Knight In A White Stetson

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Chapter 1 ^» Calla switched on the radio.GeorgeStrait's husky voice filled the superheated in the cab of the pickup and settled Calla's nerves. Lucky it wasGeorgeStrait, she told herself. As mad as she was, if a lesser country music mortal had come on the radio, she might have pulled her rifle from the gun rack behind her and shot it out. She slid off the seat, jumped from the cab and walked to the front of the old Chevy truck. "Lester Smiley," Calla muttered, kicking the flat front tire with her booted foot, "if I ever get out of this mess, I'm coming for you." She thought about searching again for the jack and the lug wrench, normally stowed behind the bench seat in the cab, but she'd already spent twenty minutes tearing the truck apart trying to find them. After the first few minutes she'd realized they weren't there; that that half-drunk Lester had taken them out for some ungodly reason and had forgotten—or been too lazy, more likely—to put them back. But

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she'd kept looking, through the toolbox, under the pile of horse blankets and tack in the bed, even in the small spaces between the engine and the truck body. It gave her something to do. That and swearing. But she was tired of looking now. She was even tired of swearing. She sat down on the plump spare tire she'd unhooked from the undercarriage of the truck and put her chin in her hands. She was twenty miles from home, on an old, mostly abandoned road the chalk trucks used when they were pulling chalk from these hills a decade ago. Nobody but she and Lester ever traveled this road anymore, not before hunting season anyway, so the chance of getting rescued out of the heat by a passing vehicle was too slim to consider. And when she'd left the ranch that morning before dawn, she'd scrawled a note and left it on the kitchen counter, telling her father and her aunt Helen that she might spend the night at Two Creek Camp and return home the next day. "Damn," she muttered again, just to make herself feel better. She pulled her cowboy hat from her head and fanned away a deerfly that buzzed in the heat waves gathering in front of her eyes. "Damn, damn, damn." The decision not to stay at Two Creek had been a bad one, Calla admitted. But she'd wanted to get back to the ranch and clean up before dark. Clark, the man she'd met at college who was currently, and inexplicably courting her, was due in fromConnecticuttonight, and though he hadn't promised to come out to the ranch until morning, she thought he might change his mind. So instead of stopping at Two Creek she had run over some dang thing on this godforsaken road in the middle of nowhere in a truck that stupid Lester had taken the stupid jack and lug wrench out of. She was working herself toward another useless fit, she knew. Plus, she was thinking in sentences that ended with prepositions, something she had to watch, consideringClark's opinion on that sort of thing. Calla blew out a long breath, got to her feet and reached into the truck to switch off the radio. Then she rolled the spare around to the bed and heaved it in. A glance at the blueIdahosky told her it was aroundthree o'clock. Well, heck, nothing to do but wait until that sun got a little lower, she decided. She took a saddle pad from the pickup bed and tossed it under the truck, then scooted on her elbows in after it, settling herself in the meager shade, her hat at her side and her boots sticking out from under the truck. She'd start out in an hour, she thought, when it wasn't so hot. The idea of walking the twenty miles home in the dark didn't scare her, though she was plenty mad about it. She'd spent her life in these rocky hills, on horseback mostly, or driving salt blocks around, but she'd walked her share, too. The silhouettes of Monument Rock andDeadHorseCanyonand theBennettMountainwere as familiar to her as the shadows the moon made on the walls of the room she'd slept in since she was born. She'd make five miles before dark, and when the moon came up, she'd make the next fifteen. Calla decided to spend the hour planning her revenge on her hired man. *** Someone was kicking her boot. Hard. She tried to sit up, forgetting where she was, and banged her head on the undercarriage of the truck.

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"Ow," she yelped. "Stop kicking me, you idiot." She dug her heels in the dirt and shot out from under the truck, dragging her hat with one hand and holding her forehead with the other. The sun, lower now but still blazing, blinded her for a minute, and she sat still on the ground, cross-legged, until her eyes became accustomed to the light. "Well," she said, reaching out to the figure in front of her, "now that you've crippled me, give me a hand up, will you?" The boot kicker grabbed her hand and pulled her to herfeet. With one eye still closed against the light, she looked into his face. It was grinning at her. Typical. "Hey." "Hey," the man said, still grinning. "Sorry about that. When you didn't wake up when I yelled at you, I thought maybe you were dead under there." "Asleep, I guess, not dead." She tugged on her hat. "But I am stranded. You got a jack?" "Yeah. Hold on." The man went to his truck, a bigger, newer version of the Chevy Calla was driving, and pulled a jack from a box in the back. "I need a lug wrench, too, if you've got one," Calla said. She was already unloading the tire from the back. "Hey, wait a sec with that," the man said, glancing over at Calla in time to see her dump the spare tire from the bed of her truck and roll it over to the flat. "Let me help you." "Already done," Calla said, wiping her hands on her jeans. She grabbed the jack and the lug wrench from the man's hands. If she got the tire changed in time, she could still make it home in time to seeClark. IfClarkcame. "Wait a sec," the man said again, trying to take the jack handle from her. "I've done this before," Calla said. She spared him a glance. No use hurting his feelings, seeing as he did stop to see if she was dead or not. "Thanks, anyway." The man sat back on his heels, a bit at a loss. He was sure he shouldn't be letting this lady change her own tire, but he was equally sure she wouldn't let him do it for her. He watched her for a minute, and tried pretty hard not to stare at her rear end. "Uh, what's your name?" he said to distract himself. "Calla Bishop, nice to meet you." Calla wiped her right hand on her jeans once more and gave the man a firm handshake. He grinned at her again. Calla stared at his white teeth. "Thanks for stopping. I thought I'd have to walk home tonight." "I'm Henry. Home?" The boot kicker looked surprised. "You live around here?"

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"Our place is just at the base of these hills, between here andParadise. At HotSulphurLake." Calla was grunting from the effort of loosening the rusted lug nuts on the ancient wheel. She probably should have been embarrassed, it occurred to her, but the boot kicker simply continued to smile at her. "You know it?" "Nope. I'm not from around here." "Uuuhh," she grunted again, loosening the last nut and spinning it free with her fingers. "Really? Where you from?" "Here and there." Calla, impatient to be done with tire changing and chitchat, brushed back a strand of her hair that had worked its way loose from her ponytail. "Here, take these." She dumped the lug nuts into his palm. "You on the run from the cops, or just being mysterious?" "Not mysterious," the man said, smiling. "Just careful. I'm fromCalifornia, and people around here are as likely to shoot a Californian as look at one, I've found." "Hell, yes." Calla laughed. She yanked the flat free of the wheel and shoved it out of her way. The boot kicker rolled the spare over. "If I'd known you were a Californian, I'd never have let you rescue me." "You don't look much like a woman who needs rescuing," he commented, watching Calla heft the spare onto the wheel. Calla held out her hand for the lug nuts. He opened his hand and she scooped them up. She spun the lug nuts back on and jerked them tight with the wrench. The boot kicker watched her in silence. "Well—" Calla straightened up after a minute and let down the jack "—thanks for your help, Henry." She picked up the jack and the lug wrench and handed them back to the man, who had easily lifted the flat into the back of Calla's truck. The nice face has a body to match, Calla thought. "What help I was," he remarked. "Okay, well—" Calla stuck out her hand "—if you're ever in the neighborhood. I won't even tell anyone you're a Californian." The man smiled again and shook her hand. Good teeth, Calla thought, straight and white, like piano keys. She was used to looking at teeth, being a horsewoman. And his were very nice. She wanted to tell him it was a pleasure to meet a man who didn't have a slug of tobacco worked into his lip. Oh, for heaven's sake, stop that, she told herself sternly. They're probably capped. She hopped into her truck and gunned the engine. "Hey," she called out the open window to Henry, who was still watching her, his head tipped slightly to one side. "You're not lost or anything, are you?" "Just sightseeing," he assured her. He lifted one hand. "See you around." "Yep. See you around." ***

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Henry watched her spin the tires of her truck in the dirt and race away, leaving him in a cloud of dust and gravel. No surprise she drives like that, he thought, smiling to himself. Watching her change that tire had made him feel a little lightheaded. He couldn't tell if it was the little grunting sounds she made or the line of her long legs and rounded hips as she squatted in those Wranglers. Though hehad tried not to stare. He walked slowly to his own truck and tossed the jack and wrench into the toolbox in the back. He opened the door and climbed in, but he didn't turn the key. He sat and watched the disappearing white pickup for several minutes. Calla Bishop. She was a jolt to his system. When she'd brushed her hair back into that ponytail, he felt as if he'd been struck across his chest with a plank. It was all he could do not to reach down and wind that chestnut-colored silk around his fingers. Henry started his pickup. The radio was still on, and he reached over and switched it off. He could just see Calla's truck. Or rather, he could see the cloud of dust she left behind it. She must know these roads pretty well, he thought, to be driving them so fast. He'd been picking his way across the back roads in this part of the state for a week now, and every time he got above thirty-five miles an hour he came up hard on a blind curve or a dry creek bed or a cow calmly walking in the middle of the road. Calla Bishop. He couldn't believe how she lifted that flat off the wheel rim. And those lug nuts were rusted on; he'd seen it from where he stood. He turned the radio back on, and rolled up the passenger side window by pressing the button at his fingertips. Wonder what a hot sulphur lake is? He drove his new pickup along the old chalk road and occupied himself with looking for a place to camp for the night. He didn't have the time, and shouldn't have had the inclination, to be thinking about every Wrangler-clad, tire-changing, gorgeous woman he came across in this wilderness. Still, he thought to himself, he would have liked to pull loose that ponytail. Chapter 2 «^» Callapulled into the ranch just before dark. She scouted the compound for Lester, but when she didn't see him right off, she decided to let that squabble wait until dinner. "Thought you were going to camp at Two Creek tonight, honey," Calla's aunt Helen said as Calla walked through the kitchen door. Calla leaned against the door and toed off her boots. "Nope. Decided to come on home. Didn't want to eat my own cooking." She padded in her stocking feet to where her aunt was standing over the stove.

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"What is that? It smells great. I'm starving." "You're always starving," Helen said, spooning up a bite of the spaghetti sauce and lifting it to Calla's mouth. Calla sucked it off the spoon. "Ah, hot," she said. "Good, though. I really am hungry tonight. DidClarkcall?" "Was he supposed to?" Helen reached into the cupboard above her for more parsley. "And why are you so hungrytonight?" "That damn Lester," Calla began, then amended, "sorry, thatdarn Lester. Where is he anyway? I didn't see him in the yard." "He and your dad went into town for a new tine for the hay rake." "Another one? That's about the tenth one that idiot's broken off the rake this month. I oughta start making him pay for 'em." "Now, Calla." "Well, I'm mad at him," Calla said. "He took the jack out of the pickup and didn't put it back in. I had a flat up on Bennett, way in hell out by the chalk mine. I nearly had to walk home." "Why didn't you?" "Oh, some guy came by and lent me his jack. I didn't have a lug wrench, either. That stupid Lester." "Who?" "Lester. Haven't you been listening to me?" "I meant, who was driving on that old road this time of year?" "Oh. Henry … something. I don't think he told me his last name." "From around here?" "No.California." "On that road? Was he young or old?" "Young. Pretty, too. Nice teeth," Calla said, and started up the plain plank stairs to her room on the second floor. She pulled off her jeans and T-shirt, padded in her underwear to her little bathroom, sat on the edge of the tub and reached for the faucet. Henry. An old-fashioned name. She couldn't think of a single man under the age of fifty named Henry. She turned the faucet to hot and pushed the plug into the drain. And where did he get that cocky grin? It wasn't something she normally noticed. She didn't normally

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notice much about men at all. She'd lived her whole life with men. They weren't particularly interesting, on the whole. But this Henry. He had a very nice smile. She bathed and washed her hair and, when she was finished stood in front of her tiny closet for five minutes trying to decide what she was going to wear.Clark—if he did come over tonight—didn't like cowboy clothes. She pulled a plain white blouse from the closet and rummaged through her dresser until she found a pair of khaki shorts amid the blue jeans. College clothes. She'd bought them several summers ago, before she'd left for school. Too bad she never got to wear them anymore. They weren't suited to the ranch. But they were suited toClark. That was what mattered now. She dressed quickly and went down to dinner. "Lester, you snake," Calla said when she saw the old man, his filthy straw cowboy hat in his hands, sitting at the kitchen table. Lester was a little in love with her aunt Helen, she knew, and never missed an opportunity to sit in the kitchen and chat. It was one of his many bad habits. "I almost had to walk twenty miles today 'cause of you." "Almost isn't quite," Lester drawled. "What the hell—heck—is that supposed to mean? Oh, forget it." Calla sat down at the wide, worn Formica table and pointed an accusing index finger at Lester. "You know, you left the jack and the lug wrench out of the pickup last time you used 'em, and I had a flat up on the Bennett today." "Hello, darlin'," Jackson Bishop came into the kitchen from the adjoining laundry room where he'd been washing up. He kissed the top of his daughter's head. "Yelling at poor Lester again, I see." "Same old, same old, eh, Jack," Lester said, smiling. "Shut up, Lester. Dad, I—" Calla began, but her father interrupted. "Poor old Lester,"Jacksonteased. "Always taking your abuse. It's a wonder he gets a thing done around here with you yelling at him every five minutes." "I wonder about that, too, Jack, to be right honest with you," Lester agreed solemnly. "He doesn't get anything done, that's my entire point," Calla said. "All I'm saying, Lester," she said carefully, stretching out the words, "is put stuff back where it belongs or I'll take you out to the old chalk road and make you walk home some hot afternoon." Lester sniffed at her, wounded, then rose from his chair and put on his hat with painstaking slowness. "Well," he drawled, "guess you folks are gonna have supper. I'll just be headin' on, then." "Oh, for heaven's sake." Calla rolled her eyes. "Lester, won't you stay and have a bite with us tonight?" Helen offered.

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"He eats with usevery night," Calla muttered. "Why do we have to go through this?" "Well," Lester said again, "if you're sure you have enough." "Someone in this kitchen has been cooking for you every night for the past twenty-five years, you old coot," Calla hissed at him. "You'd think we'd know by now to cook enough for you." Living with these three old people was driving her out of her mind. Every night the same conversations. She could guess exactly what the next word spoken would be. "Well," Lester began. "How was them salt blocks up there today?" "Fine," Calla said. "You toss out a few of them selenium blocks, did ya?" "I know my job, Lester." They sat in silence for several minutes. Calla bolted down the rest of her meal and got up to leave the table. "Darlin', I want a word with you later,"Jacksonsaid. "Dupree stopped me at the co-op today." "Fine, Dad. I'll be in the barn." Calla yanked her boots over her bare feet and tromped out the kitchen door. The red barn, ancient, cavernous and smelling of the faint scent of animals gone to their reward a hundred years before, was only two hundred yards from the ranch house. For Calla it might aswell have been another planet. While the house belonged to the old people, the barn belonged to Calla. She was home there as she never was anywhere else. Her mother had told her once that though she'd grown up in that upstairs bedroom—and might die there—her real home was the drafty, high-raftered barn her great-grandfather had built more than one hundred years earlier. Calla grabbed for the pitchfork she kept neatly hung on one long wooden interior wall, and dropped her chin to her chest in utter defeat when she found it wasn't there. "Lester," she said grimly. She reluctantly flipped on the light behind her, sorry to disturb the quiet dark of her barn. Bubba, Benny's old gray, the only horse allowed to sleep in the soft straw of the barn floor, looked mournfully over his stall wall at her. "Hey, Bubba," Calla crooned in the direction of the old gelding, scooping a coffee can full of whole oats out of a barrel. "What's the matter, sweetheart? You don't like me waking you up?" She dumped the oats into the grain bin under Bubba's nose. He grunted his approval, blowing at her quickly with his soft, wrinkled lips before nosing into the oats. "Poor Bubba," she said, stepping up onto the bottom wood slat of the stall. She leaned forward and rubbed Bubba's thick neck with the top of her head, loosening long strands of hair from her careful

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ponytail to mix with the old horse's mane. "You lonesome, Bubba? You lonesome for Benny? Well, you and me both, boy." "Who's Benny?" said a voice behind her. "Geez!" Calla said, as she jumped from her perch and whirled around to face the voice. The boot kicker leaned against the jamb of the enormous old barn door. And smiled at her. "Sorry, I saw the light on in the barn and thought I might find somebody out here," he said. "Well, thanks for scaring the living heck out of me for the second time today," Calla said. She smoothed the loose hair back against her head. "Henry, right? What are you doing skulking around my barn in the middle of the night, Henry?" Henry turned his wrist to her. "It's nine-thirty, and I'm not skulking. I'm looking for the manager of this ranch, and when I saw the light on. I thought he might be out here." "She is out here," Calla said. "I'm the manager. What can I do for you?" "I'm looking for a job," he said. "A job? A ranch-hand job?" "Yeah. You got any work around here? Just for the summer probably." It was her turn to eye him. He was still leaning against the barn doorjamb, his arms crossed against his chest, one booted foot planted in front of the other. There was that body again, Calla thought. Not ranch hand skinny, but strong and tall. Nice. "Have you ever done ranch work before?" Calla asked. She looked him up and down. Not entirely for professional purposes, she had to admit to herself after the second or third pass. She shook her head a little and raised her eyes back to his. She was a little annoyed to see he was smiling at her again, and now his smile held something else. A challenge, maybe? Oh, brother. "A little," he said. "A little what? Oh, ranch work. Well, can you drive a tractor? We're putting up hay starting tomorrow. Then I'll need a fence rider through September, when we bring the herd in off the government land. You ever do any fence riding?" "A little," he answered again. Calla looked at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I thought you said you were from California?" "I did. We've got ranches in California, too, you know. Big ones. You want references from people who will swear I'm not Jack the Ripper? Calla shook her head. "This isn't L.A., spud. You don't know what you're doing, I'll know it in a week, maybe less. You do know what you're doing, I don't really care if you are Jack the Ripper. I just need someone to help me put up the hay and ride my fences. Got it?"

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He grinned at her. "Got it." Well, she thought, at least he was unflappable. Half the men she'd ever hired quit after her very first sign of temper. "Fine," she said. "You can start tomorrow. You got someplace to stay?" "I thought I'd stay up in Paradise," Henry answered. "And drive thirty minutes out to the ranch every morning? Forget it. I wouldn't see you 'til 9:00 a.m. We start at dawn around here. You can bunk with Lester. Of course," she grumbled, "I don't usually see Lester 'til 9:00 a.m., so I guess the bunkhouse isn't much better than town after all." "Who's Lester?" "You'll see." "Who's Benny?" "You ask a lot of questions, don't you, Henry?" She smiled at him, cocking her head. "Must be the Californian in you," she teased. She looked adorable, Henry thought, in her city shorts and cowboy boots. As he'd made his way across the Idaho desert to this ranch, he'd wondered if she could look as adorable as she had—grunting and puffing—changing that tire. Clearly, he mused, wondering at the sharp and unfamiliar punch of lechery he felt, she could. "Must be. So, we've got a deal? About the job?" He pushed himself off the jamb with his shoulder, crossed the distance between them in three long strides and reached out to her with his right hand. He grinned at her with those perfect teeth. Daring her. Calla grinned back. She never backed away from a dare. "Deal," she said, slipping her hand into his. Henry shook it firmly. His hand was warm and dry and rough. Ranch hands, Calla thought. He'll work out. She returned his grip with equal firmness. Benny taught her early on that a woman in a man's business had to do most things like a man. And some things she had to do better. They held the handshake just an instant too long. They both knew it. And before he could stop himself, Henry began to rub at the pulse of her wrist with his thumb. He could feel her blood beat in her veins. "Calla?" came another voice from the gloom outside the shaft of light that spilled from the barn door. "Clark." Calla snatched her hand back. She gave Henry a little shove and slipped past him. "Clark. I didn't know you were here. When did you get back?" Calla reached up on her toes and brushed her lips against the mouth of the slender man who was stepping up onto the wood plank floor of the barn. "Today. This afternoon. Helen told me you were out here. She didn't tell me you had company." Clark reached his hand out to Henry, who had moved diplomatically over to Bubba's stall when Calla shoved

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him. "Clarkston Shaw the Third. Dartmouth, Class of '89." Calla let an exasperated little sigh escape her. Henry glanced at her, then stuck out his hand. "This is Henry," Calla broke in before Henry could speak. "Um, Henry Something. I just hired him for the summer." "Beckett," Henry said. It was the name on his new driver's license and credit card, and the name he'd been using for six weeks now, but it didn't yet come comfortably to his lips. He wondered when it would. "Beckett," Clarkston Shaw ruminated over that for a minute, giving Henry a quick once-over, taking in the worn jeans and boots, the smear of manure already decorating them. "I don't think I know any Becketts. Did you go to Dartmouth?" He shot Henry a condescending wink. Calla sucked her lower lip into her mouth to keep a second sigh of annoyance from escaping. Henry quirked his eyebrows at her, wondering if she noticed the guy talked like he had a lump of horse crap stuck to the top of his mouth. And if she did notice, what was she thinking? "Calla—" Clark turned to Calla, dismissing the man and his manured boots before Henry could respond "—we'd better get back inside. I have a lot to tell you. Dad found some lovely property in the Hamptons he thinks would make a wonderful resort development." He looked her over and his eyes rested on her hare legs tucked inside her pointy cowboy boots. "And I'm sure you'll want to get out of those boots." "Uh, yeah, hold on," Calla said, suddenly a little breathless. Her movements, always sure and smooth in her beloved barn, abruptly became uncertain. "Let me fork a little hay over to Bubba, first." "I'll take care of him," Henry said quietly as she brushed past him. For an alarming split second, Calla thought Henry was going to reach out and touch her again, but he stood reassuringly still. "Okay. Thanks. So, I'll see you in the morning?" "Dawn, right?" He smiled again. "Dawn," she answered, and turned to catch Clark's outstretched hand. A thought occurred to her and she turned quickly to Henry again. "Wait, where you gonna stay tonight? You want me to show you the bunkhouse?" "Nope. I got a bag in the back of my pickup. I've been sleeping in that. See you in the morning." "Yeah, see you. And thanks—" she jerked her hand toward Bubba "—for the horse, I mean." "No problem." His easy grin was gone. "Anything for the outfit." She glanced at him quickly as she allowed Clark to pull her out of the barn. Henry had already located the missing pitchfork and was flaking some hay into Bubba's stall with no regard for her. As she walked outside she could hear him talking to Bubba in a low voice. *** When he was sure she wasn't looking back at him anymore, Henry turned slowly and watched the couple move off into the night. He had that feeling again, he realized. That hit-in-the-chest-with-a-plank

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feeling. A real regular thing with this lady, he mused. She had her hand tucked into the hand of Dartmouth, Class of '89. Henry wondered what it would feel like to shove a fist in that guy's smug, skinny face. Not a Dartmouth family, huh? He hadn't hit anybody since he was a teenager, but he'd make an exception in this case. He moved his gaze from Calla's hand to her swinging hips. She was practically dancing next to Dartmouth. Boom, another plank. Big trouble, he thought. Big. He'd known it when he'd driven into Paradise earlier that evening and asked at the tiny grocery about the woman with the chestnut hair and the old Chevy pickup. He didn't know why he asked exactly, but when he found himself following the directions to Calla's ranch, he knew he was jumping into trouble with both feet. Henry wasn't accustomed to trouble. Calla kind of trouble. Order was the rule of his life. Until six weeks ago, anyway, when he'd bought the new truck and took off for points unknown. And as he watched Calla Bishop and Dartmouth, Class of '89, go off together into the night, and puzzled over the heavy feeling in his chest, he knew he'd once again tossed his ordered existence to the wild winds. Chapter 3 «^» Calla awakened the next morning with a thick headache. Clark had brought a bottle of wine from his father's cellar and they'd stayed up too late talking about the Hampton development. She could listen to Clark for hours. Which was a good thing, because he sure could talk for hours. Calla was instantly ashamed of that nasty little thought. Clark was fascinating, she reminded herself. It was the hangover talking. Clark was perfect for her. There was nothing about him that wasn't just what she wanted. Just what she needed. Clark was smart, smooth, savvy. All the things every man in Paradise was not. All the things she'd need if she was going to save her ranch. Of course, she thought as she stretched and yawned, running her fingers through the tangled mass of her hair, she could also use a couple aspirin and a giant cup of coffee. After a quick bath, Calla pulled on panties and a bra and T-shirt, trying to ignore the pounding behind her eyes, and glanced out her window, checking for clouds or wind or anything else that might ruin her plans for haying. A light was on in the shop. Lester forgot to turn it off last night, she thought wearily. She ought to take the electric bill out of his hide. Then she saw a small movement inside the shop. Her breath caught in her throat and she moved quickly to the window. Lester was never awake this early, and she hadn't heard the door to the house, so it wasn't her dad. She opened the window and leaned out. "Hey," she shouted. "Who's out there?"

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Henry poked his head around the shop door. Calla exhaled in relief. Between the wine and the Hamptons and the headache, she'd forgotten about him. She made out his smile in the strong light of the shop. How did a girl forget that smile? she wondered. "Hey. It's dawn." He stretched out his wrist, even though she was at least fifty yards away. "Very funny. I'll be down in a minute." She shut her window and flicked off the light switch in her bedroom. He probably wasn't looking up at her, but just in case, she didn't want him to see her in her underwear. She grabbed her jeans and a pair of socks, putting them on as she went down the stairs. In the kitchen, she started the coffee and stamped into her boots. When she stepped off the kitchen stoop onto the stone steps, she noticed the Idaho sun, fire-bright and hot already, coming fast from behind the rimrock. She strode out to the shop. "This place is a mess," Henry said, his back to her. Determined to forget the tantalizing little glimpse of his new boss in her T-shirt and panties he'd just got, he was tossing wrenches and screwdrivers into their separate compartments in a huge, antique toolbox that probably had belonged to Calla's grandfather. "I thought by the look of that barn last night, you'd have kept a cleaner shop. I couldn't find anything in here this morning." "The shop is Lester's responsibility," Calla said, reaching around him to pick up a grease-and-dirt-encrusted Vise-Grip. "I've got enough to take care of. Besides, he and Dad seem to be able to find everything, and since they're in charge of the equipment around here, I try not to fuss about it." "Hmm." Henry opened another drawer in the toolbox and began to rummage around. "What're you doing out here, anyway?" "You said dawn. It's dawn." He pointed out at the strengthening daylight. "I meant, what're you doing in the shop? Why didn't you come to the door?" He grabbed a rag from the top of the toolbox and used it to clean some of the ancient grease from the handle of a claw hammer. "No lights on. I didn't want to wake anybody up. You Idahoans sleep in. Not like us Californians." "Huh," Calla grunted, tossing the Vise-Grip back into the box. "Well, I'm going to the barn. Breakfast is at six. You can meet everybody then, except Lester probably. We'll discuss your wages." "I'll come with you. I'm done here for now," Henry said. He closed the now tidy toolbox and wiped his hands on the rag. They walked in silence out to the barn. Calla swung the big door open. It creaked familiarly. "Needs grease," Henry said absently. They walked inside. "And I noticed last night the floor needs a little work, too. Good winter project." "Yeah, well, you're just here for summer projects, remember? But thanks so much for your advice. I just love it when new ranch hands give me advice about my own place on their first day on the job." Henry grinned. "Sorry, ma'am."

