people were able to get close to. He'd been pacing the waiting room floor with her father the day she was born, and he'd been more of a father to her than her own had ever been. He would never forget the first time he had held her in his arms and looked into those remarkable green eyes of hers. Most newborns' eyes don't quite focus, yet baby Katlin's eyes had focused on his, they'd appeared to look deep into his soul, and he had felt an immediate connection with her. As much as he loved his two sons, his niece had been the daughter of his heart and one of the joys of his life.

Ben noted that her eyes had taken on a glassy sheen, but there were no tears. He could vividly remember the last time he had seen Katlin cry. It was the day Brian McKinnen coldly informed his five year old daughter that her mother was dead.

On that fateful day, Kathleen had dropped Katie off at their house while she kept an appointment with her obstetrician. Already a week past her due date, the doctor had been considering inducing labor. Three hours later, a grief stricken Brian had arrived with the news.

In an effort to outrun the police, a drunk driver sped through a red light and crashed into the driver's side of Kathleen's car, killing her and her unborn child instantly. Brian's long awaited son. What made a tragic situation truly horrendous was Brian had been driving the police car in pursuit of the drunk driver.

It was understandable that Brian had been suffering from shock and was numb with grief when he broke the news. What Ben found unforgivable was the way in which he did it.

A heartbroken Katie had thrown herself into her Aunt Karen's arms, sobbing inconsolably. Brian had then taken her firmly by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "That is enough, young lady," Brian ordered in a cold hard voice. "My wife is dead. My son is dead. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a crying little sissy." Ben and his wife had been shocked into immobility by Brian's senseless cruelty toward his daughter. "Only babies cry," Brian hissed as he proceed to shake her. Both Ben and Karen reacted in the same instant. Karen dropped to her knees in front of Katie and attempted to pull the little girl into her arms. Ben grabbed Brian by the collar with one hand, his other hand clenched into a fist ready to slug his brother in law. He didn't know how he managed to restrain himself. Maybe he should have hit him that day, if he had, it might have shocked some sense into Brian. Maybe if he had things would have turned out differently for Katlin.

Then Katlin had done something which to this very day the mere memory still had the power to bring a lump to his throat. She stepped away from her aunt, squared her fragile little shoulders, and looked up at Brian with glassy, tear free eyes. Her little chin quivered as she spoke softly to her father with a dignity and resolve that should never be experienced by a five year old child.

"I'm not a baby, Daddy. I'm a big girl."

On that day, something had been born inside his Katie girl, or something had died. Ben was never sure which description fit best. He had seen that glassy sheen in her eyes, that dignity and resolve many times over the years, but he had never seen her shed another tear.

Ben didn't doubt that Brian loved his daughter, in his own way, but when Kathleen McKinnen died, taking the son he'd always dreamed of with her, Brian had shut down emotionally and shut out his daughter in the process. He'd become so immersed in grief over the loss of the woman he considered to be the best part of who he was, so consumed by guilt over the part he had played in the tragedy, he might as well have been in the car with Kathleen that day. The heart of the laughing, affectionate, husband, father, and friend had shriveled up and died years before he ever drew his last breath. Ben always suspected the older Katlin got, and the more she began to grow into the picture image of her mother, the more painful Brian found it to be around his daughter.

Ben didn't know how long he had been lost in his thoughts, but he was a little startled by the sound of Katlin's voice.

"Somewhere along the way, I've lost me. What's really pathetic is that I've spent my entire life trying to be my father's son. Now that he's gone, I feel lost. I've never taken the time to find out who Katlin McKinnen, the woman, really is." Katlin paused and looked at Ben as if she expected him to have some profound words of wisdom to offer her.

If it was that type of wisdom she needed, Ben knew her old karate teacher, Master LuChen Sing, would have been far more equipped to supply the answers. As for himself, his words of wisdom were blocked by the lump in his throat. She was in a very real personal crisis, and there was nothing he could do to help her.

Katlin sat gazing into the amber liquid in her glass, deliberately not looking up at Ben for fear of what she might read in his eyes as she said, "This might sound crazy, but I've always felt as if I don't belong, as if part of me is missing. And I know I'll never be happy until I find that missing part. The past couple of months, the feeling has been so strong I've felt as if I'm being pulled in some direction, toward something." She looked up then and wasn't really surprised that Ben wasn't looking at her like she'd suddenly taken leave of her senses. He was the one person she knew who understood and accepted her without question or judgment.

Ben swallowed and found to his amazement that he did in fact have surprising words of wisdom for her, not his words, but something Katlin herself had told him long ago. "Didn't you once tell me you believed there was some sort of universal or cosmic plan or some such thing?" he asked, not expecting an answer as he continued, "I'm not sure I understood it then, or even if I believe it. Lets see, what exactly was it you said?" He paused, thinking back, trying to get the words right. "You said everything in life happens for a reason. Somehow, we are lead to where we are supposed to be so we can accomplish what we are supposed to do in order to become the person we are meant to be."

"You remembered," Katlin all but whispered, extremely surprised and inordinately pleased by his words. A slight sparkle had entered her eyes, and an unmistakable smile was tugging at her lips. All these years Ben had patiently listened to her somewhat unorthodox belief system and philosophy about life in general. He had never ridiculed nor criticized even though he didn't buy into it himself, and that was okay. Katlin had a deep respect for all religions and beliefs, realizing each person in their own way had to find the path which gave them a sense of peace and comfort. Nor did she believe in trying to force her beliefs on others. They worked for her, and that was enough. To realize her uncle had not only listened but remembered meant more to her than he would ever know.

"Like I said, I don't know if I understand it or even believe it," Ben continued, pleased he had made her smile. "But, it seems to me, Katie girl, if that's what you believe, practice what you preach. Maybe you don't have to try so hard to find what's missing in your life. Maybe it is trying to find you."

When the words had come from Katlin, she had somehow made them sound possible, even logical. Now, hearing those same words spouted from his own lips, Ben had little doubt if the men from the department heard him, they'd suggest he put in for an early retirement. Not just today, but for sometime now, Ben had been struggling with his own sense of frustration. He was getting damn tired of fighting a losing battle against the Westfield corruption in his city. So much so that early retirement was sounding better all the time. What he had never been able to figure out was why the inflated Westfield ego hadn't compelled them to change the name of the city from Abilene to Westfield.

Katlin placed her unwanted drink on the desk then rose to her feet. She walked around the desk and put her arms around her uncle's neck. "Have I told you lately that I love you, Uncle Ben?" she asked and kissed him on the cheek.

"Not often enough, Katie. Not often enough," he answered and hugged her in return.

Ben gave her an affectionate swat on the behind then slipped into Captain Thompson mode. "Now, speaking as your superior. Your resignation is hereby refused," he insisted. He picked up her revolver and badge then extended them toward her. "You haven't taken a real vacation in over three years so you have a lot of accumulated time coming to you. Take all the time you need to sort things out."

After she returned her badge and firearm to her handbag, Katlin slid her mostly untouched drink in front of her uncle with a grimace of distaste. AI don't know how you can drink that rot gut."

"What can I say," he responded with a grin and a shrug. "It’s genetic, an ability handed down from my great, great, grand daddy."

"Ben Thompson," Katlin finished for him. "Gunslinger, gambler, saloon owner, etc." Katlin turned toward the wall on which hung her uncle's most prized possession. Handed down through his family for generations, he was the proud owner of the original sign which had once hung on the Bull's Head saloon during Abilene's hey-day as the wildest, wickedest, cowtown in the west. The wooden sign depicted a bull in an obvious and exaggerated state of arousal. As the story went, the more conservative citizens of the town were so offended by the sign they had signed a petition demanding its removal. Wild Bill Hickok, town marshal at that time, had stood beneath the saloon's sign with a sawed off shotgun while the bull was castrated with a paint brush. Now fully restored in all its glory, what had once been considered obscene, was now quite a conversation piece and a treasured piece of history.

"Katie?"

She had been so lost in her vision of that long ago time in Abilene the sound of Ben's voice appeared to come from a long way off. The image in her mind had been so vivid Katlin could almost imagine she had been there to witness Wild Bill's handiwork.