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"Ma'am? Oh, brother." She reached for the pitchfork. It was back on its hook. A good sign. "You want Bubba out?" Henry asked, unlatching the stall door. "Yeah, he goes out to the barnyard during the day. He just stays in here at night. Better for his old bones." She watched Henry as he looped a lead rope around the horse's neck and led the big gray gelding outside to the wide, shady yard that surrounded the barn. He gave Bubba a gentle slap on the rump and watched him until he joined the other dozen or so horses that stood across the fence in the horse pasture. The animals nickered soft recognition at one another. Henry turned and walked back to the barn. He hung the lead rope back on the hook on the wall. Calla bent to her work, scooping grain into a large metal bucket. Henry took a flat-bottomed shovel from another hook and walked into Bubba's stall. "Nice horse," Henry said, shoveling straw and fresh manure into a pile. "Uh-huh." "A good old ranch horse is hard tofind." "That's true." "I saw a couple horses out there this morning that look older than he does. Why does he sleep in the barn?" "He belongs to Benny," Calla said simply. Henry worked quietly for a minute more. "Belonged to Benny," she amended softly. "Who's Benny?" Calla stopped her work and looked at him. "Do you always talk this much? 'Cause I don't think I can stand it." "Sorry, ma'am." "Ma'am?" Calla chuckled in spite of herself and scooped another can full of grain into the bucket. "Don't be a knothead." Henry looked up at her. "You sure have a mouth on you." "Yeah, I've been told." Calla smiled. "Too bad for you." "Not really." He smiled back. "I kinda like it." "Oh, brother." In spite of herself, Calla turned a nice, embarrassing shade of pink. They worked together for a while, Calla moving carefully past him to toss fresh hay in Bubba's tidied stall.

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"So, who's Benny?" "Oh, for heaven's sake. You don't give up, do you?" "Not usually." "Benny was my brother. He died nine years ago, and left me and Bubba behind. I take care of Bubba, Bubba takes care of me. That enough information for you?" "Sorry." "Whatever. I'm outta here." Calla brushed bits of straw from the front of her clothes and walked briskly out the barn door. "Close it when you come," she shouted over her shoulder.

She walked into the house a minute later and found herself face-to-face with Lester and her father. Lester looked at her accusingly. "Well?" Lester drawled. Calla's teeth set on edge. "I reckon you can explain this?" "Explain what?" "Explain about that fella what slept in the driveway last night," Lester said. "I thought he slept in his pickup," Calla said, pulling a mug from the cupboard and pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Calla?" Her father was unruffled, as always. Calla occasionally wondered how such a hotheaded girl could have come from such an unflappable father. "You know what Lester's talking about?" "Yep," she answered, taking a slurp from her cup. "Well?" Lester's voice was brisk now. Brisk for Lester, anyway. "You hire that fella or not? Strolled in the bunkhouse this morning, didn't even knock, and took himself a shower. Said you'd hired him on last night." "I wondered what got you up so early this morning, Lester," Calla said over the lip of her cup. "Can't think of the last time I saw you before nine o'clock. You look good. Bright as a penny." "Calla, honey, you hire somebody last night?" Jackson asked patiently. "Yep." She took another sip. "His name's Henry. He'll be here for breakfast. He's the one who helped me change my flat yesterday, when I wasstranded." Calla glared briefly at Lester. "Meant to tell you last night, but then Clark came and I forgot. Sorry, Dad." She got up and planted a kiss on her father's cheek. "He'll help put up the first cutting, and then I told him to ride up on Bennett the rest of the summer." "Fence riding?" Lester exclaimed, bug-eyed. "Did you know he was from California?"

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"Lester, you're positively lucid this morning, you know it?" "Calm," Jackson said mildly. "Okay, yes, I know he's from California, but he doesn't look much like a city boy and he says he knows tractors and I've seen him with the horses this morning and he's already half cleaned out Lester's shop, so I think he'll work out fine. We'll see, anyway." "He cleaned out my shop?" Lester sputtered, one dirty hand going dramatically to his wrinkled brow. "God almighty." There was a short rap on the kitchen door. "Come in," Jackson, Calla and Lester shouted in unison at the closed door. "Thanks," said Henry, with a chuckle, as he opened the door and stepped inside. He put a hand out to Jackson. "You must be Calla's father. Lester told me I'd be meeting you this morning. Henry Beckett." "Jackson Bishop, son. Welcome to Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. Hear you'll be working for us this summer." "Yes, sir. Hired on last night." Calla wasn't sure, but she thought she heard a slight drawl drift into Henry's voice as he spoke to her father. She rolled her eyes. "Lester." Henry, his face grave, stuck his hand out to Lester, who shook it reluctantly. "Sorry if I scared you this morning. I thought your ranch manager here would have told you she hired on a new hand." "Scared me? Huh. Takes more than a little pissant like you to scare me, I can tell you right now," Lester grumbled. "Scared me, hell." He stalked out the door. Henry looked at Calla, who looked back over her coffee mug, her warm hazel eyes twinkling with shared amusement. "Well, son, you best sit down and have a little something to eat." Jackson motioned him to a chair. "We're on our own this morning, sorry to tell you. My sister, Calla's aunt Helen, lit out this morning on a run to town. She says she goes in for supplies, but she don't come back 'til sundown and she's usually got her hair done up, so we're a little suspicious, ain't that right, Calla, honey?" "Mmm-hmm," Calla said absently, her hand tangled up in her loose hair. She was gazing studiously at the agricultural newspaper in front of her. "Oh, right. Breakfast. There's muffins in the oven, usually, and coffee on the counter. Cups are on the shelf right above. If you want anything else, you'll have to fix it yourself." "This is fine, thanks." Henry brought the warm muffin pan from the oven and set it on the table in front of Calla and her father. He moved to the cupboard and took out a mug. "Coffee?" he inquired of Jackson. "Well, thank you, young fella. I believe so." Henry filled both mugs, handed the older man his coffee, and sat down next to Calla. He grabbed a

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muffin from the pan and took a huge bite, tugging a piece of the paper from under Calla's elbows with his free hand. She gave him a sidelong glance. "Careful," she said, "Cowboy coffee." "I think I'll be okay," Henry said, taking a gulp from his cup. He sputtered and coughed, bits of muffin flying out of his mouth onto the table. Calla, still studying her paper, reached out and absently smacked him hard between his shoulders. "Told you." "I'll believe you next time." "I'll bet." Calla sipped her coffee to hide her smile. Henry got up and ripped a paper towel off the bolder. "Well, kid—" Jackson, oblivious to the exchange, faced Calla "—what's on the schedule for today?" Calla looked up at her father. He'd asked the same thing of her every morning for the past three years. Jackson was competent, smart, Calla thought, even brilliant in his own way, but he was incapable of running the ranch on his own. Mostly because, although he loved Calla, and had loved Calla's mother, he was no McFadden, and did not love the ranch. Calla knew it, Jackson knew it and Calla's mother had known it, which was why she'd left the ranch to her only daughter. Calla had been just twenty-one at the time, but had already been making many of the decisions since Benny died. The ranch was her mother's to give, and she wisely chose Calla over Jackson. "It's been in my family for over a hundred years now, honey-bunch,"Judy McFadden Bishop told her before she died."I know you'll keep it in the family for another hundred." "I thought we might cut the upper fields today." Calla turned abruptly to Henry, who leaned against the counter by thecoffeepot, watching her. "You can run a swather?" He nodded, his eyes on hers. She turned back to her father. Was her stomach going to flutter like that every time she looked at the man all summer? Well then, the sooner they got the hay up and packed him off to Two Creek, the better. "I'll put Henry on the swather and get Lester to hook up the baler for the field we cut Thursday. Should be dry enough now." She drained her coffee mug. "I'm taking a horse up to the lake and see if I can't find that wild cow of Charlie's. Russ Thompson from the Bureau of Land Management called yesterday morning and told me he saw her up there. "And if you wouldn't mind, Dad," she continued, clearing her throat, "I'd like you to take a little time today and see if you can't straighten out that mess out in Lester's shop. Henry started on it this morning. It's really gone to hell, I have to admit, and since we're heading hard into farming today, I want to have things at least clean enough where I can find a damn wrench if I want one. Excuse my language." She looked at Henry, who gave her a quizzical smile. "I'd be happy to, darlin'," Jackson said, getting up from the table and ruffling a hand across the top of her head. "Poor old Lester, he sure will be mad when he comes home to a clean shop, though. I won't step in when he tries to kill you for it, you know."

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Calla caught his hand and gave it a quick peck. "I know, Dad. I'll take my chances." "You always do." Henry watched Calla as she released her father's worn hand. His hands were steady on his coffee cup and his eyes were calm, a habit born of long years of practice and experience, but the small gesture of affection between Calla and Jackson shook him a little. Henry wondered what it would be like to touch this woman so casually. He had nearly lost his head when Jackson ran his hand across his daughter's head, and followed suit. Her hair was damp from a washing, and she hadn't pulled it into the severe ponytail she'd been wearing yesterday. He hoped she wouldn't. It gleamed even in the dim light of the kitchen. He'd wanted to plunge his fingers in that mane of hair since he'd first seen a strand of it come loose from her ponytail while she was changing that tire. And when Calla caught her father's hand in hers and pulled it to her lips to kiss it, Henry felt a strong, warm wave of … something … envy? … desire? … pass through his chest to settle at the pit of his stomach. His mouth went suddenly, ferociously dry, a first, sharp sign of lust. He swallowed a couple of times to work the saliva back in. Okay, so he was a little horny. That wasn't a terrible sin. Or an indication of anything more important. Just libido. After all, it had been more than a year since Heidi had left him. A year since he'd passed his hand across the crown of a woman's head, felt the press of a mouth on his hand. Since he'd felt anything at all, for anyone at all. He caught himself mooning, just a bit, at the woman in front of him. Mooning, for God's sake. This is trouble, he thought. I should run. Boy, California is the place you oughta be. But when Calla got up from the table and started outside, he followed. He couldn't help himself. Chapter 4 «^» Henry ran the swather along the edge of the last row, following a straight line, the blades of the machine neatly cutting the hay and laying it behind in long, perfect rows. Henry had always loved this job. It was the engineer in him, he thought. Nothing like straight lines to satisfy an engineer. Calla would be satisfied. Calla. Straight lines were all well and good, he thought, but curvy lines had their merits, too. There was no air-conditioning in the cab of the swather, and he felt the sweat bead down from his hair to his neck and soak into his T-shirt. A wonderful feeling. A little hard work, a little healthy lust. Definitely a good sweat. Henry looked back over his shoulder at the beautifully cut rows of sweet alfalfa. It had been years since he'd been in a swather, the summer his grandfather died and Henry's father, already a prominent physician, had sold the farm in central California to real-estate developers who turned the rich soil under and planted fifteen hundred identical, neatly spaced, half-acre house lots with views of the delta.

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Henry reached the end of his perfect row and turned the swather deftly, plunging it forward into the tall, purple-budded alfalfa of the next section. The smell of cut alfalfa was one of his favorite scents, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Calla. He opened his eyes and headed for a point at the end of the field. She'd sneaked her wily way into his thoughts every few minutes since she scooted out from under that truck yesterday and thrust her hand at him like a man. She wasn't as beautiful, he thought, as some women he'd seen. After all, he'd worked in Los Angeles for the past two years. He saw the most beautiful women in the world every day. She wasn't even beautiful like Heidi was, like most of the women to whom he'd ever been attracted. Heidi had been blond and willowy thin, her skin light, her eyes the crystal blue of the Pacific Ocean. She'd worn clothes in the latest fashion, and she'd looked perfect in them, her model's figure shown to its best. Henry, rich and young and smart, had dated several thin, beautiful blondes before he married Heidi, but she was by far the most captivating.To me and everyone else, Henry thought, his mouth twisting into a grimace. But Calla wasn't thin and blond. He tried to imagine any woman he knew hefting that tire down from the back of that dusty pickup, and couldn't. He smiled. Calla was definitely not willowy. Her chest was strong and wide, with breasts that looked firm and heavy and high, even in those god-awful work shirts. Her hair was the color of rich chestnuts and her eyes were an astonishing shade of hazel, flecked with jade. He tried to imagine the color of her nipples. Dark, he decided. Wine-colored, or maybe the blush of soft plums. The swather took a sudden dip sideways and ruined Henry's perfect row. So much for an engineer's brain, he reflected. There was definition in her slender arms and Henry knew those sleek muscles didn't come from a weight machine or thrice-weekly aerobics classes. He'd watched her break loose those rusted lug nuts in wonder. How he'd kept himself from running his hand along her strong neck and into the sweaty crease at her elbow, he'd never know. He'd like to have seen her legs. They weren't miles long, like Heidi's were, but he thought they'd wrap nicely around his back. Oh, pull yourself together, Johannsen.He was a highly educated man. He knew a budding obsession when one whacked him over the head. He turned the swather again. He'd been right about his dilemma in the kitchen this morning. He had been celibate too long. It was the only reasonable explanation for how unreasonably he wanted Calla. He'd wanted her under that pickup yesterday afternoon, on the barn floor later that night, this morning on the kitchen table after her father had stepped outside; would have taken her without a second thought if she'd but crooked a finger in his direction. He'd almost kissed her when she slapped him on his back this morning, even though he knew she was laughing at him. He'd almost reached behind him and pulled her hand to his chest and kissed her.

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He'd lain awake all last night, tossing and turning in his sleeping bag, wondering how she tasted, how soft her lips were. He'd spied on her,spied on her! when she walked Dartmouth to his car last night, and grunted in disgust when he saw the bastard lean forward and touch his lips to hers. And he'd wondered idly how easily the bones in Dartmouth's skinny neck would break under his hands. Henry looked back at the row he just finished, annoyed by the slight, compensating dip in the alfalfa. Calla's nipple, he reminded himself. He turned again. A swarm of gulls followed the machine, greedily scooping up the mice that ran from their destroyed nests. An old bird dog he'd seen shaded up under a tree on Calla's front lawn that morning trotted happily beside the swather, row after row, turning when Henry turned. Ah, farming. It was boring, steady, peaceful work. He could have stayed on that swather the rest of his life, he thought. He had just made another row when he caught the movement of a horse out of the corner of his eye. It was Calla, atop a young sorrel. Two perfectly matched, glossy-coated border collies flanked the horse, keeping their eagle eyes and sharp noses on the wild-looking cow in front of Calla's horse. Calla kept the cow against the fence line, guiding it slowly toward an open gate at the end of the field next to the one Henry was swathing. She looked over at him. He was too far away to see her face, but he knew she was smiling at him. He waved. She raised one slender hand and held it aloft for a moment. Not a wave, really, more like a salute, he thought. He chuckled aloud. *** Calla eased the cow through the gate. She looked down at the dogs. They hadn't taken their eyes off the animal. "Take a bite," she said. They took off in a rush of black and white, silently nipping at the heels of the wild cow. The cow kicked and bucked her way across the empty field. "Come back," she called softly. Instantly, the dogs wheeled and returned to her side. Serves you right, you old biddy, Calla thought. The cow had given her more trouble than a herd of reckless heifers, alternately running at her and from her. She'd wasted a whole morning and it wasn't even her cow. What she didn't do for her neighbors, she thought, shaking her head as she turned her pretty sorrel and pointed him toward the barn. She looked over her shoulder. Henry was more than halfway through the huge field of alfalfa. She swept the rows of hay with the critical gaze of someone who knows her job well. Pretty good, she acknowledged. One little dip, but otherwise nice and straight. He had done this before. She watched the swather cut its way down another row. He'll work out okay, she decided. At least for the farming. She'd have to wait and see how well he'd do when he moved to camp to watch the cows and work on the miles and miles of Bennett Mountain fence lines. Ranch hands were so unpredictable. But she couldn't see Henry going off and leaving the herd for a drunk in town. She couldn't see him overlooking a saggy fence just because he'd have to climb to get to it. She couldn't see him taking a too young horse down a too steep rocky canyon, bruising him and rendering him useless for the remainder of

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the summer; all things Lester had done in the past. She could trust Henry. She knew it already. He'd do the right thing. She watched him a moment more. And felt a stirring inside her, a feeling that had become alarmingly familiar in the hours since Henry had leaned his long frame against her barn door. Now, if she could just be trusted to do the right thing. Chapter 5 «^» It took two weeks to put up the hay. Henry ran the swather, Lester came along after him a few days later with the baler, and Calla came after Lester with the stacker. Together they put up four hundred tons of sweet, Sulphur Lake hay. Calla was thrilled at how smoothly everything went. It was the first year she hadn't had to fight with Lester at every turn. Every summer he'd argued with her about the moisture content of the hay and the number of bales in a stack and the position of the stacks in the hay yard. But this summer he did as he was told. Calla was surprised how much free time she had now that she didn't have to spend time arguing with Lester. She suspected Lester's compliant mood had a lot to do with Henry. He was a little afraid of Henry, she knew. Henry was up every morning before anyone else. He wolfed down his breakfast, usually before Calla was even back from her chores in the barn, and was out on the swather all morning. He came in for lunch and to flirt briefly with Aunt Helen, who was thrilled at having another man to compliment her cooking, and then he was gone again. When he finished for the day, he took his evening meal into the bunkhouse. He never ate with the family in the evening. Not like Lester. No one else seemed to notice that was odd, but Calla wondered at it. Ranch hands had always eaten at the McFadden table. It was tradition. Henry didn't come in and watch TV at night. Or stay around the ranch on Sundays. Or inquire after her health or ask for advances on his pay. He didn't follow her into the barn in the mornings. Never touched her wrist again with his thumb, in that heated, hypnotic way. He was the perfect employee. Darn it. Clark had left a week into haying. He'd gone East again. Calla never missed him when he was gone, her life was too busy for that kind of nonsense, she told herself, but she found herself wishing he'd hurry back. She felt better, more comfortable, when he was around every night. Even though she saw almost nothing of Henry after that first day, except to wave at him occasionally from across a new-mown field or smile as he brushed past her on his way out the kitchen door, she knew she was spending less time thinking about Clark—her beloved, intended Clark—and more and more time thinking about her new ranch hand. Calla ran the roaring, dusty stacker around the field, picking up the last of the stray bales. The empty field gave her a strong sense of satisfaction. She was never especially fond of the farming aspect of the place—that had always been Benny's department—but she took pride in her tidy fields and intelligently planned watering system.

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As she eased the top-heavy stacker along the corrugates, she watched Henry, in high rubber boots, walk the ditch bank. As soon as she'd finished stacking each field, he'd been there to start the water. She hadn't known he'd even know how to do it. Gravity irrigation, in the age of huge pivot sprinklers, was fast becoming a lost art. But Henry's dirt dams held and the water swept into the cleared fields with amazing speed. She couldn't have done better herself, Calla admitted. It was an annoying, exhilarating thought. She'd never met anyone who could do her job as well as she could, with as much determination and skill. Not since Ben. And it had been years since she'd been able to go to sleep at night knowing there was someone other than herself she could depend on. A dangerous proposition, she knew, depending on Henry. Henry was a summer hand. She couldn't afford to keep him on for the year, though the idea of having someone other than Lester and Jackson to help her feed the hay they'd just put up was a heady one. No, she told herself firmly. She paid Henry just $850 a month, plus room and board—the going rate for summer cowboys—but it was more than the ranch could afford on a year-round basis. The loan, the final, magic one that had sent her to college loomed over her like a specter. She needed money more than she needed Henry. That was why she had to concentrate on Clark. It was why she needed him to hurry back. Clark, and Clark's money, was what was going to save the ranch. Not that she was marrying him, orhoped to marry him, she corrected herself, for his money. She loved him. She was sure of it. Almost sure of it. The minute she was sure of it, she'd let him know. And then she'd sleep with him, finally, and everything would be fine and she'd stop having those sweaty dreams in the middle of the night about her summer ranch hand. She reached the dirt road that led out of the field and toward the hay yard and gunned the stacker to full speed. It wobbled precariously under the full load of hay bales, but righted itself. She glimpsed Henry out of the corner of her eye. He had looked up sharply as she roared down the lane, and she could see him in her long side mirror, watching the stacker. Good, she thought with grim satisfaction. He'd been ignoring her pretty much completely for two weeks. She was his boss. He ought to pay a little closer attention to her. *** Henry glared at the stacker as it zoomed around a corner and out of sight. He could hear it as it traveled along the road to the hay yard. It was loud. She must have floored it. He shook his head and went back to shoveling mud around the corrugate. She had almost tipped it when she came off the field. But she knew what she was doing and he resisted the almost overwhelming urge to run across the field and yank her from the seat of the huge machine. He'd like to shake her sometimes, the way she thundered around. She drove everything like that, the pickup, Helen's little car, the tractors, even the riding lawnmower he'd seen her on the evening before. She went everywhere full tilt, a bat out of hell. He dipped his shovel into the thick, sucking mud and slathered it onto the small dam he was building to hold back the irrigation water.

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Haying was finished, the irrigation started again. Tomorrow Lester would take over switching the water from earthen dam to earthen dam, along the complicated system of narrow canals and ditches laid out a hundred years earlier by Calla's great-grandfather. Henry would move to the camp in the hills to look after Calla's herd. He was looking forward to it. Desperately. He hadn't asked Calla about her relationship with Dartmouth, but it was pretty clear she was serious. He didn't know if he could stand to be around when the guy came back. For that matter, he didn't know if he could stand Calla brushing against him in the doorway of the kitchen anymore, or smiling at him over her coffee cup, her hair damp and fragrant from her morning shower. He was glad to be going. Being constantly turned on for the past fourteen days was getting to him. *** Calla parked the stacker in the equipment yard next to the other two tractors, hopped lightly to the ground, and walked slowly through the shadowy alleyway the long stacks of bales made in the hay yard. It was a relief to get the first cutting up; and this year without the rain that could spoil it. She must be living right. She glanced up. Then again, maybe she wasn't. Henry was walking toward the bunkhouse, his irrigating shovel over his shoulders, his wrists hooked loosely over the handle. She simply couldn't help herself; she stopped for a minute and watched him walk. His head was down, as though he were concentrating on every step, and she could see where his sunburned neck slid powerfully down toward his ax-handle-broad shoulders. The man had some body, she thought, not for the first time. Not even for the first time that day. As if he'd read her thoughts, Henry halted his stride and looked over at her. Calla's breath caught in her throat, though she couldn't have said why. He walked across the narrow road, straddled the low fence and approached her slowly, his wrists still over the handle of his shovel. When he reached her, she smelled clean sweat and damp mud and could just glimpse the suggestion of the hair of his armpits at the stretch of his short sleeves. The sight quickened the pace of her heart for some reason, and she flared her nostrils to suck in the smell of him as soon as she dared again to breathe. "Hey," she said, sounding just a little strangled. "Hey." Calla jerked her thumb over her shoulder. "Hay," she said feebly. He didn't even smile. Oh, smooth, Calla. She stared at him, unable to look away, though instinct told her now would be a good time to run. "Can I ask you a question?" Henry stretched a long, sinewy arm past her and leaned his shovel against the stack behind her head. Slowly, slowly, as though she might bolt at any sudden movement. Her eyes dipped shut as he neared—and she sniffed at him again—then popped back open. "Uh, okay." "Are you going to marry Dartmouth?" "What?"

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If she didn't stop smelling him like that, he was going to have to do something drastic, Henry thought. He took a step forward, backing her toward the stack. "Are you going to marry Dartmouth?" He pressed closer, then stopped. That was drastic enough for him. "It's a simple question." Calla stumbled backward until she could feel the heavy scratch of hay through her clothes. Henry's voice was oddly thick and he was so close now she could see the tight cords in his throat. "Are you?" he whispered. Drastic, hell. This was deadly. His eyes drifted shut involuntarily. He sniffed at her now. "Are you?" "Who's Dartmouth?" she managed to ask, before his mouth was on hers. He leaned slowly into her, pushing her against the haystack, crushing her in the most wonderful manner, and had his way. That's all she could think as he kissed her. And kissed her again, pulling at her lips, plucking kisses from her. He's having his way with me. Then he tipped his head to one side and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue along her still-closed mouth. And she stopped thinking altogether. Her mouth opened to allow the tiniest moan to slip past. "Calla," he murmured against her lips, and dove in. She made no effort to raise her arms and twine them around his neck, they came around him of their own accord, and she met the pressure of his body with an equal force. Henry groaned deep in his chest and braced his hands on the haystack behind her, while his body started an astonishing bump and grind against hers. Her head suddenly weighed about eighty pounds, and it dropped back at the erotic contact, breaking his kiss. For moments they just breathed on one another, his eyes shut tight in concentration, hers half-lidded, watching him, amazed. Fast, so fast. From nothing to this … so fast. She let herself drift. She'd go at any speed he'd take her. His fingers gripped the stack to keep from tearing at her clothes to get to the skin underneath. But he unclamped them now, his discipline in tatters. They met at the back of her skull as he pulled her back to his mouth. But, oh, they wouldn't stay still. He ran them under her arms and to her back, down then to her bottom, pulling her up to meet his painful, heart-stopping arousal, staying there for the longest, excruciating moments while he moved against her. Then clutching her to him though she could get no closer, he banded his arms against her back, then released his fierce hold to brush his fingertips against the soft sides of her breasts. He tried, God knows, he tried to be content with that. But every ordered thing about him, every restraint, every moderate, cautious habit, drained right out of his body. Or was burned away by the heat, he didn't know. He brought his hands between their bodies. And touched her. Finally, to be touching her. The moan that left her mouth to come to his was like a gift. His chest constricted, and all he could think was that he hadn't felt this sweet piercing wonder before, not even the first time he'd touched a woman, not even as a young man. He levered himself away from her body to watch his hands on her.