"When you get back, we'll talk again," Ben continued. "If at that time you still want to turn in your badge, I'll support your decision. Whatever it takes to make you happy. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Katlin responded, then reached up to pat the Bull's Head sign for good luck.

Ben stared at his good luck sign for long moments after his beloved niece walked out of his office. If the intuitive feeling in his gut was an indication, Katlin McKinnen was about to find more than she bargained for. He picked up the drink he had poured for her and raised it toward the sign in a mock toast.

"When she finds him, or he finds her, heaven help them both." Thinking he heard someone chuckle, Ben's head snapped toward the door ready to chastise whomever had entered without knocking. Finding it still closed, goose bumps formed on his arms, the hair stood on end, and a chill slithered down his spine. In an attempt to shake off the unsettling sensation of an unseen presence, he tossed back his drink in one fiery gulp.

Chapter One

Katlin brought her horse to a halt and stared in amazement at the sight in front of her. Even though Mark Haywood had described this twenty acre wooded tract on his ranch, she hadn't been prepared for this. It looked like a well cared for city park with a huge, crystal clear, five acre pond in its center.

Located about an hour's ride on horseback from the main house, according to Mark, the original pond had been much smaller, with only a few trees around it. During the past one hundred plus years, family members had cleared the area, planted trees and grass, had increased the size, and stocked the pond until it had become what it was today . . . a lovely, wooded glen used exclusively by family and a select few invited guests.

Katlin's only regret was that she hadn't taken Mark up on his offer sooner. She'd known the ranch Mark inherited shortly after his retirement from the department was reported to be a large one, but she hadn't expected it to be so vast.

"A man or woman," Mark had corrected himself, "can ride out to the park and not see another human being for days, unless of course they want to," he'd told her on his last visit. As much as he appeared to love his new life on the ranch, he made frequent trips into Abilene to reminisce with his old friends who were still with the department. So, here she was. Katlin had this idyllic setting all to herself for as long as she chose to remain, with only the company of Bart, her hundred pound German shepherd, her borrowed mare, and pack horse. It was perfect.

She was aware that most of her friends didn't understand the need she often felt to go off alone and commune with nature as they termed it, but no one ever questioned her doing so, at least not to her face. What they didn't know is that along with the need to get in touch with Mother Earth, she needed the peace in order to get back in touch with herself.

Turning around in her saddle, Katlin surveyed the landscape around her. Except for the park like area and pond, as far as the eye could see were gently rolling plains of tallgrass and prairie wild flowers swaying in rhythm to the warm June breezes. The only visible sign of civilization was the jet stream cloud overhead that marred the perfection of the clear blue sky like an unsightly scar.

"Come on Bart," she called, in an effort to rescue the poor creature her dog was chasing through the underbrush. "The sooner I set up camp, the sooner you'll eat."

Katlin leisurely circled the pond until she found the camp site. Located on the east side to face the sun which would set in the west, the recently mowed, circular shaped clearing was approximately twenty feet in diameter, bordered by the water's edge in the front, the rest surrounded by trees. In the center of the clearing stood three large pine trees, planted in a "V" formation, their branches overlapping to form a natural shelter from the elements. In the center of the "V," a fire pit had been dug and surrounded by large stones. Whomever had mowed the clearing before her arrival had thoughtfully left a large supply of cut wood and kindling.

Anxious to set up, she swung her right leg over her saddle and gracefully lowered herself to the ground. In short order, she'd unsaddled the mare, unloaded her supplies from the pack horse, and had the horses grazing contentedly on the freshly cut grass. Once she had the supplies organized, she secured her iron tripod against the rocks surrounding the fire pit and attached her coffee pot to the hook at the top. Katlin poured about a quart of the bottled water she'd brought with her into the pot, then used her disposable lighter to ignite the balled up newspaper she had stuffed among the logs and kindling.

Glancing over to the German shepherd sitting patiently beside the bag containing his food, Katlin laughed. "I know. You're hungry."

A half an hour later, the ground beneath her cushioned by her unrolled sleeping bag and a pillow behind her to protect her back from the rough bark of the tree, Katlin sat with her legs stretched out in front of her, sipping a hot cup of instant coffee as she watched the sunshine glimmer on the rippling water of the pond. A deep, contented sigh escaped her as she realized that for the first time in a very long time she felt totally at peace.