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"Calla," he breathed, lifting the weight of her breasts in his hands, molding her, stroking, then slowly lifting his head to see her eyes glaze as he ran his thumbs over her hardened nipples, feeling her rise to meet his touch through her work shirt and bra. "Oh." Her breath caught. "Oh." And again. The sensation was too much, by a million miles too much. Moisture flooded her, blood pumped at her center, every pore and vessel and nerve opened to him. He dropped to his knees in the hard-packed dirt of the stack yard, burying his face between her breasts, seeking the sex, the solace, the heat of her. He took a nipple between his teeth and gently bit her through her clothing. Calla felt herself slipping slowly down to the ground in front of him, eager for a closer connection. Her strong hands clutched at him, seeking a more intimate touch. The sound of the horn was unbelievably loud in her ears. Her eyes flew open and she looked over to see Lester waving wildly at her from the ranch truck. A little scream escaped her, a completely different kind of little scream from the one Henry had swallowed with his mouth a moment before. She struggled to her feet, her knees oddly weak. "Damn," she said, her hands clawing into the hay behind her. "Damn, damn, damn." Henry had considerably less trouble regaining his footing, and steadied her with one hand. Then, without looking at her, he strode quickly over to Lester's truck where it hugged the fence of the stack yard, and leaned across the fence into the open passenger window. "I'm going to kill you, Lester," Henry said through gritted teeth. "You scared Calla half to death. What the hell are you doing?" "What the hell amI doing?" Lester sputtered. "What the hell areyou doing? It's broad-damn-daylight out here." "You got three seconds to get away from me, Lester, before I do something rash." He was feeling rash. He was feeling homicidal. A moment ago he'd been as aroused as he'd ever been, and that arousal had viciously turned itself to something else, a readiness. He was anxious to do battle. Lester was not intimidated. "You got less than that to get away from Calla, spud. I just passed her boyfriend on the road. He's heading this way." Lester gunned the pickup. "You're welcome, you pissant," he called through the open window. Henry raked his fingers through his hair and stared after Lester's pickup. Then he turned to look at Calla. Hay was sticking every which way out of her clothes and she was trying to tuck her hair back into its ponytail. His mouth went slack at the sight of her. Blood and desire still pounded heavily through his body. He was so hard, he ached. She walked determinedly past him. "I heard," she said, not looking at him. He reached out to catch her arm, but she twisted out of his grip. "Don't do that." Calla jumped the low wood fence that separated the stack yard from the road and walked across to the main compound. She reached the driveway just as Clark pulled up in a sports car. Henry stood in the

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stack yard and glowered at her. He couldn't seem to move. Calla stood stiffly next to the little car until Dartmouth managed to untangle his skinny legs and step out onto the gravel drive. Herboyfriend—Henry's hands clenched as the word passed through his thoughts—kissed Calla dutifully on her mouth, her beautiful, well-kissed, delicious mouth, and then said something into her ear. Henry watched Calla as she began to furiously brush the hay from her clothes. Chapter 6 «^» "So Dad and I wrapped it up last night and I decided to take the first morning flight out to see my little cowgirl, here." Clark reached out and patted Calla possessively on her rump. She jumped a little, nearly dropping the stack of dirty plates she was carrying to the sink. Henry's fingers tightened around the short glass of whiskey he was holding. Too bad she didn't drop 'em, he thought. Right onto Dartmouth's sorry lap. Henry was well on his way to drunk, and he knew it. He couldn't remember the last time … yes, he could. He'd drunk himself to a stupor the night Heidi left him. It was the least he could do in honor of his short and wretched marriage. He raised the glass to his lips and drained the last of the liquor. And glared gloomily at Dartmouth. "You have a good trip?" Jackson inquired politely of Clark. He stepped over to the counter, retrieved the whiskey bottle and poured a healthy amount of the amber liquid into Henry's glass. Calla's eyes flew to her father in wide astonishment "Very good." Clark was smiling broadly. Henry wondered with scientific precision just how many of those capped teeth he could take out with one punch. "Dad and I made an offer on a piece of property out in the Hamptons. I think I told you about it, didn't I, honey?" Calla raised her eyebrows at him from where she stood at the sink.Honey? Clark had never called her honey. It sounded almost as silly ascowgirl. He'd also never patted her bottom. Bottom patting was a new and irritating affectation. She wondered if Clark's friendliness had anything to do with the glowering, half-drunk Neanderthal facing him across the table. "Uh, yeah. The golf course?" Everyone glanced politely in her direction except Henry, who continued his grim evaluation of Clark. A freshly showered and shaved Henry had shown up on the kitchen stoop just as Calla, Clark, Jackson and Helen were about to sit down to a steak dinner. Lord knew where old Lester was. Calla had recovered from that amazing … whatever it was … out in the stack yard, barely, and wasn't thrilled to see Henry and his hearty appetite show up for dinner. But she wasn't exactly surprised, either. Now she regretted not slamming the door in his face before Jackson had had time to cheerfully invite him to join them. "Much more than a golf course, dearest," Clark replied indulgently.Dearest? "We'll have housing developments and two separate clubhouses, a small greenbelt and a strip mall with the highest quality

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shops and restaurants. All very posh. Dad and I were thrilled. It took a lot of wheeling and dealing, and of course I resent every minute I have to spend away from you, hon—" he reached his hand out to Calla who took it hesitantly "—but it was worth it." Clark gave a hearty laugh, which made Calla wonder if he wasn't a little drunk, as well. "We'll make a mint." Henry tipped back his chair and clunked his booted feet onto the kitchen table with a crash. The family turned to stare at him. He crossed his legs casually and sipped his drink. Calla was annoyed. More than annoyed. Not only was this—fool—who had invited himself to dinner for the first time in two damn weeks—being about as rude as he could be, but her father and aunt were happily allowing it to continue. If anyone else on the planet dared to put his feet on her kitchen table, Helen would have put a broom handle in his ear. Now she just grinned into her coffee cup in a fit of humor Calla couldn't begin to fathom. Calla's gaze shifted to her father, who was smiling absently at Henry. And since when did Jackson Bishop ply people with whiskey? Where had he even got the bottle, for heaven's sake? She knew Jackson saw how smashed Henry was slowly getting. Why did he keep pouring liquor into his glass? And where the hell was Lester? Calla couldn't remember the last time that weasel had missed a free meal. She was furious, and getting madder all the time. Cowgirl? Honey? Dearest?Hon? Clark was still talking. "And you should see the plans for the mall, Jack." He leaned forward earnestly, Calla's hand still captured in his. "We're still working on investors, but Dad and I have managed all the up-front money. It's our biggest deal yet. Huge. You'll have to come out and see it. I really think you would be impressed. Seriously. We could give you the grand tour. You might even decide you want to throw a little cattle money in that direction. Big bucks to be made in this development, Jack." "You know, I don't much like leaving the place anymore, Clark," Jackson said, one age-spotted hand pulling thoughtfully down his face. "I haven't been back East in I don't know how long. Before Calla was born, anyway. Her mother and I took a trip to Maine, remember that, Helen? Oh, beautiful country, Maine. Lot of wilderness up there. Reminds me a little of Idaho." "Maine reminds you of Idaho?" Clark guffawed good-naturedly, slapping Jackson on his knee. "You mean except for the rain and the trees, right? Never heard that before. You got one on me there, Jack." Calla began to relax a little. She was still painfully aware of Clark's possessive hand on hers and of Henry's defiant feet on the table in front of them. They were both idiotic male statements of some kind, she knew. She'd certainly been around enough men to recognize an idiotic male statement when she saw one. But the conversation wasn't threatening, and Clark and Jackson were communicating in a way she hadn't seen before. It was nice, she thought. Suspicious, but nice. Henry shifted his feet and Calla glanced over at him. His eyes were on her now. Unreadable, deep pools of darkest brown. His gaze went to her hand in Clark's. After a moment, he met her eyes again. There was an open challenge in them. She turned to Clark and stole an arm around him, sitting on the narrow arm of the dining chair. She could almost feel those dark pools, drugging her, dragging her in. Clark slid a gangly arm around her waist.

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There was another small crash as Henry slammed his boots on the linoleum and heaved himself out of his chair. He walked steadily to the whiskey bottle on the counter, helped himself to another glass and then leaned against the sink, scowling. Helen choked a little on her coffee. Jackson leaned forward and patted her companionably on the back. "Careful there, sister," he said with a smile. Clark didn't seem to notice the exchange, but Calla's back became straighter, stiffer, as she perched on the chair. "We had an architect make up some preliminary plans. They look great. Not quite what we were looking for, but they'll do until we can come up with the investors, then we'll hire a good firm from New York to do the final polish on them. Someone with a big name. Dad thinks he might get Beacham and Beacham. I went to school with a Beacham. A son, not a partner. Hell of a tennis player." Clark suddenly turned to where Henry had loaned his large frame against the sink. Calla nearly fell off the arm of the chair. "You play?" "What?" Henry's question was a little chip of ice. It chilled the warm room. "Tennis, old man. I thought we might have a game sometime. We'd have to go in to Boise, but I've got an old Dartmouth brother who belongs to a club there, and I'm sure he'd get us a court. He's in politics. If you can imagine, a brother pressing the flesh way out here in the sticks." Clark's tone was challenging, but he was smiling. Calla willed Henry to be polite. She shouldn't have wasted her time. "I don't play." "Did you play any sports in college?" Clark gave a small, insincere gasp. "Oh, sorry. You must not have gone to college. I mean, you wouldn't be working for Calla right now if you had a degree, would you? Well, lucky you, I say. An education can really be a burden sometimes. It puts so much pressure on a man to succeed. You're lucky, really." Clark took a smug sip from his wineglass, and squeezed Calla closer. Calla couldn't decide who she was going to kill first tonight. The Neanderthal or the snob. She deliberated on it for a second. "Hockey," Henry said quietly after an interminable pause. He took a long pull from his glass, set it gently on the counter, and crossed his arms across a chest that Calla realized with a jolt was broader than she remembered. Hadn't she just had her fingertips on that chest two hours ago? When had it got all puffed up like that? "I beg your pardon?" Clark said, still smiling. "You played hockey? When? In high school? Or did you go to high school?" "In college." Calla shifted to look at Henry. He seemed to be staring at Clark's teeth. "You went to college?" Clark asked coolly. His smile was gone. "You don't seem the type." "What's the type?" The temperature in Henry's voice went down a degree. If they didn't knock this off,

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Calla thought grimly, she'd have to turn on the furnace in the kitchen. She chanced a look at Jackson and Helen. They were positively serene. "Well, not you." Clark laughed, real amusement in his voice. "I haven't met many ranch hands—" he practically snickered the words "—with a college education. Where'd you go? Ag Tech? Bumpkin Junior College? You get you an A.A. in changing sprinklers, paaardner?" Calla stared down at Clark in shock. Hemust be drunk. She couldn't believe her ears. She'd never seen him lose that polite Ivy League veneer. Ever. Henry pushed himself off the counter. He crossed the distance between himself and Clark in a couple long steps and leaned over the thinner man with unbelievable physical menace. Calla held her breath. It was something like watching a rangy old herd bull approaching an upstart in a pasture, Calla decided. Uncomfortable, fascinating. Henry put one hand on Calla's free arm and held it there, squeezing. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she was being punished for something. Henry's other hand hung in the air at his side. His fist was bunched, Calla noticed with sick alarm. Circling was one thing; this was quickly getting out of hand. "No, not Bumpkin Junior College, you skinny, insufferable, elitist son of a bitch. Harvard. Class of '88, Bachelor's degree in Chemistry," Henry said quietly into Clark's face. He was so close, Calla could smell the whiskey on his breath. It was a heady scent. "Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Class of '90, Masters in Chemical Engineering. Purdue University, Class of '92, Doctorate in Chemical Engineering." Henry released Calla's arm and raised himself to a standing position with deliberate slowness. "And I played hockey." He turned and walked calmly to the door. "Not tennis. There's blood in hockey. That's what I liked about it. Remember that, Dartmouth, the next time you try to jerk me around." He nodded at the older couple. "Thanks for dinner, Helen, Jackson." Henry didn't look at Calla. He walked out the door and closed it gently behind him. Calla could hear the crunch of gravel under his feet as Henry strode deliberately out toward the bunkhouse. For several seconds, no one in the shadowy kitchen spoke. Even Jackson and Helen had been alarmed when Henry had accepted Clark's baiting. At least they'd had enough sense for that, Calla thought breathlessly. Maybe next time they wouldn't be so free with the Wild Turkey. "That guy's a menace," Clark said after a moment, wiping a sheen of sweat from his upper lip with the back of his hand. He picked up his wineglass with a forced flourish. "And, good God, what a story. Can you believe he thought we'd buy that? Where did you find this guy, Calla? I thought he was pretty uncivilized when I first met him, but this is ridiculous. If he can make up a wild tale like that, I wonder what else he's capable of? I hope you checked his references. More than that, I hope you lock the house at night." He was babbling. "What makes you think he made it up?" Jackson asked quietly. "Please," Clark snorted. "I've been around the academic world all my life. I would certainly know a doctor if I saw one. In chemical engineering, no less. What a laugh." As if to prove his point, Clark chuckled mirthlessly into his glass. His hands were shaking, Calla noticed. "If he has a degree, it's in ditch-digging. I'd bet my Beta Theta Pi colors on it." Jackson rose from the kitchen table.

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"Well," he announced mildly, "I think I'll hit the sack." Helen could hardly get up from her chair fast enough. "Me, too," she chirped. "Night." "My," Clark said after Jackson and Helen disappeared down the long hallway, "that was fun." He tipped his chair back and boldly planted his feet on the kitchen table and crossed his arms across his chest. Calla looked at his long, aristocratic feet sheathed in expensive penny loafers and fought a sudden urge to deck him. Then she had to fight an equally sudden urge to laugh. She put her head heavily into her hands. What was happening to her? "I'm a little upset, Clark," she said through her fingers. "I don't blame you. That man would upset anyone. What a jerk." He patted her comfortingly. "You weren't exactly innocent, Clark. You baited him. He really didn't have any choice but to make that stuff up." What was she doing? Defending Henry? He was rude and he was a liar. If she could blot out the image of him kneeling at her feet in the stack yard today, his mouth hot and hungry on her breast, she'd have a better chance of remembering that. "Now, Calla. He made that stuff up because of you, not me. He must know how impressed you are with the whole idea of college. It's because you never finished, sugarplum, and you don't know what a real grind it can be. He's playing on your obvious fascination. A doctorate in Chemical Engineering, indeed." Clark grunted uncharacteristically. Calla slowly raised her head from her hands. "Sugarplum?" she said."Sugarplum?" Clark looked at her, shocked by the tone in her voice. "I thought you liked those kind of endearments, Calla. Your father calls you darling and honey all the time." "My father—" Calla stressed each word "—calls me those things because he loves me. Not because he wants to start something with my hired man." Clark played idly with his empty wineglass. Grease from the steak he'd eaten earlier was imprinted in fingerprints around the bowl. "Now, how would my calling you little endearments start something with your hired man, Calla?" Calla dragged her lower lip between her teeth to keep from shouting at him. Calla was a shouter; everyone who'd ever known her knew it. On cattle drives, her temper was legendary. Let a calf go back, and you'll face the sad consequences of Calla's temper, her brother had always warned the cowboys. But she'd been careful never to raise her voice to Clark before. His New England sensibilities couldn't take it. "I don't know, exactly, Clark," she said, as softly as she could manage. "I just know that we've been

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going together for about a year now, and you have never once called me by anything but my name." She was losing control. She could feel it, but she didn't care. "But tonight, with Henry here acting, admittedly, like a big fool, you called me everything but…" Calla searched for a vile enough word"…lovergirl! And you patted me on the ass, Clark!" "Calla, I've talked to you about your swearing." "Oh, shut up." "Calla!" "I mean it, Clark. Take your feet off my table and hit the road." She stomped into the hallway, flicking the switch on the wall as she passed. The kitchen, and Clark, were plunged into the sudden blackness of a moonless Idaho night. *** Henry had the bunkhouse to himself. Lester was obviously in town on a drunk. He was grateful. If the old man had laughed at him tonight, in that raspy, wheezy way he had that made him sound like a cartoon dog, Henry would have had to kill him. Dammit! Henry paced across the small room.Dammit! He couldn't have handled that situation any worse if he'd tried. Calla, this very minute, was probably swearing him up and down. If she wasn't busy kissing Dartmouth.Dammit! Who the hell was this woman? He'd known her all of two weeks, had maybe five conversations with her, kissed her one time, one time! Was it logical to be this riled up at the thought of her kissing the man she was fully intending to marry? No. It was not logical. He flung himself onto his bunk like a teenage boy in a fit of temper. It was more than a kiss. He hadn't had time to really go over it in his mind. He'd been gripped by such a strange, debilitating rage when he'd seen Calla hop that fence and walk over to meet Dartmouth that it was all he could do to keep himself from challenging the shinny bastard to a duel at sunrise. With swords, something he could use to draw a good amount of blood. He couldn't think at all, much less clearly, a terrifyingly unfamiliar state for him to be in. He'd simply walked back to the bunkhouse, showered in the narrow bathroom stall, and plotted how to disrupt what he imagined was going to be a quiet family dinner. He'd certainly done that, he thought with a small groan. He'd made a complete fool of himself. He tried to focus on that. Humiliation was certainly a new experience for him, but it was at least manageable. He didn't want to have to think about the more emotional complications tonight's outburst might entail. He crossed his arms behind his head, concentrating for a moment on what had happenedbefore the disastrous dinner. It was easy, too easy. Calla's mouth, Calla's breasts, the smooth, strong feel of her under his fingers. He felt himself relax a little. The four or five glasses of whiskey probably helped, he thought. Calla had tasted better than he could have imagined; warm and sweaty and sweet. Her mouth had

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opened to him. He'd known it would. And her body. Had he ever pressed himself against anyone so curvy, so sexy, so firm and fluid? The whiskey was getting to him. He felt drowsy, the battle-ready hostility he'd felt all evening damping down under the warm weight of the liquor. He didn't want to fall asleep until he heard Dartmouth's car leave, but he closed his eyes anyway. Dartmouth. What an ass. He smiled again in the darkness. When had he picked up the fine art of cursing? He'd never mastered it before. Now he was swearing like a marine. Like Calla, in fact. His smile widened. He had scared the hell out of Dartmouth tonight, he thought with a measure of satisfaction. He'd recognized the sudden sweat on the other man's upper lip for what it was. He'd seen enough of it. Flop sweat. He hoped Calla had seen that sweaty lip. She was going to be furious with him. He felt a fuzzy dread of morning. He dropped an arm over his eyes and let his head spin. And hell, he was bound to have a brutal hangover. Chapter 7 «^» Henry jolted awake. He'd been dreaming. Calla had been walking toward him, wearing a long white T-shirt and nothing else. The shirt skimmed her smooth, strong thighs and he could see her rouge-tipped breasts swinging beneath the fabric. When he'd reached for her, she broke his grasp and walked past him. She walked up to the barn, pulled the big door open and stepped in. He tried to follow her but she closed the door on him. He peered, as desperately as a child, through the crack in the door. He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Heidi smiled up at him, her red-tipped fingers pressing into his shoulder. Henry sat upright on his bunk. His tongue was oddly thick and he couldn't seem to shake the heavy feeling in his head. But despite the strange sensations, he knew the dream alone hadn't shocked him awake. It was something else. Someone was running. He could hear the footsteps on the gravel. They were coming for the bunkhouse. Barely dormant instincts came to life in a rush. He leapt to hisfeet and realized he hadn't bothered to undress for bed. He was at the door in an instant, snatching his boots from the floor next to the door. He yanked the door open and ran hard right into Calla. He caught her as she stumbled into his chest. "Henry!" "What's wrong?" His body was tensed from head to toe. Pete had called that something, during his

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training. What? Oh, yes, his fighting stance. "You've got to come with me. I think I just killed Lester." She straightened suddenly, jerked free of his grasp and took his hand in hers. "Hurry, Henry. He's bleeding." "Where?" "From his head." "Calla, where is Lester?" "Oh, I thought you meant … he's in the house." Calla felt reaction set in, and started to shake. "In the kitchen." Henry didn't wait to pull on his boots. He tucked them under his arm and loped across the compound to the house in his socks. Calla was at his heels, her bare feet traveling the gravel behind him. He'd watched her walk the compound a dozen times without shoes. The bottoms of her slender feet had to be as tough as the leather on the chaps she wore into the hills every morning. He didn't allow himself the luxury of imagining Calla in nothing but those leather chaps, as he had a dozen times already that day. He could hear loud groaning before he reached the door. Lester wasn't dead, at least. Henry yanked open the kitchen door. Helen was on the floor, ministering to a bleeding Lester. Jackson was standing in the door of the laundry room, a first aid kit in his hands. Lester was sprawled ignominiously on the linoleum. Henry could smell alcohol, but couldn't tell if it was him or Lester. He smelled something else, something definitely coming from Lester. Aftershave. Henry smiled in spite of himself. "Lester, this is the second time today I've had to warn you about scaring Calla," Henry said as he strode forward and kneeled next to Lester. "Scaring Calla?" Lester squeaked. "She almost killed me." Henry examined Lester's head. "Almost isn't quite," Henry muttered, borrowing one of Lester's favorite expressions. There was the beginning of a goose egg and a small crack in the skin above his right eye. Not much more than a scratch. But the old man was bleeding profusely, Henry acknowledged. Years of drinking will thin the blood, Henry thought. He'd try to remember that the next time he felt the urge to drink a half bottle of Wild Turkey in front of Calla's family. He pressed his palm to Lester's wound. "Give me that first aid kit, will you, Jack?" Henry said. Jackson stepped forward and handed the blue metal box to Henry. Calla had yet to move from the doorway, though Henry was gratified to see the color returning to her cheeks. "Hold this," Henry commanded Lester as he placed a bandage on his head. "Tight. We want to stop the bleeding." "Oh, poor Lester," Helen fretted, looking worried and oddly guilty. "Poor dear. Can I get you something?"

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"No, that's all right, ma'am," Lester said bravely. "If we can just get this bleeding under control, I'm sure I'll be okay." He groaned again loudly for effect. Helen nearly swooned, her hand fluttering across her ample chest. It was all Henry could do not to laugh. He met Jackson's eye. The older man was obviously suppressing the same urge. Henry pried Lester's hand away from his forehead and applied a dab of antiseptic ointment to the oozing wound. Lester winced and moaned dramatically again. "Is he going to be all right?" Calla asked quietly from the doorway. "He's fine, Calla. Just a little bump. What'd you hit him with?" Calla looked solemnly into Henry's soft brown eyes. "A bat." Henry gave a short crack of laughter. Calla turned on her heel and vaulted down the stone steps. "You're okay, Lester, but you'll have a headache for a while, and your eye will swell shut." He helped Lester up off the floor. "You'll look like a hockey player. Drives the women wild." "You pissant," Lester jerked away from the grasp Henry had on his arm. He weaved a little and Helen reached out to steady him. "That hellcat nearly killed me. Didn't even bother to turn on the light before she hit me." "What were you doing in here in the middle of the night, Lester?" Jackson inquired softly. "Well," Lester had regained his composure enough to recover his drawl, Henry noticed. "I missed dinner. I was just looking to see if Miz Helen had saved me a little old lump of that apricot pie I saw she was making this afternoon." "Why didn't you turn on the light, old man?" Henry asked. "Why don't you go jump off a cliff, young fella?" Lester retorted. He put his hand to his head. "Ooh, I feel a little dizzy. Maybe I got me a concussion." "Oh, poor Lester," Helen wailed. "Here, come sit down." "More likely it's the liquor," Henry whispered in Lester's hairy ear as he helped him to a kitchen chair. "You smell like a still." "I ain't the only one," Lester snarled. Henry straightened. "Try to stay awake for another hour or so. I'll come back and check on you. But I've seen a lot of concussions, and this is just a bump on the head." "Thank you, son," Jackson said. "You're mighty handy to have around. You might want to lay your hand to going out and checking on Calla." "I planned to."

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Henry washed his hands at the laundry room sink, pulled on his boots and headed for the barn. Calla was probably out there crying her eyes out, Henry thought fondly. A little feminine angst was a pleasant thing, in his view. Brought out the best in a man. He found her where he knew she'd be—perched on the top rung of the stall where Bubba spent his lonely, gelded nights. Her back was to him. "Is he okay?" she asked as he pushed the barn door shut. "He's fine. You must have pulled up." "I realized it was him at the last second. He went down like a brick, though. Thought I might have killed him." "I know. You okay, sweetheart?" She turned to him. Her eyes were not full of tears. Or even a little feminine angst. They were blazing. He felt that plank slam against his chest. "Don't call me sweetheart." "Okay." "Don't call me anything but Calla. I'm your boss, not your sweetheart. Got it?" "Got it." She turned her back on him again. He stood at the barn door, regarding the strong slope of her back. He could imagine it perfectly, arching under him in climax. He ran his tongue over his teeth and jammed his hands in his pockets. "That stupid Lester." "Yep," Henry said. "He's not the sharpest tack in the box." "What was he doing in the kitchen at three o'clock in the morning? Looking for something to eat?" "Or something." "I really could have killed him with that bat." "I know." He was standing next to her. Her smooth, rounded hip was at eye level. He couldn't see her skin under her nightgown, but he could smell her. She smelled incredibly good. "You're tough." Calla looked down at him warily. He returned her gaze with studied innocence. "That bat your only protection, Calla?" "I don't need much out here. Protection, I mean." "I could teach you to use a gun."

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"I've been using a gun since before you were out of short pants, Henry." "Oh. My mistake." "Are you laughing at me?" Henry shook his head gravely. "Nope." "Good." She considered the wall in front of her for a minute. "What else would Lester have been in the house for?" Henry climbed the stall one rung at a time until he was perched next to her. "Calla, have you ever caught Lester in your kitchen before?" "That's a laugh." "I mean, in the middle of the night." "Once or twice." "And you think he goes there for food?" "What's your point, Beckett?" she asked, shifting until she was turned toward him, her ankle cocked on the board under her. Henry could hardly tear his eyes away. He imagined her naked under her nightgown. The thickness in his tongue was gone now, and his head was blissfully clear. "Nothing." He paused. He took a deep breath, as much to capture the scent of her as to fortify himself. "I'm just saying Lester must have a tapeworm. He isn't in his bunk from eleven to midnight, every single night. You could set your watch by it." "Oh, Lord." Calla groaned and put her head in her hands. She really might cry now, Henry thought without alarm. But when she lifted her head a minute later, he could see the laughter in her beautiful hazel eyes. "Lester is boinking my Aunt Helen." "Not very romantically put, but yes, I'd say that's the gist of it." Calla started to giggle, and couldn't stop. She laughed so hard, Henry thought she'd fall off her perch. He reached out a hand just in case. "That's probably why he doesn't show up for work until nine. He's exhausted, the big stud." She howled with laughter. "Eleven to midnight? What does he do after the first five minutes?" Tears started to show in the corners of her eyes. Henry watched in fascination. He'd never seen anyone laugh so hard, so uninhibitedly, before. In spite of himself, he began to laugh, too. It bubbled up from inside him. He felt like a little kid, caught up in some excruciatingly funny knock-knock joke. "Don't laugh," he managed to say. "I've seen Lester in his underwear. He must terrify your poor Aunt."

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Calla doubled over and clutched at him, laughing so hard the sound became choked in her throat. He rocked with her back and forth on the narrow board. What in the world was happening to him? he wondered. After a minute, their laughter slowed. He breathed deeply once more and watched Calla wipe her eyes on the hem of her nightgown. How this woman got to him! Nine hours ago, watching her leave his embrace to go to Clark, he'd been ready to kill her, or kill for her. When she'd come running to him across the compound in her plain white nightgown, he would have lain down his life to save her. Ten minutes ago, he'd have opened a vein to be allowed to comfort her, and now his stomach hurt from laughing at what only she could think was funny. His tidy engineer's brain was fading fast in this Idaho desert. He should flee to California and his ordered life as soon as possible. But that was impossible, for more reasons that just this wild-driving, belly-laughing, chestnut-haired cowgirl. "You were such a jerk tonight," she said. She had finished dabbing at her eyes and had turned back to face the stall. She reached out a long, suntanned foot and scratched Bubba's back with her toes. "I know. Sorry." Calla looked at him, surprised, suspicious. "I didn't expect such a quick apology," she said. "Disappointed, I'll bet." "Oh, funny." "No, I'll bet you had a good hour's worth of scolding all saved up, didn't you?" "I don't scold." Henry grinned. "The heck you don't." They were silent for a moment. "You drove Clark to it, you know. He's really very nice." "Well, that must be exciting." Another minute passed. Henry breathed steadily beside her. His heart had slowed somewhat, but the tension in him was intense. He was glad it was dark in the barn. He would have been somewhat embarrassed if she'd been able to look down and see just how little control he had over his libido these days. "You didn't have to make all that stuff up about Harvard and MIT. You're not in competition with Clark." "No?"

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"Come on, Henry. It was one little kiss." "I may have had a lot to drink tonight, but I remember a lot more than just one little kiss. I remember everything, in fact. Down to the very finest detail." His voice was calm and serious. Calla shifted away from him a bit, her toes still on the warm back of Benny's horse. "Whatever. It was no excuse for lying." "I wasn't lying." "Henry, please. I don't care. You're a good hand. I'm happy to have you." "Thanks. I'm happy to be had. But I'm still not lying." She peered at him through the dusty gloom. "You're a doctor?" "Well, of chemical engineering. I couldn't have done anything for Lester if you'd hit him any harder tonight." He smiled at the memory of Helen fussing over her bald, rummy lover. He wondered what Calla looked like fussing over someone. "The best I could have done was come up with a good formula for encasing his head in polypropylene-based membrane until the paramedics arrived." "Don't laugh at me." "I'm definitely not laughing at you, Calla." She dropped down into the stall with Bubba and walked slowly around him, her hand on his wide rump. Henry frowned at her bare feet and considered whether he should rescue her before the old horse crushed her toes. He decided against it. "What are you really doing here, Henry?" she asked after a long minute. "I'm really working for you." "You have a Ph.D., if I'm not mistaken. And it's not in riding fences." "Changing sprinklers," Henry corrected. Calla closed her eyes, gathering patience. "He didn't mean that. He was just upset. You certainly drove him to it." "You always fight his battles, Calla?" "No." She shook her head. "I mean, I'm not fighting his battle." Henry ignored her. "Because if you do, it's going to be a long life for you." "You didn't answer my question." "That makes us even."

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"What?" She twisted her head in honest confusion. Sweet Calla. Henry wanted to lie down with her right in that straw-filled stall. It had taken him a while to see past the unbelievable body and the unflinching toughness, but this woman, for all the responsibility she carried on those lovely shoulders, was about the most naive person he'd come across in years. He thought he could fall in love with her for that alone. "You didn't answer my question this afternoon in the stack yard. About Dartmouth." Calla put her forehead on Bubba's flank, hiding her flushed face. "As I recall, I didn't have much of a chance." "You've got one now." She was quiet a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, what?" Henry stifled in the darkness. "Yes, I'm going to marry Clark. If he asks me." She hadn't taken her head off the horse. Henry sat for a second longer, then reached down for her across Bubba's back. The horse shifted a little. Calla looked up, took his warm hand and walked around to face him. He looked down at her for a long moment, studying her face, then reached under her arms and lifted her easily up to sit next to him. She closed her eyes and waited for Henry to kiss her. But he didn't kiss her. Instead he swung his legs over the stall and jumped down to the plank floor. "Do you want me to go back and get you some shoes?" "No. Henry?" "I'll see you in the morning. I'll be heading out." "Heading out?" Calla blinked at him. The moment of deep tension was gone. She was instantly furious. "You're leaving? Because I'm marrying Clark? Of all the petty, childish… What am I supposed to do for the rest of the summer? It's too late to hire a summer rider. I never thought you'd run, you big, selfish…" she groped for an appropriately hideous epithet "…city boy." "I'm leaving for camp in the morning, remember?" he said as he walked calmly out the barn door. And just because she was so testy and he was so rigidly, aggravatingly aroused, he shouted over his shoulder, "You better have better accommodations up there than you do down here. I've had a mouse in my mattress every night for two weeks." He left her fuming. And barefooted. Calla sat for a long time in the dark of the barn. She had wanted him to kiss her again. She had wanted it more than anything else in the world. He had lifted her as though she were no bigger than a child. Clark had never even let her sit on his lap.

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She was going to marry Clark. What was the matter with her? Of course, she was going to marry Clark. She'd been waiting nearly a year. It was all part of the plan.Ofcourse.She should have shouted it at the blockhead. It was a fait accompli. She knew it, her family knew it, now Henry knew it. It had to happen. Everything was riding on it. A hundred years were riding on it. Her mother and Benny were counting on her. She was the only McFadden left. So why would she have gladly sold her soul and her best horse a few minutes earlier for the touch of Henry's lips on hers? Calla hitched up her nightgown and scooted, bareback, onto Bubba. He grunted a little in surprise, but didn't so much as shift under her weight. The bare skin of her thighs brushed his warm, coarse hair, doing nothing to ease the aching arousal she'd felt from the minute Henry had climbed the stall rungs to sit next to her. Oh, Ben, she thought suddenly. I wish you were here to help me. To remind me why I have to forget this man, this beautiful Henry. To help me stick to the plan. Calla leaned forward and wrapped her arms around the thick neck of the gray. She stretched her legs out behind her until she was lying along the length of the horse. Even if Benny were here, he never would have helped her, she knew. Her brother would have chosen Henry for her. And let one hundred years of family history take care of itself. Chapter 8 «^» "Calla, this is Peggy over at the co-op," the voice from the machine shrilled in Calla's ear. "Lester called this morning for a diesel delivery. Calla, I'm real sorry, but we can't deliver gas until you pay your outstanding bill. Give me a call when you get a chance. Thanks." There was a screeching beep. Another voice came on the line. Calla tried to steel herself. "Uh, yeah. Hello. This is Dusty Johnson. I tried to cash the check you give me for the horseshoeing? And, um, well, there wasn't no money in your account to cover it." The voice was young, hesitant, but it bore into Calla like a drill. "Yeah, so anyways, I'm a little short on account of the weekend and all and I was wondering, if you get it straightened out will you give me a call back? I'm at my mom's house. Okay. Well … okay. See you. By the way, that bay of yours oughta not be rode for a couple days. I quicked her left front hoof just a little." Sammy? She was planning to use Sammy this weekend to move the heifers to the Little Sheep pasture. She'd have to start shoeing her own horses again. It was safer. And cheaper. She'd just have to find the time. Another beep.

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"Calla, Clark. I thought we might have dinner tonight. You pick a spot and I'll meet you. I'd hate to have to come all the way out to the ranch and then have to bring you home. This sports car doesn't get the mileage it should. I think I'll talk to the rental company when I take it back. I'm going to tell them I want credit for the extra mileage. Call me at your convenience on the cellular—555-2270. Bye." "I know your number, Clark," Calla said out loud. She unbuckled her chaps and tossed the heavy leather onto the kitchen table. Another beep. "Calla, this is Dick Dupree. Just calling to remind you about our meeting this afternoon. Four o'clock. I'll buy you a cup of coffee." A long pause. Calla thought the message might be over, but it wasn't. Unfortunately. "And, Calla, why not invite your dad to come on in with you? I'd like to run something up the flagpole and see how it flies." Beep. A bad debt, a bad check, a halfhearted dinner invitation and a threat. She should never have got that machine. Foreclosure. It wasn't imminent, she knew from her own set of books, but Dupree, the family banker for as long as Calla could remember, was ready to put the screws to her. He'd been hinting at it for months. Dupree had been skeptical when Calla took over the cattle operation. And when Judy McFadden Bishop died and left the ranch to her daughter, he was positively beside himself with worry. He'd wanted to put the ranch in trust for her, under her father's care, until she was twenty-five. But Jackson didn't want to run the ranch, and he told the banker so. Dupree then suggested the bank hold the ranch in trust and hire a ranch manager for her until such time as she was mature and settled and married enough to handle it. Calla had hit the roof. But he'd been a good enough banker, overall. When she'd needed the down payment on a new stacker three years ago, he'd only made her beg a little. And he didn't say much when the registered bred heifer market went down the tubes in '97, even though he'd warned her about it—something to the effect of don't count your chickens, she vaguely recalled. That was the problem with Dupree. He was always talking in cliché. She could hardly remember what he ever had to say. But she was careful about the loan payments. They were late most months—and the balloon payment at the end of the year kept her up nights—but she always managed to make them. He couldn't complain. But he had been complaining, Calla acknowledged. For months, now. She went to the refrigerator and pulled out the pitcher of cold tea Helen kept fresh for her. Whatdid Dupree want? Surely not the ranch. It had been in her family for more than one hundred years, and even Dupree wasn't foolish enough to foreclose on McFadden property. The outcry from neighboring ranches would be deafening, and Dupree would lose many of Calla's fellow ranchers to the big Boise banks. He'd been in small-town banking long enough to know that, surely. Besides, he'd have to do something pretty shady to foreclose on a good note. He'd have to wait until she missed—if she missed—the balloon. But he wasn't waiting. No, something else was going on. Dupree had been edging her toward some kind of cliff for months. If she wasn't careful, she'd drop right off.

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She took her tea and trudged up the stairs. She hadn't been back to sleep after her conversation with Henry in the barn last night and she was beginning to feel it. How in the world had she got herself into that one? That's right, she remembered. It was Lester. She looked at the clock on her bedside table. Two-thirty. She stripped down and stretched out on her bed, exhausted. She worked hard during haying, sometimes rising in the middle of the night to catch the hay with dew still on it. Henry had made it easier and faster this year, but she still felt the strain. She dozed lightly, letting her mind drift. And as it had for weeks, it stubbornly, inevitably, drifted toward her hired man. Henry had gone up to camp with Lester. She always took the riders to camp, to show them around and talk about the fence lines and the schedule for moving the herd from field to field. But she let Lester do it this time, to his grumbled dismay. If nothing happened, she wouldn't see Henry again until the weekend, and maybe not even then. She'd send Helen to town to buy supplies—groceries, milk, calf vaccine—and she'd leave them in the bunkhouse for Henry to retrieve. Standard operating procedure. And since Henry was looking after her herd, she'd have time to get some things done around the place. Things she'd put off too long. It was very likely she wouldn't see him for weeks. If nothing happened. She'd miss being at camp. She spent a lot of time there in the summer, even when she had a full-time fence rider. It was a second home. There was nothing like riding the hills all day and sleeping in the deep, warm canvas tents that Calla set up every June. It was the part of her job she loved best. No, Henry would likely pick up his supplies and grab a shower, go to town for a beer or two and a restaurant meal, and head back to camp. If nothing happened. But something always happened. A cow got caught in the cattle guard or mice got in and ate all the bread or a horse came up lame and needed a vet. Calla found herself perversely hoping for any of those things. She grudgingly levered herself off her bed, went into her bathroom and turned on the taps to her old tub. An hour later, dressed in her go-to-the-bank-have-dinner-with-Clark clothes, and somewhat refreshed despite the high-desert heat, she headed to her battered pickup and hoisted herself in. Her father was nowhere to be found, nor, strangely, was Lester or Aunt Helen. Lester should have returned from the camp by now. If nothing happened. No. Nothing had happened, and she was vexed by the stab of panic she'd felt. She was hardly in a position to worry about Henry, as anything more than an employee anyway. One kiss did not a husband make. It was more than a kiss. His words came back to her, and she was surprised to see the image come back to her, too. If she could just get rid of the mental picture of him kneeling at her feet, his mouth greedy and damp and, really,

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sinfully skilled… She felt her body heat rise and a sudden, tight moisture between her legs. Marvelous. Just what I need. Going to see the banker and all I can think about is … that. Fat lot of good that bath did me, she thought as she turned the key and gratefully heard the old truck roar to life. She'd have to take Dupree on her own today, she thought. No matter. Her father was just window dressing in these situations anyway. His masculine presence made Dupree feel a little better about dealing with a mere girl of twenty-four. The idiot. Thirty minutes later she pulled to the curb of Paradise Savings and Loan, ignoring the co-op next door and her overdue account there. After Dupree, she rationalized. After I figure out what's going on. "Well, Calla, honey. You here to see Dick?" Ruby Watchell's wide smile practically lit up the tiny space behind her teller's counter as Calla walked through the door of the bank. Before Calla could answer, Ruby shouted over her shoulder to the open glass door two steps behind her. "Dick, Calla Bishop's here. She's got a dress on and she looks awful pretty. You best get on out here." Dick Dupree, nondescript as only a banker could be, stomped up behind Ruby. His mustache twitched in irritation. "Mrs. Watchell, would you please use the intercom when I have visitors? I believe we've discussed this before." "Now, why in the world should I use that intercom when you're no more than ten feet away? You can hear me justfine." Dick Dupree sighed heavily and adjusted the lapels on the coat Calla had seen him hastily slip into. A coat. Calla groaned to herself. Bad sign. She followed him into his dank little office and watched him swipe a big plastic bottle of generic antacid into the top drawer of his desk. Another bad sign. She sank into a chair facing him. "Well, Dupree. Let's have it." "Have what?" He paused, then shook his head. "Calla, I swear sometimes you have the tact of a billy goat. You want coffee?" He moved his hand to the button of the intercom. Calla imagined the lecture they'd have to endure if he pressed it, and she shook her head quickly. "No thanks, Dick. I've got a dinner date in an hour. I don't have time for the niceties. What's up? I rarely get a summons from you unless my note payment's late. And I still have three days until that sad day." Dupree cleared his throat, adjusted his tie and pulled a yellow, tooth-marked pencil from a worn felt holder on his desk and tapped it on his knee. Calla watched with mounting alarm. Usually, she couldn't get Dick Dupree to shut up. He loved a good lecture. "Dick. Stop it. You're making me nervous." She leaned forward and crossed her arms on his dusty desk. "You can't foreclose. I'll sue." Dupree sat upright and stopped tapping his pencil. "Don't threaten me."

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"Don't you threaten me, Dick. You can't foreclose." "As a matter of fact, I can. I'm not saying I will, but I certainly can. I already have board approval." Calla couldn't breathe. "What?" "I already have board approval. You have been late one too many times, Calla. You've been walking the line. The jig is up. One more late payment and I'm going to shut you down." "The jig is up? I can't believe this." "Believe it. And even if you manage to get your notes in on time for the next six months, your balloon is due at the end of the year. You'll never make that." "I will make it. I'll sell some cows." "And then what? You're digging yourself a hole you can't get out of, Calla." "You're wrong." Dupree raised his hands in supplication, but his beady eyes stayed determined and hard. "Look, Calla, the business has had a huge downturn. It isn't just you. Every cattleman in southern Idaho is sinking. I've heard about foreclosures on operations three times your size. You've done a fine job, considering your age and the fact you're a woman. But it's time to throw in the towel. The party's over." "Stop talking like that." Calla rubbed her temples. "You're giving me a headache." Dupree let her stew for a minute. "There is an alternative to foreclosure." "You won't foreclose on me, Dick." "Just listen, Calla." He took a deep breath and licked his lips. "We've had an offer on your place." Calla sat back, stunned. "What?" An offer? Her mind raced. When? Who? She grabbed at a thought as it whizzed through. "Stan?" Stanley Cutler was her closest neighbor and the man who owned the rights to Sulphur Lake runoff after it passed through her fields. He'd kept a close eye on Calla, waiting for her to give up and sell. But he'd never been insistent, or duplicitous. He'd told her flat-out that when she was ready to sell, he was ready to buy. "Stan…?" Dupree knitted his brows. "You mean Cutler? God, no. That man's got financial troubles you wouldn't … ah, anyhow, no. Not Cutler." "Who, then?" Her head was spinning, not a good sign in a banker's office, where a clear head often meant the difference between a future and a past for a farmer.

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"Well," Dupree began slowly, leaning forward and locking eyes with her. She could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His office had an intercom, but not an air conditioner. The fan behind him ruffled the papers on his desk. "It's a developer, actually. From out of town." "A developer," Calla repeated. "What in the world would a developer want with the Hot Sulphur? It's not as if we've got easy access to the high life out there, you know." "Yes, well, the party in question is very shrewd. They see your …our property," he corrected pointedly, "as the perfect spot for a posh, private recreational club." "Club? You mean a dude ranch?" Calla sputtered with barely suppressed laughter. "They want to turn it into a dude ranch?" Dupree put up a warning hand. "Don't take this lightly, Calla. Dude ranches are extremely profitable. They plan to use the hot sprigs to develop some bass ponds for fishing and a spa, use the sinks for bird hunting, tear down the old buildings to make way for shops and restaurants. Very all-inclusive," Dupree said smugly. Calla groaned inwardly. He'd probably just learned the phrase and was trying it out on her. "Posh" was another new one. Calla knew for a fact the wordposh had never before been uttered in Paradise. And maybe in all southern Idaho. "Who are they?" "I can't say." Calla blinked. "You can't say? These people are coming to my bank and talking to my banker about my place, and you can't say?" Her voice was growing louder. She caught a glimpse of movement outside the glass door as Ruby shifted position for a better view. Ruby's customer leaned eagerly over the teller counter, straining to see inside the office. Great, Calla thought when she saw who it was. Ida Bootsma. It'd be all over Paradise in an hour that Calla Bishop had had a fight with Dick Dupree down at the bank. Calla closed her eyes briefly and willed her hands to stop shaking. "Listen,Dick, you tell these guys they can take their offer and drop it off the Paradise Bridge. I'm not turning my great-grandfather's homestead into a dude ranch." She rose to leave. "Wait, Calla." Dupree jumped to his feet, his eyes narrowed in that ancient way of moneylenders readying for battle. "You better sit down, young lady, and listen to what's good for you. You all have been hanging by a string for years now. These guys are offering you a way out." "A way out?" She wanted to laugh. "Of what? My home? My legacy? My children's future?" "Don't be so dramatic," he chastised. "You could go back to college, finish your degree." "Get bent, Dupree." She stepped back to open the office door. Ida and Ruby peered intently at Ida's bank statement. "Charming." He moved to block her exit. "You always did have a smart mouth. Sit down." He practically pushed her into her chair.

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There were distinct disadvantages to doing business in a small town with old friends and relatives, Calla thought sulkily. If any big-city banker had put his hands on her, she'd have decked him. Then called a big-city lawyer. "They're offering a million-five." "It's worth more." "Not in this market." "What about my grazing rights?" "They don't want 'em. They're not interested in running a herd. They plan to keep a few cows on hand so the tourists can run them from field to field when they get the notion." Calla groaned and rested her forehead on Dupree's desk. "Poor cows." Dupree waited a long minute, waiting for her to squirm. She didn't, to his exasperation. "I think you should take the money and run, Calla. You could buy a big house here in town for your daddy and Helen. You'd be free to go where you pleased." He warmed to his subject. "Do what you please. Marry your college boy, move back East, whatever." "What about Lester?" Calla asked distractedly, buying time to collect her thoughts. "Lester? Hell, Calla, I don't know. I suppose he could get a job with the dude ranch people." "He's too ugly." Her head was spinning again. "They're going to want pretty cowboys. I know one they'd love." A million and a half dollars. That was what her legacy was worth to these people. A million and a half dollars. Not a bad price, if you didn't factor in a century's worth of work. "Listen, Dupree, I know you're a little slow, so take this down." She rose from her chair and planted her hands on the desk in front of her. "The next time your developers come into town sniffing around my ranch, tell them for me that they will get my ranch over my dead body." Dupree was satisfactorily nonplussed. Calla went to the office door. A thought struck her, and she turned slowly to the slack-jawed banker. "I wonder how they found me. I've never seen anybody looking at my place." She didn't really expect an answer. Thank God, Dupree thought as he watched her walk out the door. He looked down at his hands. He had cracked his little yellow pencil in two. Chapter 9 «^» Calla sat in the rounded, bloodred, faux leather banquette in the back of Roseanna's Oasis and nursed

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her second margarita. She'd never been much for hard liquor, but the tequila, helped along with a little lime juice and Triple Sec, was going down just exactly right. She'd been in the booth since five-thirty. It was now nearly seven. Clark would arrive any minute and she was well on her way to being drunk. Good. She hadn't been drunk since high school graduation. She had a few things to say to Clark tonight, and she wanted to be good and juiced up before she did. She took another swallow of her drink. Developers. Despite the tequila, she still couldn't get a handle on it. Developers wanted Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. And they were willing to pay more than a million dollars for it. And Dupree wanted her to hand it over to them on a silver platter. Calla closed her hand around the frosty glass. Well, they could just forget it. She knew how foolish her decision was, on a financial level at least. One point five million dollars was a whole of a lot of money. It could buy freedom for, and from, Jackson and Helen and Lester. Especially Lester. She grinned briefly. But she'd pay too great a price for that freedom, she knew. She was part of the desert homestead; more than that, it was part of her. And she'd be in her grave before she let anyone take it from her. No matter what she had to do. "Hello, Calla. Have you been waiting long?" She looked up at Clark's aristocratic, office-gray face. Speaking of no matter what she had to do, here he was. "Oh, hello, Clark. Nope. Not long," she lied. "You want a drink?" "Sure." He waved the waitress over. "I'll have a Bombay Gin martini, twogreen olives, please. You gave me black olives last time. And if you still haven't got any Bombay Gin, I'll have Tanqueray." The waitress snapped her gum wearily. "Calla?" she said. "I'll have another margarita." Calla suppressed a tipsy giggle. "Any kind of tequila. No olives." The waitress winked at her and walked back to the bar, her circa 1970s cocktail dress flouncing on her wide rear end. "How many have you had already?" Clark eyed her suspiciously. "Eleven. I lied before. I've been here since noon." "Oh, my God." "I'm just kidding. Sometimes, Clark, I swear, you have no sense of humor." "That is not true," he said defensively. "You know perfectly well I was a member of the Dartmouth Comedy Players." "I know everything about your days at Dartmouth, Clark old sod. You are an endless font of information about your days at Dartmouth."

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"Calla, you are positively hostile today. I think you should stop guzzling that drink and have a cup of coffee before you say something you'll regret." "I'm about to say something I think you'll regret." "What?" Calla took a deep breath. The unfamiliar alcohol was coursing through her, making her brave. No matter what she had to do. No matter what she had to do. In the past few hours it had become a mantra. "I want to get married." Clark stared at her for a minute. "Fine." "I mean it." "Fine." "I'm serious." She pointed an unsteady finger at him. "I understand that you are. I said fine." "Fine, what?" Calla was suddenly sure they weren't talking about the same thing. "Fine, I'll marry you. I'll have my attorney draw up the papers this week. And I'll have to call Dad. He should be able to get an acceptable place on short notice." "Place for what?" Calla was dazed. Theycouldn't be talking about the same thing. This was too easy. She was ready tosuffer for her heritage, darn it. Maybe the suffering would come after the wedding. Probably, it would. "A place for the ceremony. Roomy enough for my fraternity brothers, but not too ostentatious. In Westport, of course. Westport is where the Franklins got married. Remember that? Oh, no, you didn't go." "I wasn't invited to the Franklins' wedding." "That's right. Well, you would have hated it. Very elegant." Calla was quickly sobering under his officious manner. "Thanks." "And we'll have to get a stationer. Back East, of course. I'll have my secretary look into that." "A stationer? For what?" "For invitations," he said with exaggerated slowness. "And we'll need note cards and place cards. Try to keep up." Calla took a swallow of her melting margarita. "Sorry," she mumbled. No matter what she had to do.

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No matter what she had to do. Clark kept ticking off his fingers items from his invisible list. "A caterer. Let's see. Who catered the banquet we had for Sherm Spence when he got his seat on the town council? Oh—" Clark snapped his fingers. Calla jumped. "Renaissance. That's right. Oh, they were great. Very understated. And we'll need a wine captain." "I thought we'd get married at home." Calla said into her glass. "Home?" Clark looked at her blankly. "Home. The ranch." He burst out laughing. "Calla, please. Be serious. I couldn't possibly invite my friends to the ranch. At least not until it's fixed up. Half of them don't even know where Idaho is, for God's sake. Now—" he dismissed her "—what about music? I think a nice string quartet for the ceremony and then maybe a jazz ensemble for the reception. I realize we'll have to look around. I'm sure your father doesn't want to pay through the nose just for music." Calla blinked several times in pure astonishment. "You want … my father to pay for all this?" He tweaked her on the cheek. "Of course, Calla. It's traditional that the bride's father pay for the wedding." He looked at her. "Surely you don't expect my father to pay for it?" "I didn't … I don't expect to have a big wedding. I hate big weddings." "Figures." He gaze became distant. Calla had the distinct, inebriated impression he could see all the way to Connecticut from the booth at the Oasis. "But I'm afraid we'll have to do this right, Calla. It's expected. I've already made enough of a spectacle of myself flying out here every other day for the past thirteen months." "Three months," Calla corrected glumly. "You started coining out three months ago. You said we weren't serious enough for you to come out thirteen months ago." "And I was right. It would have been foolish. Now, normally, we'd need a year to plan the wedding, but I think we can forgo…" "A year?" Calla nearly choked on the last of her third margarita. Her balloon payment was due in a few months. Oh. Lord, what was she getting herself into? She looked up gratefully as Virginia, the waitress with the flounce, hurried over with another drink. "Sorry, Bart, no Bombay, no Tanqueray. You want something else?" She set Calla's perfectly made margarita on the table and swept away the empty glass. "It's Clark. And no, thank you." He eyed the margarita glass critically. "I'm not sure the glasses in here are altogether clean, anyway." Virginia shrugged. "Suit yourself." She flounced back to the bar and leaned over the laminate top to whisper something into the barman's ear. The barman laughed uproariously, Virginia giggled behind her hand.

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"I hate this town," Clark said wearily. He eyed Calla's lime-colored drink. "What kind of papers?" "What?" "What kind of papers does your lawyer have to draw up?" "Prenup. Standard stuff." "Prenup?" "A prenuptial agreement." Calla felt sure she was drunk now. A prenuptial agreement. It sounded like something from the movies. She tried to clear the tequila cobwebs from her brain. "I don't understand," she said thickly. "Calla, look, don't worry. It's very standard stuff. Every married couple I know has a prenuptial agreement. You really can't get married in the nineties without one." "I don't know any married couples with a prenuptial agreement." "Well," he snorted, "you don't know many people at all, do you?" Calla took another sip of her drink. "You've got a little bit of snot hanging right there," Calla said, touching her right nostril. Clark took out a monogrammed handkerchief and rubbed vigorously at his nose. "Thank you. Look, don't worry about the prenup. It'll be fine. You have assets to protect and so do I. It's really the only sensible thing to do. And you've always been a very sensible girl, Calla." Calla watched him stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket. She'd always thought it was charming and old-fashioned that Clark carried a handkerchief. In her present state, though, things looked somehow different. Not that it mattered. She'd save the ranch, for Benny and her mother and all the people stretching back a hundred years and forward a hundred more. No matter what she had to do. *** Henry watched the man climb slowly from the rented Jeep Grand Cherokee. He looked a long time at Henry, then held both his hands up, palms forward, and took careful, slow steps toward the tent. Henry relaxed his grip on the rifle and watched him in amusement. "Dammit, Pete. What are you doing? You look like a hostage." "I don't know how mad you still are, Mitch," the man said. "I just don't want to take any chances." He started to lower his hands to his side.