Bart, who had attacked his food like he hadn't been fed in days, trotted over and laid down beside her. As she stroked his silky head, she remembered the day she'd found him. The German shepherd pup, barely old enough to be weaned, was starving and nearly dead in an alley. She'd named him Black Bart because of his color and because of Ben's fascination with gunslingers of the Wild West. At the time, she'd infiltrated a street gang in an attempt to find out who was responsible for a drive by shooting which had nearly killed a three year old girl. That was one perp, she was pleased to remember, who didn't walk away because of a bad verdict.

When he was old enough, Katlin put Bart through the training designed for police dogs. He'd gone through it with such flying colors, the training officer in charge had tried to talk her into letting Bart be utilized by the department. Katlin had refused. She personally believed Bart had too much of an independent nature to make a good, disciplined, police dog, and she wouldn't allow that spirit to be broken.

Bart's regular breathing and twitching legs told Katlin he was asleep and probably dreaming about the poor creature he had chased into the underbrush.

Putting her cup aside, Katlin sat up, crossed her legs Indian fashion, and placed her hands palms up on her knees in a meditation pose. She closed her eyes and began taking deep breaths as she visualized a protective white light surrounding her. In her mind, the circle of light expanded until it encompassed the entire clearing then spread outward to encompass the grazing horses.

Beginning at her toes, she consciously relaxed each part of her body, one at a time, until she felt weightless. The sounds of the birds and the breeze rustling through the trees began to fade. The air around her began to crackle with static electricity. The hair on her arms stood up, and the hair on her head not caught tightly in her long braid began to rise. Her entire body had the prickling sensation felt after a limb had gone to sleep and the circulation was just beginning to return. In the back of her conscious mind, a warning voice whispered, "The sensation is too intense. Something isn't right. Bring yourself out of it." Katlin fought back the warning, focusing totally on the pinpoint of light she visualized in her mind's eye. The popping and cracking sound intensified, and she felt herself being pulled upward into a swirling vortex of electrically charged energy, surrounded by what looked like a spectacular Fourth of July fireworks display. The fireworks began to flow backward, as if being sucked into the original pinpoint of light. Slowly her senses begin to stabilize. With grim determination she held her focus point until nothing remained except the original pinpoint of light. A pinpoint of light that began to grow and expand until what she saw in her mind resembled a blank movie screen waiting to be filled.

As if he walked toward her through a dense fog, the image of a man wearing a long white robe belted at the waist with a gold cord began to form on the screen. He was a small, Asian male of indeterminate age, with a long mustache which blended into the snow white beard that hung to his chest. His bald head glistened as it reflected an unseen light source.

Katlin knew this man. He was a man who had been such an important part of her life . . . until his death ten years ago.

"LuChen Sing. Is it really you?"

"It's been a long time, Little One," he answered gently. "A very long time, but you finally made it here."

"I don't understand. Where is here?"

Giving her the type of answer she remembered from childhood, when he was her karate instructor and teacher of the Ancient Philosophies and Teachings, he responded, "Where, as well as when, is relative, only as it is necessary to personal growth."

It was an answer that was no answer, more like an unfathomable puzzle which makes absolutely no sense, no matter how hard you try to figure it out, until somewhere down the road something happens and understanding hits you right between the eyes.

"Open your eyes, Katlin," he instructed.

Obeying, she opened her eyes, and there he stood in front of her. "This isn't possible," she stammered. "You're . . . ."

"Dead?" he finished for her. "Am I? You know better than that. Death as you know it, is merely another plain of existence."

Katlin's heart began pounding erratically in her chest. She tried to make her body move, but it seemed to be frozen to the spot. She closed her eyes again. "Get a grip, McKinnen," she told herself firmly. "You're still under. Count yourself out. One . . . two . . .three . . . four . . . five. You're wide awake . . . in the here and now."

She opened her eyes slowly, peaking from under her lids. He was still there.

"You are in the here and now," he informed her casually as he smoothly sat down before her in a meditation position. "The question is when is the here and now?"

Her mind was racing frantically, trying to make sense of what was happening. "I must have fallen asleep while I was trying to meditate. I'm dreaming. Either that, or I'm a candidate for the next fruitcake of the month club, and my fruitcake is mostly nuts."

"I sense a cattle stampede, Katlin," Sing warned in his sternest teacher voice.

His words released her from her immobility, and she sprang to her feet, startling Bart who hunched beside her in a protective stance. She searched the vicinity and listened for any sign of a stampede, until Sing's chuckle brought her puzzled gaze back to him.

"Stampede. Of course! The mind out of control." As realization dawned, she was tempted to hit herself between the eyes with the heel of her palm. "Okay McKinnen," she mentally rationalized, "This is one hell of a meditation. If you're still under, there has to be a reason. Something you're supposed to learn." She swallowed and began taking calming

breaths. "Pull yourself together and find out what it is so you can come out of it."

Katlin looked down at LuChen Sing. Black Bart, the traitor, now had his head in Sing's lap and was sprawled on his back in doggie heaven, having his belly rubbed.

LuChen Sing's ageless eyes watched Katlin as if they could reach into her soul and read her thoughts. Sing nodded his head in satisfaction. "Sit down child, we haven't much time."

With as much control as she could muster, under the circumstances, she sat across from him as if she were joining anyone else who had dropped in unexpectedly, not the man who's death she had mourned for a very long time.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I've always been with you, Katlin. The question is, why are you here?" he replied.

"Please," she groaned wearily, "I'm not sharp enough at the moment to decipher double talk."

Knowing things were about to get very interesting for Katlin and his time to help prepare her was running short, he took pity on her. In truth, he was proud of how well she had handled his appearance. Understandably, she'd been shaken, but she had pulled herself together rather quickly for one in human form and was now ready to listen.

"I have been with you, Katlin, through many lifetimes. My purpose has been to teach and guide you, to help you become all that you are meant to be."

"A guardian angel?" she asked.

"Guardian angel or spirit guide, both are human terms for one in spirit form who has been sent to earth to aid one among the living."

Many lifetimes . . . reincarnation. Sing had taught her that philosophy as a child. It was a concept she had always felt comfortable with. Reincarnation and karma was a belief system that offered a sense of absolute justice and order in what seemed to be an unjust world. As you sow, so shall you reap. What goes around, comes around; however many lifetimes it takes to learn what you're supposed to learn, to balance the karmic scales, to get it right. That Sing was her spirit guide shouldn't be so surprising either. From the moment she met him, when she became his student as a young child, there had been an uncanny connection between them.

As Katlin quickly rationalized these thoughts, she felt slightly more comfortable with the situation, more grounded. It still didn't explain why Sing had made his presence known to her, here and now. Glancing up, she was surprised to see that the position of the sun had altered drastically. She'd been totally unaware of the passing of time. It was then that her eyes widened in dismay. The pond was no longer the same body of water she had camped beside. And the trees! Where were all the trees? Only a few remained. Only the area she had visualized surrounded by the protective light when she went into the meditation remained unchanged.

"Sing," she turned to face him, her eyes betraying her obvious alarm, "What is going on?"

"I was getting to that," he replied, and Katlin knew instinctively she wasn't going to like the answer. "Free will. We are to guide, but we can not interfere with free will. That's where humans mess things up. And that is why you are here. You wanted to find what was missing in your life didn't you?"

"Where is here?" she asked tautly as she twisted the end of her braid around her fingers. It was a nervous habit that instantly betrayed her agitated state.

"Again, the question is . . . when?"

"Okay, Sing, I'll bite. When?"

He took his time answering, his eyes dancing as he pretended to think. Finally, he said with a chuckle that Katlin could only describe as ominous, "Oh, I'd place us in about . . . 1871."

"What did you say?" she asked in a rigidly controlled, quiet voice, when everything in her wanted to scream the question. She had heard him clearly enough the first time. She just didn't believe what she heard. It wasn't possible . . . was it?

"June 25, 1871, to be exact."