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"Good thinking. I'm still mad. Keep 'em where I can see 'em." Henry regarded the smaller man. The obviously new designer blue jeans and denim shirt were pressed to within an inch of their lives. His pointy-toed boots were ostrich skin, and he reeked of a scent Henry recognized as the latest in Western-wanna-be cologne. "You look ridiculous," Henry said, shaking his head. He settled the rifle against the outer wall of the tent, resigned to unwanted company. "I thought I looked great. I blend." "Blend, hell. You walk into Paradise looking like that and they'll think you've come to town to open a gay bar." The man looked down at himself in some consternation. "I was told this was the latest look." He fingered the little coyote-shaped clip on his shiny bolo tie. "Maybe in Santa Fe or Malibu. We're a little behind the fashion times out here, Pete." Pete gave Henry a once-over, taking in the taller man's dusty Wranglers, yoked work shirt and scuffed boots. "I can see that." "What are you doing here, Pete? How did you find me?" "Mitch, come on. Offer me a beer or something. I've been driving all over hell and back on this godforsaken mountain for six hours." He looked over his shoulder at the dusty Jeep. "I can't believe these roads. How do people survive out here?" Henry shrugged. "The roads weren't meant for vehicles. They're mostly sheep and cattle trails. I expect people travel by horseback out this far most of the time." "Well, they do have tax levies in this state, don't they? Why don't they fix the damn roads so normal people could drive on them?" Henry walked into the tent and reappeared with two beers from his cooler. "Now, why in the world would they want normal people up here, Pete? Normal people have ruined the world." "Oh, no. Not this again." Pete took the cold beer and popped the top. He took a long, grateful swallow. Henry watched him carefully. "Why are you here?" Henry repeated. "You gotta come back, Mitch." "The hell I do." Henry sat heavily in the little canvas camp chair he'd set in front of the tent. He motioned to a rock. "Have a seat." "Thanks. Lovely accommodations you got here, Mitch." "Not plush, I'll admit." Henry swept an assessing gaze at the two tents and the small post-and-pole corral that served as the Two Creek Camp. They were snuggled low under a clump of scrub trees—the

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only trees around for miles—that were watered from a little spring that seeped up from the ground and lightly dampened the earth for a hundred feet around. The tents overlooked a valley where two tiny creeks met and formed a bubbling stream that eventually ran into a larger stream down the mountain. Henry could see the peaks of the Owyhees of northern Nevada from his chair. "But it has a nice view." "True. Very fine." The two men gazed across the wide valleys stretching hazily beyond them for a moment. "I'm here to warn you, Mitch. Campbell picked up some noise about you." "What kind of noise?" "Our Haitian pals want to know if you've stopped working on the formula." "I didn't know they were paying such close attention." Henry swigged his beer casually. "Don't be an idiot, Mitch. You haven't been out of the field that long. Surely the past two months away from the lab haven't rotted your brain completely?" "What did Frank have to say about it?" "He wants you to come back inside. We can't protect you out here." Henry gave a derisive little chuckle into his beer can. "You couldn't protect me at all. The explosion nearly killed that old woman in my condo complex." "Did kill her," Pete corrected, not meeting his friend's eyes. "She died a month or so ago. Never regained consciousness." "Hell." "Look, that was an anomaly. You're perfectly safe now. We set up a better sweeper." "You catch the bomber?" "Well, no." "Then screw you." Pete looked briefly amused. "I've never heard you use this type of language before. Life in the saddle must be making a man of you or something." "Or something," Henry answered. He allowed his thoughts to return fleetingly to Calla in her nightgown, stretching her brown toes over her brother's horse. He'd certainly been feeling every manly impulse there ever was, lately. "How did you find me?" "It wasn't difficult. We lost you in Reno for a while. Frank was very pissed." Pete smiled. "He and Campbell had a row in his office you could hear all the way out into the parking lot." Pete tipped beer into his mouth. "Campbell's people picked you back up in Boise. What's the matter with you? You've been easier to tail than a kindergartner. We picked up the credit cards and the DMV switch the day after you made them." "I'm trying to avoid reporters, not spies, Pete. I'm not playing this game anymore. Frankly, I don't care

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what you guys do." "You should." "I'm out, Pete. And I'm staying out. I want my life back." "When did you ever have a life? As far as I can tell, until that debacle of a marriage, you were locked in a laboratory from the time you were fourteen. It was one of the reasons we picked you. Lab geeks are always so easy to recruit. Look—" Pete sighed wearily "—they want the formula. We want the formula. About ten of the biggest bastards on this planet want the formula. How long do you think you're going to be safe up here playing Roy Rogers?" "This is open country. Quiet." He grinned. "I've been listening to you tear around for the past two hours. I'm as safe here as anywhere. Certainly safer than in L.A., where mad bombers can get into my condo complex and kill innocent old women." Henry took another pull on his beer, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. He hadn't known the old woman, hadn't known any of his neighbors, but her death weighed heavily on him, made him sick. The men were silent for several minutes. It was deep twilight, and Henry heard a yipping duet of coyotes in the valley beyond. "What about the woman?" Henry stiffened. "What woman?" "The one with the pretty hair and the big…" Pete cupped his hands in front of him as a description, then took a notepad from the pocket of his Ralph Lauren denim shirt. "Calla Lily McFadden Bishop. Cute name. Owner and manager of Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch." Henry deliberately slowed his breathing and spoke in a casual tone. "What about her? I just work for her. She's nothing." "Yeah? Well, since you're all the way up here with your rifle and your extraordinary hearing, and she's down there with three elderly relatives and wimpy excuse for a boyfriend, my professional opinion is that she is not so safe as you are." Henry narrowed his eyes in the fading light. "Is that a threat, Pete?" "Certainly not. I do not threaten innocent young ladies. I'm just saying that if somebody wants you bad enough, he'll stop at nothing to get you." "Including you?" "You, pal—" Pete drained the can of beer and crumpled it under his shiny new boot "—know the answer to that better than anybody." Chapter 10 «^»

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Two hangovers in two weeks. Her life was getting out of hand. She didn't want to open her eyes. Pain was waiting. It promised itself to her already, pounding on her skull; a miner looking for the big vein. She lifted her lids slightly and groaned. Tequila. How much tequila had she had? She should have forced herself to throw up last night when she wanted to. But she hadn't seemed to be able to lift herself out of bed, so she waited out the spinning nausea until unconsciousness overtook her. It was light outside her bedroom window. Ten o'clock. At least. Lester was going to have a field day. She dragged herself out of bed and steadied herself on her bedpost for a minute. Maybe she'd just throw up right now. She stumbled to the bathroom, the miner pounding relentlessly on the inside of her skull with a fierce little hammer, and grabbed her toothbrush. The taste in her mouth was dirt and rubber. Like she'd been sucking on a tractor tire, she thought as she coated the toothbrush with paste. She tried to brush her teeth and keep her head perfectly still at the same time. How does Lester do this? She spit, rinsed her mouth several times and peered into the mirror at her face. "God, what did you do to yourself, Calla?" she asked aloud. She tugged at the skin covering her cheekbones. Her eyes were bloodshot and tired-looking, and her face was the color of ragweed. She sent a silent prayer to the tequila gods that everyone would already be out of the house when she went downstairs. She was sure she couldn't explain this. She noticed her nightgown. She couldn't remember putting it on. She knew Clark drove from the bar to … somewhere. Where had they gone? Dinner, she vaguely recalled. Then home obviously. Had Clark gently undressed her and put her in this nightgown? It would be a lovely thing if he had. A positive sign. She wished she could remember it. "No more Jose Cuervo for you,señorita," she said to the mirror. She dressed gingerly and took the steep stairs to the kitchen one at a time. A pot of coffee and three curious people waited for her. "Morning," she mumbled, and headed to the cupboard for a cup. "Morning," they chorused at the top of their lungs. Or so it seemed. "Oh, Lord, not so loud," she whispered, gripping the counter with one hand. With the other she took a cup down and filled it with thick, black coffee. "Big night last night?" her father asked. "You could say that." She sat heavily in a kitchen chair, careful not to meet Lester's twinkling eyes. Helen pushed a plate of scrambled eggs and biscuits in front of her. Calla groaned. "No. I can't. Take 'em away."

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"You eat 'em." "No. Please. I'm going to throw up." Helen scooted the plate away. "Don't you throw up in my kitchen, young lady." Lester was chuckling. If she'd had the strength, she'd have knocked him flat. "Hung over, Calla?" "Pot calling the kettle black, Lester?" "Calla." "Oh, everyone just leave me alone to die in peace, will you? I can't take any of you this morning." Calla tried to glare at her family, but found she couldn't squint without causing a shooting pain to pierce her temples. She gave up and shut her eyes altogether. "Why the hell aren't you at work, Lester?" "I been at work all morning while you've been sleeping it off, Miss Smarty." "Well, a thousand more times, and we'll be even then," Calla said, taking a gulp of hot coffee. "Just out of curiosity, how did I get home last night?" "Clark called." Helen's tone was unreadable. She was scooping the eggs and toast into the dog dishes on the counter. "Jackson went to fetch you at his motel. Clark said he didn't want to drive all the way out." "Oh." No positive sign, then. Helen must have got her into her nightgown. "But I see the truck in the driveway. How did it get here?" "Lester and I picked it up at the Oasis. You left the keys in it, darlin'," her father said gently. "Sorry. I had a lot on my mind." She took another sip of coffee and tried to focus her attention on something. It wasn't wise, she knew, but she chose Lester. "It's only the middle of the morning. What're you doing in here now? Taking a coffee break?" There was a heavy silence in the kitchen. Calla registered it even through her hangover haze. "Lester?" He didn't speak. The twinkle was gone and he looked … sheepish. "What's going on?" Another long silence. "Dad? Helen?" No answer. "What? What is it? Dupree? Did Dupree call? Dammit!" "Dupree?" Jackson glanced up, puzzled. "No, Dupree didn't call. Why? Was he supposed to?"

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"No, never mind. What then?" The three older people didn't meet her eyes, but she saw them exchange little glances between them. This generation was going to be the death of her. "What? What?" She felt a little rush of panic. Henry? Was Henry gone, or hurt? "Tell me." "We're getting married," Helen said finally. Calla blinked. "Um, I must still be feeling the effects of the margaritas. I beg your pardon?" Lester cleared his throat. "I've asked Miz Helen to be my wife," he said with profound seriousness. He peered up at his intended with puppy-soft eyes. Calla felt another wave of nausea. "And she has accepted." "What?" "Now, Calla…" her father began. "Lester Smiley, you are fired. You got ten minutes to pack your bag and get the hell off my land." "Calla!" Helen said, puffing like a sage grouse. "You say you're sorry to Lester." "Are you out of your mind?" Calla stood up. She was rocked by the splitting pain in her head. "Are you all just completely out of your minds?" She looked at Helen. "You are going to marry this … this … boozing old man?" "Look who's talking," Lester said. "You arefired. Getout!" She started for the door, grabbing the boots that were neatly coupled there. "I'm going up to camp to check on my rider. I want you out by the time I get back, Lester." She vaguely registered her father's surprise and Lester's indignation. She didn't care. She fled down the steps and wrenched open the door of her pickup and climbed in. No keys.Damn. Nothing like a dramatic exit spoiled. She sat in the truck for several minutes, fuming. Man, her life was getting complicated. Calla opened the door of the pickup and started toward the house. She caught the scurried movement of three figures as they left the window. When she reached the house and opened the door to the kitchen, they looked up at her from the kitchen table with studied innocence. "I forgot my keys." No one spoke.

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"You're not fired, Lester." He humphed. "I never thought I was." "God." Calla rolled her eyes. "Aunt Helen, I have to say I thought you were smarter than this." "Oh, honey. Some day you'll understand." Her aunt hugged her tightly. Her sixty-eight-year-old face beamed like a schoolgirl's. "You'll find someone and fall in love and you'll just understand everything." Shehad found someone. She was getting married, too, she reminded herself. "I suppose I should congratulate you." Helen giggled, then smiled widely. A schoolgirl. "I suppose you should." "Congratulations." She couldn't help but grin in the face of all that gleaming elation. "Stop smiling like that. You'll hurt your face." She turned to Lester and stuck out a hand. He shook it solemnly. "Congratulations, you old coot. If I ever see you at the Last Chance again, I'll string you up." She looked at the three of them standing in a semicircle around her. They looked silly with contentment. Her stomach twisted a little. She'd got engaged last night, as well. Why didn't she look that happy? Why didn't she feel that happy? "When's the big day?" "Sunday, here at the place." Helen bubbled. "We went into Pierre yesterday and got the license. Pastor Kay is going to do the honors." She linked her arm happily in Lester's. He squeezed her hand. "Well, great. Do you have a dress?" Helen exchanged a passionate glance with her hairy-eared fiancé. "Lester bought me one." "You're kidding." "Calla, dear, will you be my maid of honor?" "Oh, Aunt Helen, of course. I'm honored." She turned to glance at Lester. "Why, Lester, that kind of puts you in a bad position. Since we all know well and good I'm the only friend you have in the world, I guess you'll have to go without a witness, won't you?" "Your dad's standing up for me, smart-ass." Calla looked over at her father. He was smiling at her curiously. "What's going on, sugarplum?" "Dad," Calla said wearily as she pulled the truck keys from the hook in the wall, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."

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*** There was a strange vehicle in camp. A Bureau of Land Management toady, no doubt, Calla surmised. They always sent someone up to check on her summer riders. To make sure Calla remembered to tell her employees about the grazing schedule. As if she could forget. Henry wasn't in camp. His palomino was in the corral, munching contentedly on a flake of hay, but the bay, Lucky, was gone. Well, she didn't know what else she should have expected. When you don't get up until the day is half gone, you're bound to miss speaking to your employees before they leave for work. Except in Lester's case. She shook her head. She shouldn't make disparaging remarks about Lester anymore, she reminded herself. In three days' time, he was going to be her uncle. Uncle Lester. The idea made her laugh out loud. "That's a pretty sound for a man to hear all the way out here in the wilderness." She whirled at the sound of the strange voice. A man in a three-hundred-dollar dude outfit stood looking at her, a cup of coffee in his hands. "Oh, hello," she said, wary. "Who are you?" And what the hell are you doing in my cow camp? "Peter Fish. My friends call me Pete. You must be Calla Bishop. Pleased to meet you." He offered her his hand. "Where's Henry?" "Henry? Oh, he took off before the sun. Said last night he was going to … um … Little Sheep Flats? Is that right? Yes, Little Sheep Flats to check on a cow he saw yesterday. He said it … uh … what? Something important. She didn't have her calf with her and he needed to check it out." Calla took a step back. Henry must have a rifle in camp. It came with the outfit she sent up to Two Creek every summer. She hoped he didn't have it on his saddle. "What are you doing here?" Calla asked, buying herself a little time. "I stopped in to see … Henry … last night and we talked until late. He kindly offered me the extra cot. He didn't think I'd make it out in the dark." "You probably wouldn't have." She assessed his smooth hands and the expensive, well-pressed clothes. He obviously hadn't slept in them. Definitely not a cowboy. It got cold in the mountains at night, even in the summer. Cowboys without a good pair of long-handles would sleep in their clothes. "You're not from around here." It was a statement, not a question. The man laughed. "I thought I blended, but obviously I don't. Your Henry said the same thing." "He's not my Henry." The man waved his hand nonchalantly. "Whatever. Care for coffee? I made it myself, so beware." "No. Yes, okay. Coffee's good. I'll get a cup." She ducked behind her into the tent. The rifle. Where was it?

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"I think he took it with him," Peter Fish called casually. Calla grimaced. She grabbed a tin cup from the mess pack and stepped back into the sunshine. "Took what?" "The rifle. You'll have to get the one in the gun rack in your pickup if you want to shoot me." Calla kept her tone casual. "You read minds, Mr. Fish?" "Please. Don't call me Mr. Fish. It makes me sound like a cartoon character. Call me Pete." He took her cup, filled it from the pot that was simmering on the propane camp stove, and handed it back, handle first. "Okay, Pete, why don't you tell me who you really are, and I'll forget about the rifle." "I'm a friend of Henry's from California. I take it he never mentioned me?" "He doesn't talk a lot." "Strong and silent, huh?" "Yeah. You were saying?" "That's it. We're friends. We used to work together." "Are you a chemist?" "A security consultant." He took a noisy slurp of hot coffee. "I worked for the lab where Henry worked. He told you he was a chemist?" "Yeah." "Interesting." "He isn't one?" "No, he definitely is. I'm just surprised he told you." "It was sort of by accident. He was drunk and I believe his hormones were raging slightly." She was starting to relax. A security consultant and Henry's friend. This she could handle, even with a hangover. "I can believe that." Pete hooked her up and down. He shook his head a little. "I mean about the hormones. I've never actually seen him drunk." "Yes, well, you must not be a very good friend then. He seemed pretty good at it." Pete laughed. "I bet." "You know when he'll be back?"

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"He said for lunch." Calla glanced skyward. Pete watched her with undisguised interest. "Okay, I'll wait." They chatted companionably enough, busying themselves with preparing a noon meal. Calla found Henry's still-full cooler tucked carefully under a folded sleeping bag. The man kept an immaculate camp, Calla thought with satisfaction. One day here and already he had set it up so it looked—almost—like a home. Perched on a rock with her plate of weenies and beans, Calla heard Henry's horse long before she saw it. "Your friend is back," she said to Pete over a mouthful of beans. "Your friend," he corrected. Lucky trotted into camp, Henry on his back. Henry looked from Calla to Pete. "Hey," he said. "Hey," they answered in unison, and shot each other amused looks. Henry slowly dismounted, keeping a cautious eye on them, and loosened the cinch of his saddle. "What's going on?" "We're eating lunch," Pete said helpfully. "Would you care to join us?" "Yes, please—" Calla suppressed a smile "—join us." Henry led his horse to the corral and slapped him inside, taking off the bridle as the animal passed. He returned to Calla and Pete. "Considering you're eating my food, that's a gracious invitation." Henry took the extra plate Calla had dug out of his mess pack and filled it. "I'm almost afraid to ask what's going on here." "We told you, we're eating," Pete said, shoveling a huge forkful of tomatoes into his mouth. "Yes. Though, technically, it'smy food," Calla said. "It's all very innocent." "Except for the sex," Pete said, pointing his fork at Calla. "Yes, except for the sex," she answered seriously. "I'd forgotten that part." Pete inclined his head. "Very flattering."

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"Stop. Calla, I'm serious. What are you doing here?" "That's the trouble with you, Henry. You're way too serious. Now, take your friend Pete, here…" "I've been taken already this morning, thank you. I'll need time to recover. I'm not as young as I used to be." Henry shot him a fierce glance while Calla guffawed. Pete lifted his brows in amusement. He returned with interest to his plate. Henry, exasperated, glared at the woman eating his food. God, she looked good. He'd missed her, which was ridiculous. He'd been gone a day. "Calla, what are you doing here?" "I came to tell you something." "What?" "Why do you look so tired? You've only been in camp one day. What's the matter?" "Nothing. What did you come up to tell me?" "And why didn't you tell me you had a roommate? I'm not paying him, you know." She gave Pete a once-over. "He doesn't look like he could even saddle a horse, much less ride one." "You wound me," Pete said mildly. "No offence, tinhorn." "None taken, cowgirl." "Shut up, both of you." Henry slammed his plate to the ground between his feet and stood up. "Calla, tell me what you came to tell me." "But you told me to shut up," she said meekly. Pete snorted with pleasure. Henry raked his hand through his hair. "Okay, okay. Seriously though, Henry, your friends are a lot more fun than you are. I was just saying that, wasn't I, Pete?" "Calla." "Oh, allright. Lester and Helen are getting married. Sunday afternoon. You're invited." "You're kidding." "My sentiments exactly. But, no, I'm not kidding. Apparently the events of night before last compelled Lester to make an honest woman of her." "What events?" Pete asked curiously.

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"Well, I employ this rummy old cowboy, and he apparently has fallen madly in love with…" "Calla. That's enough." Henry gave his friend a severe stare. "Pete knows everything he needs to know about this operation. I believe he was leaving anyway." "Henry, don't be so rude." She smiled at Pete. "My hired man here has no manners. I apologize." "Accepted, dear lady." "God help me," Henry said to the sky. "And—" Calla ignored Henry and continued "—since this camp and the surrounding property belongs to me and not to this summer rider here, please feel welcome to stay as long as you like." She got up from the chair, fully the mistress of the castle—such as it was—and set down her plate. "You'll have to do the dishes, summer rider. I'm going up to Little Sheep to check on a cow." "Dammit, Calla, you know I already did that." "Well, one can never be sure when one is dealing with summer riders who also happen to be doctors of stuff, can one? Peter Fish, it has been lovely meeting you." "And you," Pete said, rising to his feet. He bowed deeply, which cracked Calla up again. "Hell," Henry muttered. He glared again at Pete. The other man just grinned. "Henry, please." Calla's eyes sparkled. "Watch your language." She looked helplessly over her shoulder at Pete. "He has a tendency toward bad language." "I've noticed. Goodbye, Calla. See you around." Henry brushed past Pete to follow Calla to her pickup. "The hell you will," he hissed at him. Calla climbed in and started the truck. She leaned out the window. "I don't know what time Sunday." "Calla, you don't have to go to Little Sheep. I picked up the cow and calf this morning and took 'em over to Pole Creek." "I know. I was just teasing." He locked at her thoughtfully. "You didn't come all the way out here just to tell me about Lester and Helen, did you?" "They asked me to." "Oh." "Henry?" "What?"

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"Who is Pete?" "Someone with whom I once worked." "That's what he said." "You don't believe it?" She looked over at Pete, who was stacking plates and scraping out the bean pot onto the ground. "I'm not sure. He's not like you." "Is that good or bad?" "It's just the truth." "Well, I'm telling you the truth, too. Pete is someone from my old job." "But that's not all he is. A person can tell only part of the truth and call it the whole truth, can't he, Henry?" Henry narrowed his eyes at her. "Just drop it, Calla. It isn't important." "I guess not." She eased off the brake. "See you Sunday." "Calla." "What, Henry? I've got to get back." "What did you really come all this way to tell me? Lester was planning to come up tomorrow anyway to bring me the dogs." She had known that. So why did she come? "Clark and I are getting married." Boom. He was going to have to start wearing a chest protector around this lady. Married? He was surprised to hear his own voice. It was calm and smooth, while his breath caught and his stomach roiled. "Well—" he gave her arm a little squeeze "—congratulations. I'm sure you'll be very … solvent." "You jerk." "Yeah, well, I call 'em as I see 'em." He hit the side of the truck with the flat palm of his big hand. It sounded like a gunshot. "Drive safe." She gave him a shattering glare and floored the old pickup. He had to step back to keep from going under the spinning back tire. Henry turned to Pete, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.

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"You got a serious problem here, Mitch." "Shut up, Pete. Shut up and get out." "If anybody finds out how you feel about that little cowgirl, you're dead meat." Henry crossed the distance between them and grabbed his friend by the silver coyote bolo tie around his thick neck. "If anybody finds out about Calla, period, I'll hunt you down, Pete, I swear it." He twisted the coyote. Pete's eyes bugged slightly, but otherwise the man gave no indication of the discomfort Henry knew he must have felt. "I haven't forgotten everything you taught me." Pete shook his head. "We've got you by the short ones, pal. And you know it." Henry released his grip. "Hell." "You better come in where we can protect you." "I'm not going through that again, Pete." Henry closed his eyes tightly and tipped back his head. He wanted to howl with frustration. "I'll protect myself." "What about Calla?" "I'll protect her, too." "Not if she gets married." Henry's fists clenched involuntarily. Pete chuckled softly. "You're in bigger trouble than I thought. If they find out, they'll take her out. Either side, Mitch. You know that. It's too important." "I'll protect her. You just keep your mouth shut. Or I swear to God, Pete, I will kill you. You forget, I know just who is important to you, too, Pete." Pete raised a hand in surrender. "No more threats. I like that long-haired cowgirl. If I didn't think you'd rip my spine out, I'd probably try to seduce her myself." "Keep that in mind. The spine thing." "I will." Pete walked to his rented Jeep and climbed in. "Be careful, Mitch." "What are you going to put in your report?" "That I found you, nearly incoherent from stress, living like a hermit on a desert mountaintop in the middle of nowhere." Pete jerked the Jeep into Reverse. "It's the truth, after all."

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Chapter 11 «^» Henry sipped on a plastic cup filled with lemonade and watched the milling crowd at Helen and Lester's wedding reception. The morning had started out cloudy, but by the time the wedding began, the sun had burned off the cover and was shining bright and strong on the heads of the crowd gathered in Calla's front yard. Paradisians had turned out en masse, wearing their best summer dresses, starchiest cowboy shirts, cleanest Stetsons. Helen, in a light pink dress that matched the roses in her pudgy cheeks, looked adorable. And Lester, in a shiny new Western-cut suit, looked like he was going to vomit. Until he saw Helen. Then he looked perfectly happy. Nearly handsome. Calla had gone into the house to fetch more food. The buffet table—three long church tables jammed together and covered with white butcher paper—was already bowing under the weight of a hundred covered dishes and steaming casseroles and Jell-O salads in every hue of the rainbow. This town could really throw a potluck, Henry mused. He watched Calla bring a plate of sliced tomatoes, seeds spilling red and green, across the lawn to the table. She wore a silky green dress with skinny straps across her shoulders and a skirt that flounced around her legs at midthigh. He'd never seen anything quite so feminine and alluring in all his life, Henry decided. A man stopped her—Henry recognized him from the hardware store in Paradise—and whispered something into her ear. She laughed, her head thrown back to expose her soft throat. Children buzzed around her skirt, begging for the handouts she promptly gave. Women teased, men swooped her into their arms. He was foolish to think he had to protect this woman, he thought. She had a town full of people watching out for her. Why then, had they let Dartmouth near her? He searched the crowd. Dartmouth was huddled almost on top of a plain, short man with a mustache and a beer gut. They spoke for a minute, then Dartmouth disentangled himself abruptly and walked toward Helen and Lester, who were holding court on two white plastic chairs in the center of the lawn, their hands linked together like teenagers. Dartmouth came from behind and kissed the air next to Helen's cheek and clamped a manly hand on Lester's shoulder. Helen's bright smile became forced, and Lester leaned as far away from the familiar gesture as he could without falling from his chair. Dartmouth appeared oblivious to their discomfort. Henry took another sip of lemonade. The air around him smelled slightly of Calla. Soap, sweat, sex. "Hey." She was standing next to him, watching idly as Dartmouth chatted with the happy couple. She had a glass of iced tea in her hand and she looked flushed from heat and excitement. "Hey." She looked so pretty, and without thinking, he slipped his arm around her waist and leaned to kiss her lightly on the cheek. It seemed a perfectly natural thing to do. This was a wedding, after all. Calla offered her cheek and then stepped from his arms.

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"You find those three pair on lower Pole Creek?" Her voice was businesslike, but Henry wondered at the additional color that had come to her face. "I got a call from the BLM about 'em yesterday." "I found them down by the old Kendell shack. Moved them to the upper field yesterday afternoon." "Great. Lester bring up the salt?" She kept her gaze firmly planted on her aunt and her new uncle. Clark was still hovering, the devoted nephew. "Yes, Friday." "Good." A small silence. "Are you still mad at me?" Henry asked into his lemonade cup. "Was I mad at you?" "I'm sorry about what I said. I hope you'll be very happy. I saw the announcement." "Turned out nice, didn't it?" "It was … fancy." "Yeah." She smiled sheepishly and chanced a glance up at him. "That was Clark's idea. He wanted to make sure everyone noticed it. You think the border was too much? I thought the border was too much." "I noticed it," he said noncommittally. "Oh. Well, good." They stood together in silence another minute. People patted Calla and greeted Henry curiously as they passed, but no one joined them. "You look nice in that dress." "Thanks. You clean up pretty good yourself." "Thank you. I like your hair like that." "Oh." Calla touched her hair. It was swept back from her face with a wide hairband, the ends swinging free across her shoulders. Henry suffered sweetly from the scent of shampoo that wafted upward. "Thanks." "Calla…" She cut him off hurriedly. "Well, have a good time. We're going to dance later." She blushed slightly again. "I mean, you know, there'll be dancing later." "Okay."

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"Okay. See you." "See you." For a second, he thought she'd reach up and kiss him. He waited patiently, his mouth ready for the smooth touch of her lips. But she only looked at him briefly and walked over to Lester and Helen. Henry's heart was pounding. Just having her near him had made him a wreck. This would never do. He'd been thinking about his situation ever since Pete left his camp Thursday. He had resolved to quit the job and Calla and move on. It was the only formula that worked. Staying meant putting Calla in danger. Nebulous danger from an unseen source, but danger nonetheless. She would just have to find another summer rider. Pete had given his word to keep his mouth shut about Calla, but he had been right when he reminded Henry of the dangers she faced if anyone else found out where he was. After the initial sickening anger at the announcement in this morning's paper had subsided, he had been grimly aware of how beneficial Calla's engagement to Dartmouth could prove to be. When he left, anyone who was looking for him would assume Calla was no more to him than his boss. They'd leave her alone. Music blared suddenly from the boom box. Patsy Cline, feeling a little crazy. Funny, so was he. Henry watched Lester shrug Dartmouth's hand from his shoulder and stand. He brought his bride to her feet and they began an awkward but dignified waltz on the grass. Calla looked expectantly up at Clark, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Bastard. Henry tossed his cup into a nearby trash can and started toward Calla. "You want to dance?" A woman had materialized at his side. Pretty, with yellow hair that came from a bottle and a wide, toothy smile. The top of her head barely came to his chest. "Uh, sure," he said, the good manners pounded into him as a kid surfacing without conscious thought. He took a last quick glance at Calla. She was walking toward the house, holding the hand of a crying little boy of no more than six who had materialized at her side. Henry opened his arms slightly and the yellow-haired girl fell into them. She pressed her cheek to his shirt. Other couples began dancing, as well, and within minutes the lawn was covered with the people of Paradise gamboling across the green swath of grass. "I'm Peggy. Remember me?" She craned her neck to smile at him. More teeth. "From the co-op, right?" "Oh, you have a good memory." "Thank you." "Or maybe I'm just unforgettable, right? That's your line."

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"Yes, sorry." He smiled down at her. "Maybe you're just unforgettable." The woman laughed, a tinkling little sound Henry would ordinarily have found quite attractive. Unfortunately, he'd recently become accustomed to real laughter. The kind that shook him to his toes. God, Calla, you've ruined me. The music stopped at last. Henry released his partner, but she seemed reluctant to leave him. "Would you excuse me?" "Uh, sure." She took a tiny step back and flashed her teeth at him. "Thank you for the dance. It's been a while. I hope I didn't step on your feet." "No, you were great. Maybe we can do it again a little later." "I'll look forward to it." He walked toward the kitchen. Calla was inside, washing the last salty tear from her guilty-looking young companion's face. The boy was gloomily munching on a chocolate cookie. "Calla…" Henry began. "Thereyou are, Tyrell, you little monster." An enormously overweight mother swooped in behind Henry, nearly knocking him into the wall. "Your sister just told me you pushed her into the horse trough. Did you do that, young man?" "No, Mama." The mother snatched the cookie from Tyrell's hand and tucked it into her own mouth. "Well," she said around the mouthful of chocolate, "bad little boys don't get nice sweet cookies, do they? You come on with me." Calla put her hand on the mother's arm. "Ora Fern, listen. I saw the whole thing. Tyrell didn't push his sister into the trough. She fell in. Accidentally." Calla's hazel eyes were wide with sincerity. Henry smiled in spite of himself. "Tyrell here tried to save her, isn't that right, Tyrell?" The boy was grinning up at her with chocolate teeth. "That's right." "Tyrell?" His mother eyed him suspiciously. "It's true, Mama. This time I'm really telling the truth, ain't I, Calla?" His expression matched his protector's. "Yes, you are. Now you go with your mama and look after your sister. And give her a couple of these cookies." Calla reached around to a bag on the counter and pulled a handful of cookies from it. "She's bound to feel better after a cookie or two." The mother gave a Calla a last, suspicious look and then grabbed her boy and dragged him out the door. Henry stepped hastily out of her way. Tyrell was still smiling at Calla over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.