Looking around her again, Katlin tapped into the detached part of her brain that was so observant. Except for the clearing, the scene was exactly as Mark Haywood had described it to be over one hundred years ago. As much as she wanted to ignore the evidence before her eyes, she instinctively knew Sing was telling her the truth. Another bit of indisputable evidence that couldn't be ignored was the fact that LuChen Sing didn't lie. All the years she had known him he had refused to tell even a small white lie and was often brutally honest. "Lies create bad karma, Little One," he used to tell her. "And to put it bluntly, karma can be a bitch."

She hurtled back to earth as reality struck, and it was an awakening that left her reeling. She was really in the year 1871. Part in dread and part with a perverse sense of anticipation, she asked quietly, "Why?"

"It's time to find the missing part, Katlin, the part that has left you feeling incomplete in the lifetime you were living," Sing answered. Katlin felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach when she saw that he was beginning to disappear. "It's also time to find your missing sense of humor."

"Damn it, Sing, this isn't funny." Katlin jumped to her feet and rushed to where Sing was sitting. His image now so faint she could barely see him.

"You've been given a gift, the opportunity to change history. Be very careful. The changes you make can alter the course of history for the better or have catastrophic affects on the future as you know it." With the ominous warning, he was gone.

"You can't dump me in the year 1871 and then disappear on me," she insisted, knowing full well he could and had.

"I'll be around . . . when you need me," replied Sing's disembodied voice.

Gunshots rang out in the distance.

"Damn it, Sing, come back here," Katlin demanded to the now empty space where he had been.

More gunshots, getting closer.

"This is not good," she groaned as she rushed to the sleeping bag and reached beneath it to retrieve her service revolver. She expelled the amo magazine to make sure it was full, then snapped it back into the chamber. She slipped her gun into her shoulder holster, concealed beneath the opened, blue denim shirt she wore over a white tee shirt. Katlin might like being out in the wide open spaces all alone, but she wasn't stupid enough to do so unprepared or unprotected.

As she ran to the spirited mare, Katlin heard Sing laugh, followed by his sing song voice, "What comes first, Little One, the chicken or the egg?"

"What comes first, the chicken or the egg?" she muttered under her breath as she vaulted onto the mare's bare back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? There is no answer."

More gunfire echoing in the distance.

As she turned the horse in the direction of the gunshots, she looked down at Black Bart who had been hot on her heels. "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto."

Glancing heavenward, she said to whom ever might be listening, "Who doesn't have a sense of humor?" Then with a resiliency that was an inborn part of her nature, she pressed her heels into the spirited mare's flanks to spur her into action.

As she saw it, there were two possibilities. Either she was having a dream or a meditation for the record books and would eventually wake up, or, as she believed to be the case, she was actually in the year 1871. In either event, she had little option but to go with the flow, so to speak, and let the events fall where they may.

Katlin rode hell bent for leather as they called it in the western novels her Uncle Ben was so fond of reading, and she actually laughed out loud. The sensation of the wind in her hair and the Arabian mare beneath her was as exhilarating as a motorcycle ride with the throttle wide open.

Heading in what she hoped was an intercept course toward the shots, she crested the rise and pulled the mare to a quick halt. Quickly assessing the situation, Katlin pinpointed six men on horse back in the distance, riding in her direction. The man in the lead was rapidly losing ground to the five men in hot pursuit, attempting to shoot him from the saddle.

Katlin was awed by the sight of horse and rider appearing almost as one. The stout hearted Appaloosa was stretched out to its fullest, its strides literally flying over the open ground in an attempt to save the rider who had leaned forward, hugging the horse's neck to make himself a smaller target. She could almost sense the beautiful animal's heart thundering within its sleek body from the exertion. Her own heart was pounding in her chest with empathy at such a valiant attempt, one doomed to failure unless she intervened.

Looking around for a safe position from which to make her stand, Katlin was dismayed to realize there was no cover within sight. Glancing down at Bart, she said with a shrug, "It's worth a shot."

Then to whomever, she said, "A little help would come in handy about now." To her amazement, whomever responded. To her left there was a flash of light, and before her disbelieving eyes several large boulders began to materialize. She rode behind the boulders, dismounted, and put her hands against the cool stone, praying that it would have true substance when real bullets began to fly. "Thank you," she said in appreciation. Unfortunately, she didn't have time to attempt to figure this one out at the moment.

Katlin looked through the gap between the rocks. They would be within her firing range in a matter of minutes, and she had to decide what action to take. She didn't like not being in control of a situation. And she sure as hell didn't like the fact that she didn't know who were the bad guys in the drama she'd been thrust into.

Coming at her could very well be a posse made up of family men, attempting to capture a bank robber or killer. Or she could have stumbled onto a multi million dollar movie shoot. She didn't dare kill anyone. She could imagine the headlines. ACTORS SHOT IN COLD BLOOD BY VACATIONING LADY COP. Katlin was certain of only one fact, she didn't like the five to one odds, and she had always been a sucker for the underdog. She had no choice but to act on instinct and deal with the consequences later.

Uncertain of whom she would be dealing with, Katlin took a very wise precaution. She looked down at Bart. "Take cover boy. Hide and protect." Bart moved into the tall prairie grass directly behind her and crouched down until he was virtually undetectable.

Unholstering her revolver, Katlin took aim. She didn't have long to wait. Aiming into the air, she pulled the trigger. The explosive echo of the unexpected shot carried to the riders, offering the man riding for his life the distraction he needed. He spied the cover and made a beeline for it. Katlin began firing in earnest. She skillfully shot the hats off two heads, the pistol out of one hand, and two more shots into the ground in front of the five men. The Appaloosa was pulled to a quick halt behind her, engulfing them in a thick cloud of dust as the rider vaulted from his horse and dropped down beside her.

The five men stopped so suddenly they might as well have come up against an invisible wall. At this point, nothing would have surprised Katlin.

"Right smart shootin' son, but you should have killed the bastards," the man beside her said, barely sparing her a glance as he stood and took aim over the top of the boulder.

"I prefer to know exactly who I'm aiming at when I shoot to kill, and why that person deserves to die," Katlin told him with quiet emphasis, never taking her eyes off the five horsemen who were clearly trying to decide what action to take. Katlin and her companion had the drop on them. Unless they had a death wish, there was nothing they could do except retreat.

Katlin heard an unmistakable gasp of surprise beside her as her companion realized he wasn't dealing with the boy he'd thought her to be.

An overweight bear of a man with a bushy, unkempt black beard, mustache, and long stringy hair separated himself from the pack. His fury at being thwarted was evident in the glare he tossed in their direction before he growled an order to his men and reined his horse about. They rode out in a hurry, as if fearing a bullet in the back.

Katlin slowly turned and aimed her gun toward the man at her side. Until she found out exactly what was going on here, no one would be shot from behind.

"Hand over your weapon, slowly," she instructed in her most unyielding tone of voice. Nothing in her manner gave away what was really going on in her mind. "This is all I need," she thought to herself. "Now that I've got him, what am I supposed to do with him? I can hardly take him in to be printed and checked for priors."

He turned toward her, his movements appeared relaxed, but Katlin could sense an underlying tension in his body. There was little doubt in her mind that she'd find his gun turned on her in an instant if he considered her a real threat. She suspected he was doing the same thing she was doing, each attempting to assess who they were dealing with, friend or foe.

He was tall, probably six feet, and wore a single holster riding low on his right hip tied down to his muscular, denim clad thigh with a buckskin thong. He was powerfully built, and Katlin knew the muscles straining the seams of the blue cotton shirt he wore beneath a soft leather vest could not be the result of pumping iron at the local gym. All in all, he did not fit the image she had of a Wild West Gunslinger.

"It isn't as if you run into gunslingers every day, McKinnen," she told herself sarcastically. "How do you expect to recognize the varmint if you catch one?" Katlin was appalled to realize there was a hysterical giggle bubbling up inside her. How she managed to keep her features from betraying her thoughts she would never know.

The sun directly behind him cast a shadow from the brim of his hat to hide the upper portion of his face from her view. She'd always found that a person's eyes revealed a lot about his character, and she was unable to see his.

She could however, feel his eyes sliding over her, from the top of her head to the tip of her boots, then slowly repeat the process in reverse. His concealed gaze was like a physical caress on each part of her body as his eyes moved over her. It took every ounce of control she possessed to steel herself to show no outward sign of response. Adopting the ‘Ice Princess’ persona had become second nature over the years, almost to the point where she often wondered where the mask ended and the real Katlin McKinnen began.