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"Did that child push his sister into the water trough, Calla?" Henry asked politely. "Yep. Shoved her right in." "Well—" Henry couldn't help but laugh "—he'll be a delinquent by the time he's ten. And the world will have you to thank." "I couldn't help it. His sister is a terrific brat. I've wanted to push her in a water trough myself a time or two. Besides, I'll never forgive Ora Fern for calling him Tyrell. Isn't that the worst name you've ever heard?" She grabbed a crocheted dishcloth from the soapy water in the sink, squeezed it, and started wiping down the countertop. "The sister's name is worse." "What's her name, I hate to ask." "Felicia Fern." Henry laughed again. "That's pretty bad." "And they call her that, too. Don't get dirty, Felicia Fern. Come here, Felicia Fern. Don't bother Felicia Fern, Tyrell. Do you want to dance? With me?" "Yes." She tossed the dishrag back into the sink. Hot water splashed onto her clean countertops. "Let's go." He caught her arm. His thumb brushed the soft skin on the inside of her elbow. She stood still for a second, but didn't look at him. "What about Dartmouth?" "Clarkdoesn't like to dance." "Calla, I have to tell you something…" "If you don't want to dance, just say so." "No, I do want to." He sighed. It could wait. The next time he danced with Calla would probably be at her wedding. No, he wouldn't be going to her wedding. He'd probably schedule a root canal for that day. Less painful. "Come on." They made their way through the crowd milling around the beer keg near the back stoop and stepped onto the grass. Henry looked around, but Dartmouth was nowhere to be seen. Too bad. He pulled Calla into his arms. His hand splayed against her back, stroking lightly. "You dance pretty good for a hockey player," she said after a minute. "Have you ever seen a hockey game? It's poetry on ice." "I thought that's what they said about figure skating."

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"Figure skaters are just wimps who weren't tough enough to play hockey." They danced, fitted together perfectly. Calla's breasts were pressed against Henry's chest. He imagined he could feel her nipples against the heavy fabric of his dress Western shirt. He closed his eyes. "Don't do that," she said sternly. "Do what?" "Look like that." Henry smiled. Her silky hair tickled his nose. "You make me feel like I'm about fifteen." "Oh, come on." She was terribly flattered, pleased beyond sense. She struggled for a safe topic. "How's Pete?" Henry stiffened. "I haven't seen him. Have you?" "Why would I see him?" Henry relaxed slightly. "Well, before he left, he mentioned that he'd not be averse to the idea of seducing you." "Oh, really? That's a thought." "You think so?" "He was funny. Interesting." "So, you like skinny nice guys and funny old guys, is thatit?" "That about covers it." "So, I have no chance at all with you." "None." "That wasn't your reaction in that stack yard over there, as I vividly recall." She stopped dancing, stopped playing, and pulled herself away from him. "Henry, do you want to marry me?" The question dazed him. "What?" "No," she continued, her hands on her hips, "you obviously don't. But Clark does. So don't play with me, Henry." He tried to get his rather excellent brain working properly. "Calla, I don't think it's a question of playing…"

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She waked away. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back. The couples nearest them on the lawn began to stare. "Wait, I want to explain something…" "Let go. You're making a scene." "Do you care?" "Yes." She looked at him, her eyes pleading. "Please, Henry. I really do." He released her, but reluctantly. She walked to her father and asked him politely for a dance. Jackson gave Henry a questioning look over Calla's chestnut hair and then swept his only daughter into a regal waltz. *** Henry wondered why he hadn't noticed the man before. Too much time away, he decided. Until Pete had shown up at Two Creek Camp, he'd begun to uncoil himself from the tension that had plagued him for nearly two years. And had begun to immerse himself in Calla Bishop's life. Seeing the man made him realize how stupid that had been. Two months ago, he would have noticed him five minutes after he crawled from under his rock. It wasn't that the man stood out in the noisy wedding crowd on Calla's front lawn. To the contrary, in fact. He was wearing suitably old, suitably cheap clothes, washed and carefully pressed. His face was smooth except for a thick, dark brown mustache trimmed in the flamboyant Western style, and his cowboy boots were worn but polished in honor of the auspicious occasion. A good straw hat, a silver belt buckle the size of a saucer, no coyote bolo tie. He looked like every other man at the reception. Still, Henry observed, there was something altogether wrong about him, no matter how right he looked. He was sober, for one, and since the wedding party had been in full, boisterous swing for several hours and every Paradisian in sight was well into their cups, that alone should have been enough to have brought the man to his attention, Henry chided himself. Henry watched him for several minutes. The beer in the clear plastic cup never drained an inch, despite the fact the man brought the cup to his lips several times. The man was watching Calla. Clearly. His eyes followed her surreptitiously everywhere she went. Henry took a deep breath and forced his pulse to slow. He was here to find a weak spot. Pete had warned him it was likely. And Henry had left far too many clues leading to Calla. He had been naive. And stupid. And there was no way he'd make Calla pay for his mistakes. "Hi, cutie, remember me?" Peggy was standing, barely, next to him. "You owe me a dance." Henry automatically reached out to brace her before she fell flat on her face. "How could I forget you? You're unforgettable, remember?"

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The woman giggled. "Oh, that's right. Come on, let's dance." She lurched forward, grabbing Henry's hand, and dragged him out onto the small section of lawn where several couples were staggering around in a shaky semblance of a slow dance. From the corner of his eye, Henry caught a glimpse of the man as he flicked a glance over at them for an instant and then returned it to Calla, who was arguing earnestly with an old woman in a battered felt cowboy hat about the merits of using retired barrel-racing horses as ranch mounts. The man watching Calla wasn't very good, Henry decided with some relief. He had clearly seen him shift his attention. Whoever sent him obviously didn't think Henry was as yet high enough priority for a top operative. Or even a middle one. Whoever sent him. "Do you know that man over there?" he asked his partner as he spun her lightly around so she could get a look at the stranger. Peggy could barely focus two feet in front of her, and that fence was a long way off. She squinted blearily. "Who?" "The guy leaning against the fence. Red shirt." "Uh, no." Henry spun her back around. "Wait!" she shouted. Henry clamped his hand over hers. "Not so loud." "Oops, sorry." She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. No one, not even the man at the fence, seemed to notice her. The party was getting louder by the minute. "Are we spying on him?" Henry smiled slightly. "Yes. Now, have you seen him before?" "Yes. I certainly have." She leaned to stroke her cheek on his shirt. If her breasts just happened to squish against his chest a little, well, no one could blame her. He had a really marvelous chest. "What will you give me if I tell you where?" she whispered "Five dollars," he answered. Peggy screamed with laughter. Henry had to stop himself from putting his hand over her mouth. He was a little afraid she'd lick his palm. "Okay," she said. "Pay up." She put her hand out. Henry raised his eyebrows, then dug into his pocket and pulled a five from a wad of bills. "Thank you," Peggy said, still giggling. She snatched the bill and stuffed it provocatively down the front of her shirt. "Why do you want to know?" "Peggy…"

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"Is he a cop or something, you think?" She was joking, but Henry felt a twinge. "I think my wife sent him." That was, in a convoluted way, not altogether untrue, Henry thought. Peggy was crestfallen. She stopped in his arms and weaved. "You have a wife?" "An ex-wife. Peggy, I need you to…" "Oh, that's good." She sprawled back into his arms. "Peggy?" "Mmm?" "Where did you see that man?" "What man?" Henry bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could. "The man by the fence." "Oh, him. He was at the co-op last week." "What did he want?" "I don't remember. Gas, and some baler twine, I think. Maybe. I remember him because he paid cash. My boss got all excited over that. Ronny says nobody wants to pay cash anymore, what with cattle prices…" "Did he say anything?" "I was just telling you, he said…" "Not Ronny, the man in the red shirt. Didhe say anything?" "He wanted to find a place to stay." Peggy giggled again. "Like he has a choice. Paradise Motel is the only place in town." *** The old motel, its ancient neon sign broken and its office lights unlit, was dead dark and tomb quiet, but the bar across the street was filled to capacity with leftovers from the wedding. Perfect, Henry thought. After Lester and Helen had taken their cacophonous leave, the well-wishers, most too drunk to see much less to drive, had taken the long road back to Paradise to continue the party at the Last Chance. Henry had watched the red-shirted man get into an indistinct, battered pickup and drive off with the crowd, taking his life in his hands as far as Henry was concerned. He'd be safer in combat than on that unlit country road with a hundred drunks, Henry had thought wryly as he watched him drive away amidst the honking horns and blaring country music. Henry had waited an hour in the bunkhouse until he saw Calla's light go off upstairs. Clark, tipsy on

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punch, hadn't returned to his own motel room at the Paradise. Henry had a hard time deciding whether he felt relieved or homicidal about that, but he admitted it was safer to leave Calla if there were two men, Jackson and Clark, in the house with her. He smiled in the darkness. Calla would have pitched a fit if anyone had the nerve to tell her she needed two men to protect her. Henry, shed of his wedding clothes and dressed in jeans, a dark windbreaker and running shoes, treaded lightly to the door of a room that conveniently, for its occupant and now for him, faced the low scrub hill behind the motel. The office had been unlocked, a register book open on the front desk. The clerk was probably over at the bar. Nobody came through Paradise after sundown. Not on purpose, anyway. Jimmy Sands, the only name other than Dartmouth's with the current date next to it, was registered to room 11. Henry crouched before the door of room 11 and pushed a straightened hairpin into the flimsy lock. When he'd taken his training two years ago, he'd thought—no, he'd prayed—he'd never have to use it, but here he was, breaking into a seedy motel room in the middle of the night. He'd even thought to steal the hairpin from Helen's bathroom drawer before he left the ranch. Pete would have been thrilled. His professors at Purdue, he decided, would have curled up and died from shame. The lock clicked imperceptibly and Henry waited, his breath in his throat, for the man to lunge out at him. He was sweating. A distinct difference, he thought wryly, between learning how to do this stuff and actually doing it. Yet, somehow he felt strangely aware. Alive. He turned the knob slowly and stepped into the room. The man was sprawled on his back on the queen-size bed, the television screen flickering silently in front of him. He was asleep. Worse. He was snoring. I must be exceedingly unimportant for someone to send this rookie bozo. Thank God. Henry stepped to the bed. He'd just ask him a couple quick, brutal questions and leave. Then he'd allow the man to follow him out of town. He had decided on Highway 20 to Wyoming. He'd call Calla sometime and explain. The thought of calling her from some far-off place to say goodbye made his stomach twist a little. He looked down. The man was naked except for a pair of dingy briefs. His mouth was wide-open, a drop of spittle rolling down to his chin. Henry looked around the room quickly, deciding whether to take the time to search the man's bags and wallet. The man gave a sudden, ferocious snort. Henry raised his leg and put his knee on the man's throat and pressed down. The man awoke with a violent start, his eyes bugged, his tongue flicking forward in shock. "Be quiet," Henry whispered, applying additional pressure. The man started for a second, then nodded acquiescence. "Don't screw around with me and I'll let you live through this, okay, bozo?" The man nodded again, his tongue still protruding from his mouth. Henry was gratified. He lifted his knee slightly.

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"Can you breathe?" "Yeah," the man squeaked. "Who sent you?" "I don't know what the hell—" Henry sunk his knee into the flesh of the man's neck, then withdrew slightly. The man beneath him choked and sputtered. "I don't have time for this." "Kiss my—" Henry leaned in with his knee again. The man's eyes bulged. "Cooperate." "Yeah.Okay. Don't do that again. God, don't do that again." "Who sent you?" "I don't know." Henry reapplied pressure with his knee ever so slightly."No, no," the man screamed. "Wait. Hell. I'm telling you. I don't know. I got a call. I swear it." "A call from whom?" "I don't know, man. I'm just supposed to keep an eye on that long-haired girl with the ranch." The man was breathing heavily, his eyes wide. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mingling with the saliva that clung to his whiskers. Henry considered that. Just the girl. Not Henry. "When did you get the call?" "Come on, man, get your knee off my throat. I'm strangling here." Henry applied added pressure. "When?" "Wednesday." "You just checked in today." "I only got paid from today on." "How are you getting paid?" "Cash. P.O. box. Standard stuff. Really, man, my throat."

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"Just the girl?" "Yeah, man. Just the girl. I'm supposed to keep an eye on her for a couple weeks. Nothing illegal." Two weeks. Interesting. Henry lifted his knee and straightened. The man grasped at his neck with one hand, folded over double, and writhed silently on the bed. "Stalking's illegal," he reminded the spook as he went quickly to the black vinyl duffel bag slung in the corner, reached down and dumped it unceremoniously onto the floor. No gun. Henry scooped up the sinister-looking knife and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He moved to the pile of clothes lying across the lone chair in the tiny room and searched them. He found a snub-nosed .38 in the pocket of the man's pants. "Bad boy," he muttered. He checked the load, walked back to the bed and touched the cool barrel of the gun to the man's forehead. "Where are you from?" The man swallowed, his flashy Western moustache bobbing up and down in time with his Adam's apple. "Salt Lake." "Go back there." "You betcha." "Because if I ever see you near that girl, I will kill you without a second thought. I'm sure you understand." The man nodded frantically, his eyes crossed on the barrel pressed to his head. "Leave now." The man slid from underneath the .38 and stumbled over to his clothes. He pulled on the pair of pants and clutched his shirt to his chest. He looked at the empty duffel bag and its contents on the floor in the corner, and looked back at Henry. Henry sighed. "Okay, pick it up." It would save him the trouble. The man stuffed his shirt and the rest of his belongings into the bag, grabbed his boots from beneath the television stand and made for the door. He turned, clearly reluctant to cause trouble. "Uh, I paid eighty bucks for that gun." Henry dumped the ammunition into his palm and tossed him the gun. The man caught it, gave Henry a grateful look and left as fast as his bare feet would allow. Henry watched him from the doorway of the motel room until he saw the pickup pass the Paradise Truck Stop and accelerate onto the freeway, heading east, toward Salt Lake City. Too easy. No one Henry knew would have hired him. Someonehad hired him, however—to watch Calla. Until he found out who, and why, he was going to

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have to watch Calla himself. *** Calla bid goodbye to her fiancé, who'd spent the night on the couch in the parlor, a fact Henry had taken pains to ascertain before going to his own bed. It was barely dawn, but Calla was dressed for work already, her hair returned to a tight ponytail, her feet out of the strappy little sandals she'd worn yesterday and tucked back into boots. Clark looked around him quickly and then leaned and kissed Calla swiftly on the mouth. She reached up to circle her arms around his neck, but he smiled and trapped her arms to her sides. What a fool, Henry thought grimly. She stood in the driveway for a moment after Clark started his car and eased down the gravel road. It was the wedding, she told herself. Just the wedding. There was no other possible reason to feel this overwhelming sense of melancholy. Henry watched her for a minute. She looked … tragic, and beautiful. A tough combination for a man to resist. But he did resist. There were more important matters to attend to. "Calla," he called through the strengthening light of the desert morning. He stepped from the shadow of the doorway of the bunkhouse. She tilted her head. And smiled. Why was it just the sight of this man could make her happy, when the man she was going to marry … well, no use going there, she reminded herself. A woman did what a woman had to do. "You spying on me?" "No." He stepped closer. "I wanted to talk to you." She upped the brilliant smile a volt or two. Henry felt the charge right in his chest. "'Cause if youwere spying, I'd have to shoot you where you stand." Henry laughed. "You spend an inordinate amount of time threatening my life, you know." "I know. It's kind of fun. City boys are so easy to intimidate." "Well, that's kind of what I wanted to talk to you about I'm having a little trouble up at Two Creek." "Oh." She tried to hide her disappointment in him. "What kind of trouble? Fences or cows or both?" "Cows. And, um—" Henry looked properly embarrassed "—fences, too, if you want to know the truth. Some of those old fence lines are pretty hard to follow. And Lester gave me a quick tour of the fields, but you know, that's big country up there and I'm never sure where I'm going." She shook her head. "It's my own fault, I guess. I should've taken you around myself. Stupid Lester. The blind leading the blind." Henry refrained from giving her a shake and gritted his teeth. She didn't have a lot of faith in his abilities, he thought grimly. And even though that was precisely what he was going for, it took an effort not to be aggravated by her tone. "I think I'd be okay if you could come up for a few days and show me where I'm

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supposed to be going," he said, trying to be humble. Calla scrutinized him steadily for several moments. "Is this a trick?" She narrowed her eyes. "Because I asked you not to play this game with me, Henry." "No, it's not a trick," he lied. "I'm in way over my head out there." He played his ace. "And I'm afraid the BLM is going to come up and find out you've got cows spread all over hell and gone and slap you with a trespass fine." "Damn." Calla looked at the ground, her brows knitted. "Damn, damn, damn." He had her. He knew the signs. He deliberately composed his strong features into a mask of humility. Calla glared at him. "Okay, get your irrigating boots. You can help me change water this morning." She was thinking quickly. Oh, hell. She needed this right now like a hole in her head. "I'll leave the water on twenty-four-hour sets. Dad can change them for a few days, I guess. I'll have to put off planting the sink field. And I have an appointment with Carol at the FHA Thursday. Well, maybe I'll be back. You think?" Henry shrugged, looking doubtful. "Guess not. Great. You're as bad as Lester." Henry bristled at that, but luckily Calla had her mind on other things. "Okay, I'll call her before we leave and reschedule. I'll pack a bag after we change water, you can catch me a couple horses. Who do you have up there? Sonny and Lucky? Better catch Toke and Queenie. No, wait. Queenie will be coming into heat next week. Catch Toke and Buster. They'll get along together all right. You have two cots up there, right? Oh." She paused. "That's no good, is it, considering… Well, we'll move the tack into your tent and I'll sleep in the tack tent. It'll smell, but it's better than… Geez, what else?" She pinched two fingers across her forehead, deepening the lines of worry. Henry's annoyance faded abruptly. He knew it was necessary, but he hated like hell to add to this woman's already considerable burdens. Especially when his every instinct told him it was his job to ease them for her. "Well?" She was looking at him. "You gonna get your boots or do you want me to help you findthem, too?" "I'll get 'em," he said. She frowned as he turned and jogged obediently to the bunkhouse to change his boots. She felt bad—it wasn't really his fault he was useless—and thought she should probably apologize, but, darn it, she had more important things on her mind just now than the hurt feelings of her hired man. She jogged off in the opposite direction. Chapter 12 «^» The drive to camp was made in silence. Calla plowed the pickup and stock trailer ruthlessly across the pitted roads. Henry rode shotgun, Jackson sat between. No one spoke. Good, Henry thought.

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He'd have time to think of a way out of this mess. He'd tried to contact Pete again before they'd left the ranch, but the cheerful male voice at the number Pete had given him before he left said Mr. Fish was unavailable and couldn't be reached until the following week. Standard stuff. Henry had then called the lab. Colonel Frank was gone, too, or so his secretary had said. No matter. Calla would be safe up at Two Creek until Pete or the colonel contacted him. All he needed was a little time. There had never been any problem he hadn't been able solve with enough time. It was what made him so good at his job, Henry thought. He had a knack for solving problems. Henry shifted forward and chanced a glance at Calla. She had the same grim expression she'd worn since he had asked for her help on the mountain. She refused to meet his eye. He shrugged his shoulders at Jackson, who gave him a noncommittal smile, and leaned back on the bench seat. He closed his eyes. Fine. At least when she was sulking she wasn't talking. It gave him a little time to think. His mother had wanted him to go into academia. Her son as a professor of chemistry at a Big Ten university would have been a serious coup for a woman who hadn't even finished high school. Not that anyone outside the family knew she'd never finished high school. Hers was a secret almost as well-guarded as some Henry carried. But his father had been thrilled when Henry was wooed into the private sector. "More money," the older man had argued in the reasonable tones of a man practiced in dealing with emergency room hysterics. "Why languish away in a robe and tassel for a lifetime and retire with a tiny pension and a scrapbook full of college-age conquests? Make more money, son, and you can get all the nubile young women you want. Heaven knows, I paid enough for your education." Henry could call up his father's voice at will. He often wondered if he would hear that cultivated sound on his deathbed. He'd gone to work for AgriFactor right after he received his doctorate from Purdue. Twenty-eight years old and at the top of his graduating class, he was offered the world and was young enough to believe he could change it. The agricultural chemical company gave him an opportunity normally reserved for more experienced scientists: the research equivalent of carte blanche in exchange for Henry's chemical composition that more than tripled field yields in soft white wheat while allowing it to grow in soil normally unsuitable for farming; reclaimed oil fields, arid desert land, even the alkali flats of the Southwest. Henry dubbed the formula Perfect Soil. The agricultural impact worldwide was staggering, and AgriFactor knew it. The formula had been the basis for his doctoral thesis, and Henry had proved within a year at AgriFactor that it worked. He'd also proved something else. Something with far more sinister consequences. Something he'd taken great pains to hide from his colleagues at AgriFactor. But he'd told Heidi, an AgriFactor technician with a brilliant mind and excellent legs. They'd married just three months after they met, just days after he showed her the results of the formula mutation. It wasn't until she introduced him to Peter Fish a mouth following their Las Vegas wedding that he began to believe she'd been a plant. And began to curse himself for a fool.

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Pete's organization, International Chemical Defense, was heavily involved in government research contracts and they courted Henry for nearly a year. But Henry liked AgriFactor and the plans they were making for his Perfect Soil formula. He declined the outrageous offers. And so, barely in their marriage, Heidi began the affair. That was how he began to think of it.He declined the I.C.D. offer, and soHeidi began the affair. Blackmail. Pete and Heidi appeared genuinely offended by the idea, but Henry knew blackmail when he saw it. She'd seduced David, Henry's own brother, and made some very skillful video tapes along the way. David was a freshman senator with a plump, cheerful wife Henry loved almost as much as he loved his brother, and three adorable kids he loved more. He'd had no choice at all, really. Not when Heidi threatened to make the affair public if Henry didn't roll over for I.C.D. David was devastated, terrified for his marriage and his career, and he begged Henry to help him keep his infidelities quiet. Then David had brought in the big guns, confessing all to their parents and having them plead his case to Henry. Henry, disgusted with everyone involved, but most especially himself, reluctantly agreed. His family had always been his weak link. It had taken Heidi only a few months of marriage and Pete only a few months of pursuit to see that. They'd used it ruthlessly. They also realized Henry hadn't chosen the private sector for the money. He had craved the scientific freedom it provided. No papers to write to appease the provost, no hours spent trying to instruct a randy bunch of postadolescents on the benefits of chemical research, no underfunded laboratories and poorly planned grant applications. He craved freedom of a different kind after the affair. Heidi argued against it and I.C.D. had even offered to pay for marriage counseling, a fact Henry would have found amusing if he hadn't been so angry. But he'd filed for divorce. And Pete skillfully managed to keep him busy enough in the sophisticated, well-funded government laboratory to prevent him from brooding over his ex-wife and his straying brother and his meddling, overbearing parents. He'd forgiven Pete for Heidi eventually, and had even counted him as a something of a friend after a while. He understood Pete. If there was one thing in his life he understood, in fact, it was blind devotion to a goal. Henry's goals were reached in a laboratory. Pete's goals were reached on a political battlefield. And of course he forgave David. David was family. But Heidi. Heidi he didn't forgive. He sold their house in a posh neighborhood of Brentwood, a house Heidi had chosen and adored, but that Henry had never really noticed, preoccupied as he was, and moved to a condo near the lab. Her presence in his life had been a failed experiment, and he'd filed what he'd felt for his beautiful wife away like so much useless data. He'd left the patent for Perfect Soil at AgriFactor, and followed the company's meteoric rise on the stock exchange over the next two years with mild interest. The original formula wasn't what Pete and Lieutenant Colonel Lyndon Frank were interested in anyway. They were interested in what Heidi had told them about the odd mutation Henry had come up with quite by accident. Henry closed his eyes against the thought, against the potential chaos and destruction he had unleashed.

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"Don't fall asleep," Calla said sharply, interrupting his thoughts. "How could I possibly fall asleep," Henry replied, his eyes still closed. "The way you drive, it's a wonder this old truck is still running." "I wouldn't even be driving this old truck today if you could do your job." "Now, Calla…" Jackson began. It was more than Henry could take. He snapped forward and glared at her. "I would be perfectly capable of doing my job if you had come up here in the first place and shown me around instead of hanging around Paradise waiting to get engaged to a guy even Aunt Helen could whip in arm wrestling." Calla leaned forward to glare back at him, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "You jerk." "Now, Calla…" "It's okay, Jack. Forget I said that." Steady there, Johannsen. Dartmouth is certainly the least of your worries. If that cowgirl fires you today, it'll be a heck of a lot harder to keep an eye on her. He settled back into his musings. The formula had seemed to mutate during routine testing. An addition of a chemical here, a subtraction of something else there, and it was something else entirely. He tested it again and again, this variation to Perfect Soil. It decimated every plant in his lab, and had no effect at all on anything else; not the mice, not the earthworms, not himself. A quiet, inexpensive weapon, designed to starve out the enemy without killing him. That's how Colonel Frank described Henry's formula. Henry once told Pete he expected Frank's description to end up on television advertising someday; it sounded so clean and honorable. Quiet Inexpensive. You can live with that, can't you, Dr. Johannsen? Frank had asked. Apparently, he could. Henry had kept a photo of his nephews on his desk at the lab and pressed the memory of his grandfather flat in the back of his consciousness, and lived with it. Until four months ago. Four months ago he'd erased his personal research files from the lab computer, destroyed the backup diskettes, and tapped into the colonel's mainframe at I.C.D., sucking two years of official government research into an information black hole. It had taken Henry more than a month to break the computer security codes and bypass the intricate internal alarms in order to annihilate any evidence that he, or his formula, had ever existed, but he'd been very thorough. Then he'd played his own blackmail card. Colonel Frank's files, which Henry had begun covertly copying onto a library of diskettes just weeks after he joined I.C.D., were rife with the kind of budget juggling and official bribing rampant in organizations run by military personnel. Henry had known they would be. In exchange for his formula and his freedom, Henry promised Frank the files would never reach the Pentagon or the press. The colonel was smart enough to know the possibility of retirement as full-bird

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general, as well as his cushy pension and his unsullied reputation, would be ravaged by any disclosure of the activities in which he routinely indulged. He accepted Henry's offer with the long practice of military compromise. And then he'd laughed. Right out loud, with Henry facing him, bemused, across the wide oak, army-issue desk. At least I know my training program works. You came in here two years ago a damn chemical genius and I turned you into a soldier. Look at you. You're staring down a damn lieutenant colonel of the United States Army. I'm almost proud of you, son. When Henry had been told at the beginning of his association with International Chemical Defense that he'd go through the official training program required of all I.C.D. "employees," he'd been surprised. He'd found the military-type training interesting, but pointless, and argued the necessity of it with Pete over countless beers at the Quantico commissary. Pete had overridden his objections. "You're playing a different game, now, Doc," Pete had told him. "This isn't the private sector. You got our information in that mutant brain of yours now, information we're paying for, and we want you to know how to protect it." He had been grateful for the training when it came time to leave I.C.D. It had been very useful. Henry looked over at Calla, who was still driving hell-for-leather over the familiar back roads. He hoped to God it wouldn't be necessary to use it again. *** Jackson helped them unload the horses and Calla's gear and, with a half hour's worth of instruction from his daughter still ringing in his ears, headed back for the Hot Sulphur. Henry picked Calla's saddle easily out of the dirt and made for the tack shed. "Hold it," Calla said. She was walking up the path from the little outhouse, buttoning the top button of her Wranglers. Henry looked away. It was either that or fall at her feet and start whimpering. "Where're you going with that?" "I like a clean camp. If I'd known you were going to leave your saddle lying around, I wouldn't have invited you." "Huh," she snorted, trying not to smile. It was like hanging around with a gorgeous, genius comedian, working with this man. She was forever fighting little chuckles and savage lust. Savage lust! She almost laughed out loud at that. Instead, she frowned at him, grabbing the saddle from his arms. "We're moving the tack into the big tent with you. I'll be sleeping in the tack tent." "Whatever you say." She dumped the saddle back onto the ground, pommel down, and walked to the smaller of the two canvas tents perched on the hill and unzipped the flap. She stood at the entrance, her back to Henry, for a minute. "This is impressive."

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"Thanks." She turned around and squinted at Henry, shielding her eyes against the strong sun with one long brown hand. "Are you always this neat?" "It's an old habit." "Well, it makes me a little nervous. Tidy men have always seemed to me to be a little anal." Henry laughed. "Anal, huh? Well, rest assured, I'm as big a slob as the next guy. In my heart. I've just learned to keep things orderly. It's pretty difficult to keep track of things in a laboratory if everything isn't kept in good order. Plus, stuff tends to blow up." She turned around and peered into the tent again. "You oiled everything," she said. "Yeah. The leather was pretty dry." "It stinks in here. And you bolted the saddle trees to the floor." "They kept tipping over. When we tear the tents down in the fall, we can unbolt them." She turned to him. "There's no room for a cot in here if we don't take the saddle trees out." "Huh." She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. "Did you do this on purpose?" "Of course not." He hadn't, in truth. He'd done it all that first day. Before Pete had shown up. Calla stared at him for several seconds before she came to a reluctant conclusion. "I guess I'll have to bunk with you." "Guess so." "Well, hell." She knitted her brows, then looked at him. "Don't get any ideas." "I won't." Not any new ones, anyway. Calla stepped off the low wood platform that made up the floor of the tack tent. She scooped up her saddle and rested it on her hip. Henry started toward her but she turned quickly and ducked between the open flaps of the small tent. This woman would rid him of every gentlemanly instinct he ever had if he wasn't careful. Still, there was something pretty intoxicating about a female who could so thoroughly take care of herself. Despite her strength, though, Henry thought a half hour later, she was most definitely a woman. Calla and Calla's belongings had taken over his neatly swept sleeping tent like a sweet-smelling Hun invasion. Henry had set up her cot, ignoring her protestations that she could take care of her own self, thank you

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very much, against the wall opposite his. Her down-filled sleeping bag, a match to Henry's, lay on top of it. She had emptied her leather saddlebags of a pile of neatly pressed jeans, shirts and underwear, and had stacked them in a small wooden box now shoved out of the way under the cot. A mesh bag on top of the clothes held shampoo, soap, a toothbrush and paste, a hairbrush and a rat's nest of ponytail holders and hair clips. The tent, which normally smelled faintly of dust and sweat and leather, now smelled of Calla's hair and skin and the detergent Helen used to wash her clothes. Henry stood at the tent flap and smiled. It had been a long time since he'd had a woman in his house. It was a pleasant sensation, even when his house was a canvas tent in the middle of the Idaho wilderness and the woman belonged to another man. *** Calla listened to the steady breathing of the man on the other side of the tent. The sound of it filled the still air. It filled her senses. She had been tossing inside her sleeping bag for hours. She was twenty-four years old and had never spent an entire night with a man. Well, Clark, the other night, but he'd been downstairs on the couch. No, that was silly. She'd spent many nights with men. Lester, Jackson, Benny. She'd been surrounded by men her entire life. She had, in point of fact, she reminded herself harshly, spent hundreds of nights in this very tent with various men every summer since she was six years old. So, why was this particular man and his steady breathing keeping her awake? Probably because this man wasn't her brother or her father or an old, hairy-eared man she'd known since childhood. This was Henry. She'd watched him carefully all day. After she'd settled in—no, after Henry had settled her in, she corrected herself—they'd saddled horses and spent the rest of the day riding the fence lines Calla had been building and repairing all her life. After Henry had settled her in.She frowned in the darkness. He'd set up her cot and smoothed out her bag and carried her empty saddlebags to the tack tent. While she'd refolded her clothes into the little wooden box, he'd even oiled her saddle for her with the bottle of strong-smelling neat's-foot oil he kept stored against pack rats in a metal box under his saddle tree. Then he'd returned to the larger tent and packed a new saddle pad under the top of her sleeping bag. "Pillow," he'd said matter-of-factly, and then walked back outside. She had been annoyed and embarrassed. And thrilled. Henry had taken care of her. A small gesture as those things went, she supposed, but it was still disconcerting and had made her feel awkward and clumsy. She liked being in control. Being in control was what she did best. She had reasserted that control once they were out on the range. She'd removed a voluminous map from her saddlebags and spread it across her saddle horn. Henry had moved his horse close to hers for a

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better look, his booted foot resting against her stirrup. She'd marked fence lines with her finger and then pointed to them across the horizon. Henry had listened with gratifying intent. They'd returned to camp at dusk and Calla had taken the map out again while Henry pulled out the dinner Calla had packed for them—a cold roasted chicken and fresh carrots and zucchini from Helen's garden. Henry had lit the lantern and brought it to the picnic table that served as the Two Creek Camp dining table, food preparation area and office. Then he'd come from behind and leaned over her, studying the map, his breath stirring the fine hairs on the back of her neck. His wide palms had been flat on the table, and Calla had stared for a minute at the little moons at the base of his fingernails. "Calla?" he'd inquired politely. "Uh, sorry. I was thinking about something else." After she'd told him of her plans for the next day, she'd folded the map and returned it to her saddlebags. "It's late," she said. "Must be eleven o'clock." Henry lifted his wrist so she could see his watch. "I'm going to buy you a watch." She stood opposite him across the picnic table. For some reason, every muscle in her body was tensed. "I guess I'll turn in," she said awkwardly. "Good idea. You've got us all over these hills tomorrow." He smiled. She nodded, then ducked her head at his calm regard and walked to the outhouse. When she returned, Henry was gone. "Hey," she called softly. The echoes of a million crickets beat gently against the rimrock cliffs surrounding the camp. "Where are you?" "Over here." Calla walked toward the sound of his voice. When she reached him she saw he was neck deep in a metal water trough next to the horse pasture. It was outside the fence, useless to the animals, and Calla wondered why she hadn't noticed it before. "What in the world are you doing?" "Taking a bath." "In the horse trough?" Calla laughed. "No, in the hot tub," he'd said, closing his eyes. Calla had noticed steam rising from the water. She came closer. "I'm naked in here." Calla jumped back a step, and she heard Henry chuckle softly.

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"Did you tap that hot water spring?" "Yeah, a couple days ago.I'mnot the type of person who cango a wholeweek without a bath." "No? I wish you'd talk to Lester. How did you do it?" "I dug it up with a pick and shovel, put in a springbox, tapped a pipe into the springbox and ran the pipe into the trough. It has an overflow that runs down into the horse pasture. That keeps it pretty clean. I cover it with a tarp during the day to keep out the leaves and dirt." "Very clever. Where'd you get the trough?" She ran her hand along the side of the smooth metal tub. She couldn't see beneath the surface of the water. Unfortunately. "I found it behind the barn. I brought it up in case we needed another water trough up at East Fork. It's pretty dry up there." "I thought you didn't know where East Fork was. I thought you were helpless." "I am." His voice had thickened, sounded almost sleepy, but he met her gaze with startling intensity. "Right now anyway." Calla's breath caught in her throat while they shared another of those long, stretched-out moments that seemed to come every time they were within fifty feet of each other. "How hot is the water?" she asked after a minute, lowering her eyes, trying not to try to see beneath that dark water. "Come in, Calla. Find out." She looked up at him. He was still watching her, his eyes steady, intense and of the deepest brown. "Henry," she whispered, her mouth dry. "Don't do this." Henry went still for a minute, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes again. "You're right," he said roughly. "Go on back to the tent. If you want a bath, I'll come in and you can come back out." "Okay. Thanks." He'd been as good as his word. He'd come back to the tent a few minutes later, dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a towel slung around his bare shoulders. He'd hung the towel on a nail hammered into the cross post of the tent, slipped into his sleeping bag, pulled his jeans off under the covers and tossed them to the bottom of his cot. "All yours," he'd said evenly. He hadn't even looked at her. She'd slipped out of the tent without a word. The bath had been wonderful, a tremendous luxury in the normally rough life of cow camp. She'd even washed her hair, watching the babbles flow silently out the overflow to reappear, foaming, in the horse pasture beyond. After her fingers and toes were properly wrinkled, she'd stood on the little wooden deck Henry had built next to the tub and dried herself off in the starlight. No moon tonight, and the feeling of being naked in the soft night under a billion bright stars had made her feel a sensual relaxation she hadn't felt in months. Maybe years. Maybe ever. She had slipped her flannel nightgown over her head, put her

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boots on her bare feet and padded back to the tent. Henry had been asleep. She'd thought she'd fall asleep, too, after a hot bath and a long day. And she'd been tired from three days of preparing for Lester and Helen's wedding. But now it was two hours later and all she could think about was the man on the cot across the tent, breathing in that sleep-steady rhythm. She turned over again, punching the pad into a ball. There were several very good reasons why this was stupid, she told herself. One, she was engaged. Engaged people were so filled with love for their intendeds they couldn't even look at another person, much less wonder what it would feel like to sit in a hot-water trough in the middle of the night with that person's hands running up and down… Okay, let's not think about that anymore. Two, she was this man's employer. She had bossed many mew, young, old, ugly, pretty. This one was no different. So, why had she been counting the number of times he drew breath in a minute? Calla wondered. Three, this was definitely not the man of her dreams, even if sleeping next to him in one of her favorite places in the world made him seem like the man of her dreams. The man of her dreams was going to help her pay off the note to her ranch. The man of her dreams was going to make sure she wasn't the McFadden who lost a century's worth of land and livestock. The man of her dreams was not an $850-a-month, dusty cowboy. Clark was the man of her dreams. Future generations were riding on that fact. Four… She couldn't think of four. She'd have to make do with three reasons not to climb out of her sleeping bag and into the sleeping bag of the man lying five feet away. She shifted again. It was going to be a very long week. *** Henry heard the rustle of nylon as Calla turned again in her cot. He'd been listening to her for hours. Go to sleep, baby. You're driving me crazy. Henry clenched his fists inside his sleeping bag and forced his breathing to steady. I wonder if that flannel nightgown you were wearing when you came in has hiked its way up around your hips? Henry squeezed his eyes tightly, trying to rid himself of that particularly erotic image. He couldn't. It was going to be a very long week. Chapter 13 «^»

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Calla awakened to the smell of bacon frying. She clasped her hands above her head and stretched inside her sleeping bag. Since when did Lester fry bacon in the morning? And what time was it anyway? She blinked her eyes open, and shut them again. Henry was frying bacon. Calla peeked over at his empty cot. It was still rumpled from sleep. At least it wasn't folded up all nice and neat. At least the man was human. The man was also … singing. No. Calla shook her head and squeezed her eyes open and shut a couple times more. Henry was not singing. It was her imagination. But he was. He was singing an old cowboy song in a voice wildly off-key. It was the most charming sound Calla had ever heard. She lay in her bunk for several minutes, savoring the sound of Henry's rotten singing voice and the smell of the bacon and the feel of the breeze that lifted the tent flap and brushed across her face. Cow camp. How did other people survive without the wonder that was cow camp? It was late in the morning, at least eight o'clock, Calla estimated by the light that poured through the flap of the east-facing tent. She couldn't recall the last time she'd slept in. Well, slept in sober, anyway. Calla stretched again and slowly eased herself to a sitting position. She wondered when she had finally dozed off last night. She looked resentfully over at Henry's sleeping bag. He obviously hadn't had the same trouble sleeping she'd had. Cross-legged on top of her sleeping bag, she reached down and tugged the little wooden box from underneath her cot. She untied the little mesh bag and took out her hairbrush and a ponytail holder. "Yay-yeeeaaa, yipee-i-ooo-ooo." Yodeling!? Calla laughed. There was instant silence on the other side of the canvas. Then she heard footsteps heading for the tent. She tried to scurry back under her covers but she was too late. Henry yanked open the tent flap. He opened his mouth to speak, but Calla saw his expression change from mild to acute embarrassment as he realized she was still in her nightgown, her hair brushed free around her shoulders. He collected himself after a second and narrowed his eyes. "Are you laughing at my singing?" "Was that singing? I thought maybe you were skinning a coyote for breakfast." Henry thrust out his wrist to show her his watch. "Coyotes are seldom awake at this late hour." Calla threw her brush at him. He dodged it effortlessly and forced himself to be cheerful, even though his mouth had gone dry at the sight of her cross-legged on her narrow cot. "Breakfast is ready. Do you plan to get up or would you like it served to you in your bed?" "I would like it served to me in my bed. First the bathtub, then breakfast in bed. I swear, I don't ever remember cow camp being this luxurious before."

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"Well, don't get used to it. Get dressed. We have a long day ahead of us." Calla rolled her eyes and hauled herself out of the cot. "Oh, thank you for telling me. As I've only spent the last eighteen summers on this mountain, I probably have no idea at all what's in store for me today." She straightened her nightgown around her ankles. It was a long, heavy flannel gown meant to ward off the chill that clung to the higher elevations of the high desert even in midsummer, and Calla knew her figure was invisible underit. Still, she felt Henry's eyes sweep her like fire across a sagebrush plain. She busied herself by zipping her bag and waddingit into a ball. "I see you don't bother to tidy up before you leave camp." She tossed her head of hair in the direction of Henry's tousled sleeping bag. Henry dragged his gaze away from her bare feet. "I didn't want you to think I was anal. Besides, you didn't get much sleep last night and I didn't want to wake you." Calla paused, the saddle pad clutched to her breast. "How do you know I didn't get much sleep last night? You were crashed by the time I came in." "That's true," Henry said mildly. "But considering you didn't wake up until nearly—" he showed her his watch again "—nine o'clock, I assumed you stayed up late brooding about the ineptitude of your newest employee." "Nine o'clock?"Calla exclaimed. "Oh, my God." She knelt quickly and jerked jeans, a shirt and underwear from her box and shoved it back to its position under the cot. "I can't believe this," she muttered. "I'm getting as bad as Lester." She reached up and gathered her hair into her hands and then fastened it with a band. She grabbed the bottom of her nightgown and made to pull it over her head. Henry was still at the door of the tent, watching her with undisguised interest. She scowled at him. "Do you mind?" He smiled again and stepped from the tent without a word. Calla waited until he had zippered the tent flap before she undressed quickly and pulled on her work clothes. She was still stuffing her shirt into her jeans when she emerged into the already dazzling sunlight. She stopped and sat on the edge of the wooden floor of the tent to tug on her boots. Henry was eating a strip of bacon, a small, distinctively pink Bureau of Land Management map spread on the table before him. "What's that?" Calla asked as she headed toward the outhouse. "A map," he answered around a mouthful of breakfast. "Very funny." She made use of the outhouse, stopped to wash her hands in the soapy water Henry already had warming on the camp stove, and sat impatiently down to the breakfast he'd prepared. "I usually make my own breakfast," she muttered, trying not to salivate over the fluffy eggs and crisp bacon. A slab of Helen's homemade bread with butter and jam already applied sat on a blue enamel plate in front of her. Henry took a sip of coffee. "If you'd been up at a decent hour, I'm sure you could have this morning, as well." She rolled her eyes as he poured coffee into her empty cup. She sniffed at it appreciatively, and then tucked into her breakfast. She ate quickly, guilty about the late hour. "What are doing with that?" She indicated the map with her fork.

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"I'm just trying to familiarize myself with the topography of the area." "That's what we're going to do today." "I thought we were checking cows and looking at the feed today." Calla waved her fork. "Same thing." She slurped her coffee. "Not the same thing. Today we'll be concentrating on animals and forage. I'm also interested in the topography." "'Scuse me, professor." Calla jumped to her feet, tossed her empty plate into the water, took another sip of coffee and then dashed the rest of it onto the ground, and placed the cup in with the plate. "Let's go. We're burning daylight." Henry rose to his feet, placing his hat on his head at the same time. "Don't call me that," he said. Calla was already inside the tent, scrambling for her toothbrush. She barely heard him. "What did you say?" she called. "Don't call me professor," he shouted back. Calla stuck her head out of the tent and looked at him. "Why not?" "Because I asked you not to." "You know, you are a very irritating person," she said aroundher toothbrush. "I have known you, I don't know, weeks now, and you have never told me a single thing about yourself. I don't know where you worked before you came here, how you learned about ranching, if you're married or single, nothing. All I know is what you told Clark that very embarrassing evening at the house, a night, by the way, I'll not soon forget. You may evenbe a professor for all I know, and yet I ask you one simple…" "I'm not married." Calla stopped and took the toothbrush from her mouth. "I know you're not married." "How did you know that?" She shrugged. "I don't think you would have … kissed me … or anything, if you'd been married. You don't seem like the type." He looked at her for a long time before he nodded his head. "So, are you a professor?" She stuck the toothbrush back in her mouth. "No." "Okeydokey." Calla walked to the edge of the little clearing and spit. She returned and rinsed her mouth with cool water from the jug on the table. She walked a few steps and spit again. Henry watched her in amusement.

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"What are you laughing at?" "I'm not laughing. You are just very comfortable up here, aren't you?" "You mean I'm not very ladylike, don't you? Well, too bad. I'm a little too busy to worry about whether or not you're offended by my brushing my teeth in front of you. I'd never be that silly anyway, even if I weren't too busy." Still, she felt a rush of color come into her face. "I'm taking Toke today." "Yeah, you told me last night. They're all ready to go." Calla walked around the tent to the horse pasture to see her horse and Henry's contentedly tied to a fence post, saddled andbridled. First the cot, then breakfast, now this. She stomped back around the front of the tent. "What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. "About what?" He was tossing the dishwater onto the ground. "I can catch my own horse." "I guess maybe you could if you got up before nine o'clock in the morning. Why are you giving me all this grief?" "I don't like to have people wait on me. It makes me nervous." "I am not waiting on you. I just saddled your horse." "Andfixedmy breakfast,and put up my cot,and oiled my saddle." Henry looked at her thoughtfully, the empty pot still in his hands. "Doesn't anybody ever do anything for you, Calla?" "Of course people do things for me. All the time. Helen takes care of me like I was her daughter. My father takes care of me. Clark takes care of me." "Not very well." "What?" "I said I don't think Clark takes very good care of you. In fact, I think you two couldn't be more ill-suited if you tried. He's a selfish bastard and you're marrying him because you think he'll save your ranch." Henry shook his head. "Well, he won't." "Who told you that?" "Lester." Calla saw a familiar red haze cloud her vision, just before her hands fisted at her side. "You're fired." It was Henry's turn to look surprised. "What?"

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"You heard me," she growled out between clenched teeth. "You're fired. You have gone way too far. I mean it. Pack up your stuff and get the hell off my land." Henry shook his head. "No." "Okay, that's it."She stalkedtoward him. "If you don't get off my land right now, I'm going to kick your butt from here to Sunday." Henry looked downat her, his eyes going to slits. "Although I'm sure you could kick my butt from here to Sunday, whatever that means, I don't think you will. I am stuck up here until Jackson returns at the end of the week with supplies and to take your sorry self back to the ranch." He now had his own temper to contend with as well as hers. It made him furious. He never used to lose his temper. This woman made it a regular thing for him. "Now, if you would like me to take one of your horses down this mountain, I will be happy to oblige, but as you pointed out I don't know these hills very well and would probably get lost and have to eat your horse for nourishment…" He was warming to his subject and looked very serious, but for some reason Calla had an overwhelming urge to giggle. Eat her horse? How dramatic. She felt a tiny smile tug at the corners of her mouth. He continued, narrowing his eyes at her grin. "I've eaten worse. And furthermore, you brought all this on yourself. I simply caught your horse for you… Are you laughing at me?" "No." She moved back a step and clutched her hand to her mouth. "You are laughing at me, you little brat. I can't believe this." He turned his back on her, turned again to her just as swiftly. "You are the most infuriating woman I have ever met." "Sorry." She muffled another giggle. Henry raised his eyebrows at her. Adorable man, Calla thought. Glowering, with his chest puffed up, looking surprised by his own temper … just adorable. Henry took in a deep breath. Infuriating, he thought again. And remarkable. "Am I fired or not?" "Oh, geez, I guess not," she said, shaking her head. "Just don't bring up Clark anymore. And for God's sake, stop doing everything for me. I feel like a child." "It's a powerful instinct to do things for you," he admitted, and watched in wonder as the pulse at her throat doubled. "But if it annoys you, just think of it as an employee serving his employer, okay?" Calla pulled herself together with an effort. Those eyes hadgone all soft and brown again. "I already do think of it as that," she said, doing her darnedest to believe it. *** They rode all morning and into the hot afternoon. At around 2:00 p.m. Calla discovered Henry had packed sandwiches in his saddlebags for them. She never ate lunch on the trail. She briefly considered resurrecting their argument, but changed her mind when she bit down into the fresh bread and thick meat sandwiches. They sat on a wide black lava rock at the head of Deer Creek and surveyed the valley below and the twenty head or so of cow and calf pairs grazing there. "East Fork looks pretty good considering the water," Calla said around a mouthful of sandwich.

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"I might have to give up my bathtub. I think we'll need a trough in that big spring before the end of the summer." "I'll have Dad bring up another trough. I've got a big one someplace down there, I think. God knows I'd hate for you to have to give up your bath." "Thanks. What about those thirty-five head down on Little Sheep Flats? Do you want them moved up to this field? The grass looks better here." "Yeah," Calla said thoughtfully. "We'll move 'em up tomorrow. No sense letting them graze the Little Sheep off too close. We might use it for fall feed, if ever it rains again, which, by the looks of that sky up there, it may do this afternoon." Henry finished his sandwich and lounged back on the rock. He folded one arm behind his head and tipped his cowboy hat over his eyes. After a minute, his breathing slowed and Calla realized he was asleep. She smiled and brushed the crumbs from her sandwich off her shirt. This was what made all the hassle of the loan payments and dealing with the BLM and hiring a different smart-aleck cowboy every summer worth it. She leaned back and looked at the pattern the quaking aspen were making across Henry's light-colored shirt as the breeze lifted the little, coin-shaped leaves to the sun. She occasionally forgot how much she loved her job, she realized. Cow camp was the perfect place to remember. Her own eyes slowly closed. *** A fat raindrop hit him in the eye. "It's raining," Calla said drowsily. "I can feel it." She got to her feet. "We'd better hit the road before the lightning…" On cue, an earsplitting crack of thunder sounded, followed almost immediately by a flash of light. "That was close," Henry said, shooting to his feet. "Come on." He grabbed for her hand but she snatched it away and began to run. "Calla!" "I want to get those hobbles off the horses." Another crack of thunder sounded, simultaneous this time with lightning. Henry felt the hair on his neck rise and he took a diving lunge at Calla. The flying tackle caught her from behind, knocking the wind out of her. "Lie down, idiot," Henry yelled at her while another, then another, bolt hit the ground around them. She caught her breath and began to fight him. "Let … let go! The horses are hobbled." She squirmed

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wildly, but he held tight. The rain was washing over them in sheets now, a typical summer storm, and Calla knew the lightning would move on as quickly as it had come. But meanwhile her horses were hobbled and unable to seek protection. She kicked Henry with her boot heel. He grunted at the contact and tightened his grip in return. "Henry, please," she screamed. Her plea did what her struggles could not. "Stay here," he shoutedat her. "I mean it!" Cursing her,cursing himself, he made a dash for the frightened horses, keeping his profile as close to the ground as possible. Calla followed. Damned if she'd let him risk his life for her horses alone. They each caught a terrified mount, dragged off the loosened saddles and unhooked the hobbles. The horses bolted. Henry looked upto see Calla working beside him. He wanted to murder her. He wanted to sweep her into his arms like some sort of movie hero. He took her wrist in a death grip instead. "Come on." They sprinted together toward a lava rock overhang Henry had noticed earlier. Wet to the skin already, the small protection would probably do nothing more to keep the rain off them, but it would offer a slightly better chance they'd escape this storm without getting quick-fried. He shoved her under in front of him, then crowded in beside her. "Henry…" "Shut up, Calla." She was quiet for a minute. "Uh, Henry…" "Calla, I'm warning you. I am so beyond angry at you right now, I can't even talk." "Fine. Don't talk. But move your elbow. It's digging into my … ooh, blood! I guess I went down harder than I thought." He whipped his head around to stare at the blood on her fingers. For a second, he thought he might just pass right out from the shock. "Oh, God." "It's just a scrape." She lifted her torn shirt. A bruise was already forming under the ugly abrasion along her ribs. "Oh, God," Henry moaned. He'd done that to her. To her perfect, soft skin. He touched it gently. "Ow! Don't touch it!"

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He winced, drew his hand back. "Calla, baby, I'm sorry." "For saving my life?" She grinned. "Thanks a lot." He couldn't take his eyes off the wound. He wanted to take her in his arms, offer comfort, bathe the poor skin with soft cloths and kisses. Their current position allowed him none of that. "Does it hurt?" "Of course it hurts. You weigh a ton." He groaned again. Calla couldn't help but chuckle at the anguish in his eyes. It was either laugh or fling herself at his feet and beg him to never stop looking at her like that. "Henry, it's just a scrape. I've had way worse." "Not because of me." "Nope. Ow," she said as she dropped her shirt back in place. "It'll be fine. I have some Neosporin in the first aid kit at camp." "I'm sorry I hit you so hard. I felt the hair—" "I know. I felt it, too. You saved me, Henry." She dropped her head on his shoulder, just for a second, to soothe both of them. "You're a handy guy to have around." *** The storm lasted less than twenty minutes. When it was over,the dusty mountainside was scrubbed clean and the clouds that had hovered so ominously minutes before looked about as threatening as bed pillows. Henry eased himself out of the low crevasse. Steam rose from the black rock the sun had baked to high heat earlier in the day. He looked around. Calla crawled from under the overhang and he automatically reached to help her to her feet. She ignored his outstretched hand and worked her way to her feet. "Oooh," she groaned. "Ow, ow, ow." "Sore?" "Ow, yes." She winced. She brushed gingerly at her clothes. They were caked with mud. They'd be stiff as boards in about fifteen minutes. The sun was already blazing down at them. "I wonder where my faithful steed is?" "Probably back at the Hot Sulphur eating a nice bucket of oats by now. We better get going." He looked aroundatCalla. "You need me to carry you?" She laughed. "Save your strength. You'll need it for the walk back to camp, city boy." They walked in companionable silence for several minutes, Henry resisting the urge to scoop her into his arms every time she wincedatthe pain in her side. "Hey, Henry?" "What? You need to rest? How's your side?"

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"Fine. I just wanted to ask you a question." He glanced at her. Her color was good, she was breathing okay. So, why wouldn't the little knot of guilt and concern fade? "Shoot." "Why are you here, really, working for poverty wages in the middle of the desert?" Henry shrugged, prepared for the question. "I'm trying to get away for a while. And since I didn't think I'd live through aClub Med vacation, I thought this was as good a place as any to do it." He gestured at the wet, empty landscape around them."This is certainly away, you must admit." Calla laughed. "True. So, what areyou getting away from? The law? Debtors' prison? An evil wife?" "I told you I don't have a wife. Ihave an ex-wife."Calla stopped abruptly. Heturned to her and she searched hiseyes with such a sweet expression, he wanted to pull her to him and kiss her. "Henry. How horrible. Is that why you're here?" "It happened a whileago. It's not why I'm here." "Still … it's sad. Were you heartbroken?" A disturbing idea hit her, made her a little sick. "Are you still heartbroken?" Her color had faded. Maybe she'd knocked her head in thatfall, too.He put his handon her forehead. She brushed him away impatiently. "Stop that. How long were you married? When did you divorce? Is this too painful for youto talk about?" Henry started walking again. Calla followed. "I don't mind talking about it." He didn't, he realized. He never talked about Heidi, notto anyone. Itwas humiliating, for one. Gross evidence of his poorjudgment. No, he never talked about Heidi. "I married her afterI finished my Ph.D. I was working for an ag-chemical company, and she was my lab assistant." "I'll bet she was extremely smart." Henry considered that. "Not as smart as you." Calla sputtered. "Oh, please. I'm goodatmy job. There's abig difference.Was she very beautiful?" He wantedto arguethe point, but decided it could wait. "Heidi? Yes. She was beautiful." "Poor Henry. You must have loved her very much." Henry shrugged. "Don't put too fine a point onit,Calla."They started up a hill. Calla, beside him, wasn't even breathing hard. "Our marriage was over just about the same time it started." "What happened?"