Mitch Cameron knew that by all rights he should be a dead man. Hired guns like the ones who had ambushed him didn't miss, unless it was a miracle or deliberate. Mitch didn't believe in miracles any more than he believed in coincidences. He could almost believe he had been deliberately herded toward this location, in the middle of nowhere, toward the woman who had supposedly rescued him. She was one hell of a shot, and it was obvious she could have easily taken the gunmen out . . . unless she wasn't supposed to.

Who was this pistol packin' female? If he was the fanciful sort, he could almost imagine she was an angel sent to save his worthless hide. Damn, but she was gorgeous. He wasn't much of a church going man either, but somehow he didn't think angels looked like her. It was highly unlikely they handled a pistol like she did, and they sure as hell wouldn't dress the way she was dressed.

About a year back, he'd met Martha Jane Canary, better known as Calamity Jane. Jane was a cigar smoking stagecoach driver who wore buckskins like a man, who could out drink, out cuss, and out shoot most of the men the territory had to offer. Mitch had genuinely liked Calamity, suspecting that beneath her rough and tumble exterior beat a heart of gold. Still, comparing the two women was like comparing a Kentucky thoroughbred to a range weary pack mule.

Even though he had run across a couple of other women who wore trousers, he had never seen a woman who wore men's Levis like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination, while at the same time tempting the imagination into areas it had no business wanderin'. His eyes rose to her breasts. One side of her opened shirt had caught on a shoulder holster, revealing that she wore nothing beneath the thin white undershirt. One perfect, firm breast tipped with a pebble hard nipple was clearly outlined to his view. Despite the fact that she had him at gun point, his libido went up like a prairie brush fire in a drought. She was without a doubt the most potently sexy female he had ever encountered. Her long red hair had been caught up in a braid that fell across her shoulder, hair that shined with life, reflecting the sunlight and creating an illusion of a fiery halo around her head.

However, the fire of his immediate physical response was quickly doused when his gaze lifted to clash with unyielding, icy green eyes. Eyes that could effectively shrivel a man's cock at twenty paces. He'd faced hardened gunslingers who showed more emotion.

Definitely no angel this one, nor what he'd classify a lady. A red haired, green eyed witch was a more apt description, one who was more than likely sent by the devil behind his father's murder.

Could be the man he was after wanted to find out how much he knew, who else he might have involved, and they couldn't get that information from a dead man. That gave him an edge. They had no way of knowing that except for a faded, barely legible telegram sent from Abilene, the stunning redhead was his first real lead. He wouldn't hesitate to use it or her to get at the truth. If he had a little fun in the process, the way he figured it, they owed him.

She had already made one big mistake. He had counted the shots she had fired. Six shots. She was now holding him at gun point with an unloaded pistol, strange looking as it was. There was no doubt that he could overpower her with little effort. As enjoyable as the prospect sounded, Mitch realized his best course of action would be to let her think she was in control of the situation. He'd just play along with her and see where she might lead him.

He had reached a decision, Katlin could sense it, and she was prepared to counter any action he might take. She was, however, a firm believer in avoiding a physical confrontation if at all possible. Now was a good time to bring out her ace in the hole.

"Now Bart," she commanded.

Bart emitted a low, warning growl deep in his throat as he slowly emerged from the grass. His teeth were bared, and he was crouched, ready to spring to the attack should she give the command. A command that would not even be necessary if the man made one wrong move in Katlin's direction.

Mitch's head snapped around in the direction of the huge dog that was eyeing him like a rare piece of beef steak held just out of his reach. Even though it would pain him to kill such a beautiful animal, he eyed the dog warily, knowing he wouldn't hesitate to shoot it if he was forced to do so.

His movements were slow and deliberate as he turned back to face the woman. She hadn't so much as blinked, her gun hadn't wavered even a fraction of an inch.

"You're good lady. Damn good."

"Whatever you were planning, I wouldn't recommend it," Katlin warned softly. "I'd hate to have saved your ass, only to be forced to shoot you myself."