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"She slept with my brother." Henry was almost as stunnedby that revelation as Calla obviously was. He'd never told a soulabout Heidiand David's affair. It was something he planned totake to his grave. "Wow," Calla breathed, stunned. Shedidn't have any sisters,but she was darn sure she'd never have slept with their husbands if she had. "Uh, listen, we don't have to talk about this anymore." "Idon'tmind talking to youabout Heidi. But you havetounderstand something. I was young. I fell into what I thought was love. But those feelings were dead long before Heidi and Idivorced. She married me to get her hands on some information I owned and she lied tome about almost everything in our lives from the day I met her." Calla cametoa dead stop, dragged him to a halt beside her."Oh, Henry, I'm so sorry." Henry was unnerved. Calla's hazel eyes shined with sympathy and gentle concern. This was not the woman who faced thunderstorms with nary a whimper, was it? His chest tightened, and he felt a strange constriction in his throat. He removed her restraining hand from his arm and moved off again. They walked in silence for a long while. "How do you live with that kind of deception?" she asked quietly. "You live with it. But it makes for a pretty grim marriage." "I'll bet." She chewed on her lower lip for a minute. Don't do it, Calla. Don't marry him. You'll be sorrier than you could ever imagine possible, Henry said silently. "I have to do it,you know." As if she'd read his mind. "No, you don't." "You don't understand." He was angry. At her, atDartmouth,at himself. "I think I do. You don't have to do this to save your ranch." "That isn't why I'm doing it." But her usual argument held none of the heat it normally did. Henry kept walking, not meeting her eyes. "Isn't it?" "No," she said slowly. "Or, anyway, it's not the only reason. It's more complicated than that. I care for Clark. He's everything I've ever wanted in a husband. He's smart and well educated and sophisticated. He's not like anyone from around here. I neverknew anyone like him when I was growing up. You probably wouldn't understand that, but I've waited a long time to meet someone who wasn't just another hard-drinking good old boy with a John Deere cap and a plug of chewing tobacco in his lip and no future." "I understand it." He didn't want to. It made everything more difficult. But he did.

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"You do?" "Yes. When I met Heidi, I was the biggest lab geek you ever met." He smiled slightly. "Outside of an occasional afternoon on the ice, my lab was my entire world. I never found anything else as interesting. Not after my Dad sold—" He stopped. He could tell this woman about Heidi, but not about the farm? What was wrong with him today? he wondered. "Anyway, I never even had a date until my sophomore year in college, and then it was with this very nice, but unfortunately bucktoothed girl who was almost as socially inept as I was. We talked about quarks and the chemical foundations of evolution and Stephen Hawking all night. I think I saw her nod off about eight-thirty. Heidi was different from any woman I ever knew. She was confident and sexy and smart. Not just some good old girl lab assistant." "I'm glad you understand. Nobody else does." "Yeah, well, I don't want to be your pal on this issue, Calla. I said I understand, and I do, but don't fool yourself into thinking… Listen, I have my own…" He dragged his hand through his damp hair. Sighed. "Nobody wants to see you miserable. You will be with Clark, you know. He'll make you crazy inside a year." "Well, I say you're wrong. Everyone makes adjustments when they get married, you know." "You'll make every one of them. I can just imagine you in some East Coast drawing room, sipping tea and talking about the curtains." Henry laughed. Calla kicked the back of his ankle while he walked. "Hey! You're forgetting how I saved you from that storm already." "It'll take me a week to recover from your saving me." "Did he ask you for a prenuptial agreement?" That stopped her short. Henry didn't realize she'd stopped walking until he'd gone ahead several steps. He waited for her to catch up. Well, that son of a bitch. "Of course," she said casually when she reached him. "Everyone gets a prenup these days." He saw how she tested the new word on her tongue. "No, they don't." "Well, Clark says it's better for me to have one. He says I need one because of the ranch." "You only need one if he plans to divorce you and take half your family's legacy." "Now you're being a jerk." "Calla, you and I both know prenuptial agreements are designed for people who don't stay married 'til death do us part." "Well, no one does stay married 'til death do us part anymore, do they?" "What about your parents?" "My mother and father were special. No one has marriages like that anymore."

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"My parents have stayed married." "Well, I don't know them so they don't count." "So, you don't plan to stay married to Clark?" Calla shook her head. "You're twisting my words." "Your thoughts are twisted." Calla glared at him and then started down the ridge without him. Henry had to jog to keep up. He could see the low scrub of Two Creek Camp in the distance. He decided it was time to change the subject. "You'll be grateful to me for that old hot water trough tonight." She smiled back at him reluctantly. Henry marveled at her ability to get over a bout of foul temper. Heidi had been able to hold a sulk for weeks. "I guess I am a little on the disgusting side." She pulled at her ponytail. It was stiff with dried mud. "I can't wait to wash my hair." "Ican't wait to wash your hair," he murmured. She was walking so fast, he didn't think she'd hear him. But he'd forgotten for a moment this was a woman who could determine the difference between a lonely calf and a hungry calf by the sound of the bawl. She turned on her heel to face him. He was walking downhill and nearly rammed into her when she stopped in his path. "Wait a minute, now. I'm pretty sure I've made this clear." She poked him in the chest, then snatched her finger back as if he'd been afire and singed her. "You and I have a strictly professional relationship. I admit there is some sort of … something … between us, but that's all it will ever be. I don't love you, you don't love me, we won't be sleeping together. Got it?" The new Henry, the one he'd only just discovered since sliding down that lava rock rabbit hole, wanted to say, we'll see about that. But the old, more prudent Henry said, "Got it." She frowned at him another moment, suspicious. "Well, okay then." Their horses waited patiently for them at the wire gate. Henry let the gate down and they stepped happily inside the pasture, as if nothing important had happened at all. Chapter 14 «^» Calla bathed while Henry, bareback, rode off on Sonny with Lucky tied behind—toward Deer Creek and their abandoned tack. He didn't return until an hour after dark. Calla snuggled into her sleeping bag and pretended to be asleep. She listened intently as he cared for the horses and returned the saddles to their trees in the tack tent. It was quiet for several minutes. Calla hoped he found the supper of beans and a fried steak she'd left covered in tin foil on the picnic table.

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She heard the clunk of metal on an enamel plate and closed her eyes briefly. She was in a sort of danger she'd never known. She was drowning in it. She'd waited for him to return to camp with a kind of nervous, anticipatory fear. She couldn't bear the thought of his being lost in the high-desert night. But she couldn't bear the thought of spending another night next to him any better. Outside, Henry rummaged around in the cooler for a minute. She heard him pop the top on a can of beer and walk slowly to the entrance of the sleeping tent. She squeezed her eyes shut, but he didn't enter. After a minute, he walked to the back of the tent. Calla listened as he stripped off his clothes and boots and eased into the warm water trough. He hadn't come in for clean clothes, Calla thought suddenly. He'd probably walk back into the tent naked. Dripping wet and glistening and naked. The idea thrilled her, terrified her, stopped the very breath in her lungs. She was in trouble. Big trouble. Footfalls rounded the back of the tent and a second later Henry opened the tent flaps. He peered in for a second before stepping through. Calla was so interested to see whether or not he was naked, she forgot to pretend she was asleep. Unfortunately, she was not fully rewarded, though a bare, hairy chest had never held such appeal in her entire life. He had put his dirty jeans back on. He met her eyes. "You're not asleep?" he whispered. Why, she didn't know. They were as alone as two people could be. "No," she whispered back. "How did it go?" "No trouble. The saddles are both pretty wet, though. Did the tents leak?" "A little in the tack tent. But I repaired this one over the winter, and it's pretty sound. Did you eat?" "Yeah. Thanks. It was good." He stood, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shirt tucked under his arm, at the entrance to the tent. He felt at a loss. She'd made it perfectly clear she wanted this attraction to go no further. Why couldn't he accept it? "Well, thanks for going out," she said after a breathless minute. "We could have done it tomorrow, you know." "I thought you wanted to move cows tomorrow. Our saddles will still be wet in the morning as it is." "That's true." They were silent for another long minute. "I'll unbolt those saddle trees in the morning before we leave," Henry said. "I'll move over. It does smell a little rank in there." "You don't have to." Calla sat up in her cot and crossed her legs under her nightgown. Henry didn't take his eyes from her. "I decided you really don't need me up here. I think I'll take Toke and head home in the morning early." Henry didn't speak for a long time.

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"Calla, I can't let you do that," he said finally. "What?" "I can't let you go back to the ranch just now." "Henry, maybe you've forgotten something. You are in no position to boss me." "I have to tell you something." He seemed to make a decision, and walked slowly forward and lowered himself onto the edge of Calla's cot. He didn't touch her. Calla drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs and waited. "Do you remember what I told you today about Heidi? About her wanting something valuable that I owned?" Calla nodded. "Well, what I own is knowledge, information actually, that is potentially very dangerous, and very important to a certain group of people." "Something to do with your work." She made it a statement. She already knew the answer. "Yes. Something I began developing during my time at Purdue. It was based on a formula I'd been working on off and on for a couple years. After I left school, I think I mentioned this, I worked for an ag-chem company called AgriFactor. You probably know it." She nodded. The co-op carried a huge assortment of their various products. Henry continued. "Eventually, I perfected the formula. I called it Perfect Soil, but their trade name for it is StableFactor. It's a soil enhancement chemical, they're using it mostly in the Middle East now, to grow wheat. During routine experiments, I found out something about the formula. If I made certain variations, it could be used as an effective, inexpensive defoliant. Under the right circumstances, it has the potential to render affected soil useless for a very long time." Calla listened quietly. Henry kept his eyes on her, but his thoughts had already drifted from her and back into that part of himself he'd been keeping closed since the day she met him. Impulsively, she took his hand. His fingers clasped around hers. "I told Heidi about the experiments. A few months later, I was approached by a branch of the defense industry, an organization called International Chemical Defense. They wanted the mutated formula." "You think Heidi told them about it?" "I know she did. She never admitted it, of course—she was extremely good at her job. But soon after I rejected the offer from I.C.D., despite her objections, she began the affair with David. She compiled a very good blackmail portfolio against him—videotape, photos, receipts, everything. He's a junior senator, on his way up politically, vulnerable. And he loves his family. She told me she'd expose the affair if I didn't leave AgriFactor." "What a bitch. And naturally, you did."

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Henry narrowed his gaze. "I was naive." "And you loved your brother, despite the fact that he slept with your wife." "Calla, don't romanticize this. As I told you, I was the quintessential lab geek before I joined I.C.D. I didn't know how the game was played." Calla didn't respond, but she held tightly to his hand. "Anyway—" he took a deep breath "—I left the patent for Perfect Soil at AgriFactor and took the results of the experiments for the mutation with me to I.C.D." Calla was fascinated, in spite of the trickle of dread that dripped into her adrenal glands. Life on a cattle ranch didn't afford one much experience with international chemical intrigue. "What did they want you to do with it? It's essentially just an agricultural application, right? Even in the mutated form." "Calla, do you recall the old saying that an army marches on its stomach?" "Oh. I see what you mean." "Right. If I.C.D. could develop something for the defense industry that could effectively wipe out the food production of an aggressor nation by air, and still be harmless to nonmilitary personnel, and then use conventional methods to blockade provisional import, that nation and its government would be on its knees in a matter of weeks. It's a cheap, bloodless way to make sure the whole world is doing just what you think it should be doing." "Geez." A horrible idea was forming quickly in Calla's head. "Who is Pete?" "Pete works for my boss. My ex-boss. Lieutenant Colonel Lyndon Frank. Pete trained me." "Trained you for what?" Henry shrugged. "Apparently, when the military, even when it's working under the guise of defense research, inherits a lab geek from central California, they feel it's necessary to give him a little glimpse into the world of violence he's helping perpetuate. Pete was my guide into that world." "What kind of training?" "The basics. My years on the ice helped, as most of it was just physical stuff." He shrugged again. "I found it interesting. Challenging. In much the same way I find chemistry challenging, I guess. In chemistry, the thrill is discovering what secrets the physical world possesses. In the kind of training Pete gave me, I found out what kind of secrets I possessed." Calla longed to inquire what those secrets were, but she was coming to the realization that Henry and his odd world were now descending on her little corner of Paradise. And she wanted to know why. "What was Pete doing at Two Creek? Did you tell him where you were?" "When I left I.C.D. two months ago, I made arrangements with Colonel Frank that I wastobe left alone.

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I didn't take many precautions against being found. I would have been pretty easy to track." "Even at Two Creek?" "Even at Two Creek. If you ask the right questions and buy enough beer for the old boys at the Last Chance, I expect you can learn anything you want in a town like Paradise." "But why? You gave them the mutated formula or whatever you call it." "No, I didn't." "You didn't?" Calla breathed. "Why not?" Henry searched her face in the darkness of the tent. The droplets of water that had glistened on his skin were dried mow, and Calla could clearly see the outline of the muscles on his chest. His breathing was even, but his free hand was pulled into a fist. "Did you think I could develop something like that and then just give it to the highest bidder? This is potentially the total destruction of the Third World's farmland we're talking about. Food production. The only truly important business there is. I.C.D. had plans to fly to Haiti as soon as the formula was perfected. A politically unstable island nation without the ability to produce its own food for seven or eight years would be a wonderful research target. The military regime would collapse. People would starve. I've made more mistakes in my life than I can count, but I'm not about to have that on my shoulders. I took my research files and erased everything from the mainframe computers at I.C.D. Pete was here because they've apparently decided what I have on Frank is not as important as the formula." "But aren't there other waystoaccomplish the same things your formula can accomplish? There are hundreds of herbicides out there." "Not hundreds, and nothing as cheap, as fast and as long-term as mine. It's also dioxin-free, essentially harmless to people and animals, so it can be sprayed over huge areas without many casualties." Henry's handsome features twisted. "The safer alternative to Agent Orange." Calla felt sick. She had been a fool to trust this man. She'd been a fool to feel anything at all for him. He'd come into her life, into her family's life, and he'd brought more trouble with him than she could possibly handle. She was suddenly furious. She released his hand. "So they came to my ranch to look for you. How long did you think you could use me to hide out?" "I wasn't using you. I didn't even know about you until I found you on that road with a flat tire." His tone was unreadable,but he hurt. The rejection was a slap, and just because he'd beenexpecting it, it didn't lessen the sting. He rested his hand on hisknee and concentrated on not touching her. "I was finished with mylittle tour of the West, and since I'd spent most of my childhoodon my grandfather's ranch in California, this seemed likea good place to stop and regroup." "Great. Well, thanks for choosing Hot Sulphur Lake for your regrouping. But now you're goingtohave to leave. I can't involve my family in this. The ranch is in a precarious enough position as it is." She paused. "My God, Henry, I feel like I just stepped off a cliff." "I know. But I can't leave right now. And I can't let you go back to the ranch."

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Calla had had enough. She shoved him off her cot with her bare feet. He caught himself before he tumbled to the floor. She stood next to her cot, her nightgown settling around her ankles. "You keep saying that, but you're wrong, spud. You are going to leave and I am going back to the ranch. The cows can wait until I hire another cowboy or until Lester gets back from Reno. I don't want you or your Perfect Soil or your secrets anywhere near us. I don't want them anywhere near Paradise. I have more than enough to handle as it is. I have the bank breathing down my neck,Ihave to deal with Clark and his prenuptial agreement,I have a mysterious bunch of developers sneakingaround…" Henry reached up and put his hands firmly on her hips. The movement stilled her instantly. "Someone is watching you, Calla. I saw him at the wedding." Calla sank back down onto her cot. Her eyes were wide. "What?" "Someone is watching you," he repeated. "And until I talk to Pete and find out who it is, I can't take any chances. I think it's probably just routine surveillance—" Henry lifted a bare shoulder "—but then again, this guy was a local yokel, and the people I know don't usually hire locals for that kind of job." "Oh, my God." Calla's head was spinning. Someone had been at Helen's wedding, watching her? Someone from this weird worldtowhich Henry and his beautiful ex-wife and funny, smooth-talking Peter Fish belonged? Suddenly, Two Creek didn't seem nearly far enough away from the rest of the world. Suddenly, she wished cow camp were in the middle of the Himalayas. "Routine surveillance?" she whispered. "I can't believe this." Henry stood in front of her, measuring her reactions with that warm, steady regard. She wanted to punch him. She also wantedtowrap herself up in his strong bare arms and allow himtotakecare of all this for her. He had been very goodattaking care ofher so far. Maybe he'd prove as effectiveatthis odd job as he had atall the odd jobs he'd been doing for the Hot Sulphur these past few weeks. What was she thinking? She always depended upon herself. She was no damsel in distress; he no knight in shining armor. She put her head in her hands. "I'm not happy about this," she mumbled. "I know," he said simply. "I'm sorry." "What's goingtohappen now?" Henry laughed again, a hollow sound. "I wish I knew. I've left messages for Pete. He knows wheretofind me. In the meantime, Two Creek is about as safe as any place on earth for you right now." "What about my father?" "He's safe. They just want to keep an eye on you." "But why? I don't have anything to do with this." "Because Pete is a very smart man. He knows what's importanttome. And he'll use it." "Use what?" Calla whispered in the darkness.

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"You, Calla. He'll use you. You are what's importanttome." Calla sat, letting that information seep into her. She was what was importanttohim. "Do they know I'm engaged?" Henry gave a snort of laughter. The sound was no longer hollow. Now it held something. Not humor though, Calla thought "If it hasn't mattered to me, I don't think its goingtomatter to them." "Henry, be serious." He dropped to his knees in front of her. "I am serious. I want you, Calla," he said, his voice no longer even, his tone no longer unreadable. "I want you. You have taken over everything. I barely sleep, I barely eat. I sat up nights in that bunkhouse for two solid weeks, just hoping you'd walk by your bedroom window. I get aroused watching you brush your teeth, for crying out loud." His hands clenched the wooden slatsof her cot, but he made no moveto touch her. Calla staredatthose rigidly controlled, beautifully formed hands. "Pete saw it.Your father saw it. Hell, even Lester saw it. I have never feltthis before, whatever the hell this is. And I am as sorry about it as I can be. I wish I'd never seen your boots sticking out from under that pickup. But I did see them, and now I have to stay and fix whatever kind of mess I've gotten you into." He searched her face with his fierce brown eyes. How had his stupid wife ever resisted those eyes? Calla found herself wondering. "You get, uh, aroused watching me brush my teeth?" Henry leaned back on his heels and put a hand over his eyes. "I have just told you that I make weapons of war, that my wife was a spy and that someone, possibly the United States Government, has sent an operative to watch your every move, and that one single piece of embarrassing information concerning my raging libido is all you gleaned from tonight's conversation? Wonderful. You are going to be the death of me." "Henry," she began, "I'm sorry if you have misunderstood our relationship. But I'm sure you realize that my commitment to Clark—" "Don't,Calla." He rosetohis feet. Calla heard him pop openthe buttons of his jeans, rumble around in his clothes pack andsit heavily on his bunk. "Don't tell me all this again. I really don't want to hear it. Your blessed engagement is the least of my problems right now." "I can't sleep with you." "I don't remember asking you to." "I'm sorry if you're angry. But you knew from the beginning—" "Calla." "What?" "Shut up."

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"Is Henry Beckett your real name?" Henry sighed. Hell, he owed her this much. "No. It's Mitch, Mitchell Johannsen. Henry's my middle name. Beckett was my mother's maiden name." "Oh. Can I still call you Henry?" "Yes. I don't care." He did, though. He loved the way it sounded when she said it, loved how it made him a different man. The kind of man who wouldn't wear a lab coat all day. The kind of man who saved women from lightning strikes. The kind of man who was allowed to sleep in a tent in the wilderness, listening to the sleepy breathing of a beautiful cowgirl. Chapter 15 «^» AsHenry stood flipping flapjacks in the cool morning, he decided Calla might not come out of the tentat all today. He should be concerned about that, he knew. He scooped the hotcakes onto a plate and doused them with syrup. He had planned to save some of them for Calla, but he found himself ravenously hungry. Confessions could work up the appetite, he thought. He'd make Calla her own batch. If she ever came out of the tent. He tucked appreciatively into the heavy cakes. There were all kinds of things he should be concerned about, he reminded himself, not just the mood of his boss fretting awayinher canvas fortress. If there was ever a time for clear reflection and concise thinking, this was it. Well, too bad for him. He smiled as he washed down a mouthful of his breakfast with a cup of coffee. "There're sourdough hotcakes out here, Calla," he called. Calla peeked her head out of the tent. No red eyes, Henry thought gratefully. That figured. She'd fight like a cat and bellowlike a bull if she were unhappy, but silent, sulking tears were probably beyond her. He beamed at her. "Are you hungry?" She sniffed the air. She was starving. And as scared as a jack-rabbit in a kennel full of hound dogs. "No," she said stubbornly. "Well, are you ever coming out of that tent?" "As a matter of fact," she said, eyeing him with as haughty an expression as she could muster, "if I didn't have touse theouthouse, I would say, no, I am never coming out of this tent." He had the good grace to avert his gaze before she caught his smile. He plunged his dirty plate into the wash water. "Well, thank goodness for bodily functions, then." She hopped from the tent platform and jogged down the path to the outhouse. Her side must not be

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giving her much trouble, Henry thought, the way she was galloping around. She returned a minute later, still in a cranky temper. "No wash water?" "It's in the covered pot, your highness." She grunted and shoved her hands in the steaming water. "Ow!" "You okay?" "No, I am not okay," she said, grabbing a dish towel. Henry took Calla's hands in his own and examined them carefully. No sense having another injury on his conscience, he rationalized. This was certainly not just an excuse to touch her. He reached for the canteen he'd filled earlier. "Here, let me pour some cool water on them," he said. She jerked her hands away. "I'm fine. Stop hovering." She sat down heavily at the table. Henry decided to let her take her time with whatever she was going to say. He mixed up another batch of sourdough batter. "You don't want breakfast?" "I guess," she said reluctantly, looking into the bowl of batter. "Is that the sourdough I sent up?" "Yep." He poured four neat circles onto the hot griddle. "The start of that is seventy years old." "Really?" "My grandmother got a start from a lady who brought a crockwith her on the Oregon Trail. So I guess it's actually older than seventy years." "Mmm. You know, sourdough is a natural chemical reactionof—" She put a restraining hand on his arm. "Do me a big favor today, Henry. Don't talk to me about chemical compositions, okay? I've had it to here with them." She indicated a spot five inches above her head. "You got it." He didn't kiss the top of her shining hair, but the urge nearly overtook him. He flipped the hotcakes. "We needtotalk, Henry." "Rats," he said, as he tossed the cakes expertly into a steaming pile on Calla's clean plate. He poured syrup over them and handed them to her with a flourish. Henry poured Calla a cup of coffee, opened her hand and placed it there, and sat down across from her. He folded his hands together like a schoolboy. She glared at him, but he saw the corners of her mouth kick up briefly. Good. He was being charming. He thought so, but he couldn't tell. He'd never actively tried to be charming before.

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"So, what do you want totalk about?" Calla took a long time answering. She finished her breakfast while Henry waited. After a while, she came toa decision."Nothing. I guess I don't really want totalk about anything." She wasn't going to sulk, she wasn't going to run, she wasn't going to leave him and return to that hoax of an engagement. She was going to stay. He knew with a sudden flash of insight how much the decision was costing her. Her honor ran as deeply as his, and she was accustomed to caring for herself. But she was going to let him take care of her. He was elated beyond all reason. "Well then—" he reached over, grabbed her coffee cup, took a loud slurp and returned it to her, as familiarly as if he'd beendrinking from her cup for twenty years "—if you're finishedbeing a brat, I guess we'd better get going. Those cows aren't going to move themselves, you know." She looked at him, questions in her fine hazel eyes. "What?" he asked. "Is it safe to leave camp? What if Pete comes?" "He'll wait. Nobody comes all the way to Two Creek andthen leaves before they talk to the cowboy in charge." "Not that you're in charge," she said automatically. Henry rose and took her plate and fork and washed them. She sat nursing her coffee. "What about … what about the guy at the wedding? What if he shows up here?" "He won't. He's gone." "How do you know?" "Because I watched him leave." "And how do you know he won't come back?" "Because I told him in no uncertain terms what I'd do to him if he did come back." Calla plunked her cup down. Coffee sloshed onto the table. "You threatened him? Are you serious?" She was outraged. "You're a scientist. A doctor, for crying out loud. You can't go around threatening people." He swabbed up her coffee with the dishrag. "I'm also a well-trained killing machine." Calla's mouth dropped open in shock. Henry laughed. "I'm joking. Close your mouth. The flies will get in." She put her head in her hands. "I can't believe this." "Well, believe it. You bring it out in me, apparently. I've been threatening lots of people since I met you." Calla was intrigued in spite of herself. She raised her head and cocked a brow at him. "Like who?"

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Ah, it did his ego good, seeing that look in her eye. "Lester." Calla sputtered. "Lester? When did you threaten Lester?" "When we were haying. I told him I didn't want him to give you any more grief. I told him you had enough on your mind. I told him I'd take a finger for every harsh word I heard him utter in your direction." "You did not." "Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad." Calla thought for a moment. "That explains a few things about Lester's recent behavior." She handed him her coffee cup; he drank the last sip and washed it out. Calla stepped over the seat of the picnic table. "I just have to brush my teeth." She headed for the tent, and then stopped abruptly. She turned and studied him solemnly. "It is okay if I brush my teeth, isn't it? I mean, you won't hurt yourself or anything, will you?" He gazed at her for a minute, making her feel foolish, and imperiled, over her little joke. "Calla, sometimes I hurt just looking at you." *** Calla looked over at the man riding next to her. They were pushing a small group of about thirty pairs of mother cows and their calves down a fence line in one of the wide, flat valleys that pocketed the high-desert hills above Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. He had been singing almost since they left camp. Calla grinned in spite of herself at the sound of his ear-cracking voice. How he could sing at a time like this was a mystery. But she supposed he was accustomed to the pressure of a brilliant mind and whacked-out career in chemical espionage. Nerves of steel, the fool. But his relaxed manner was contagious, she found after a while. If he wasn't worried… She lounged in her saddle, watching Henry work the small herd. He was a much more competent cowboy than Lester. Not as good as she was, but pretty darn good. He didn't rush the animals, who were sluggish in coming off a good pasture in the afternoon heat. Their reluctance didn't make him jumpy as it did so many cowboys she'd known. He simply waited for them to pick their way across the rock, whooping and tossing his hat when they seemed to stick in one place too long. A couple times he dismounted and nudged along a slow-moving calf with his knees. Firm but gentle. Calla somehow knew women and babies would always get that from him. The mysterious man at the wedding hadn't been privilege to that sideof Henry. Neither, apparently, had old Lester. Calla smothered a smile. They stopped for lunch in the middle of the afternoon, after the cows had reached their destination, a rocky meadow adjoining the Little Sheep Flats. Henry unsaddled his horse and used the saddle for a pillow. Calla sat cross-legged in the dirt beside him. The cows and the hobbled horses munched contently on the dry grass of the Idaho midsummer. "No clouds today," he observed from under his hat. Calla stretched out a few, safe feet away.

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"Not yet, anyway." "How's your side? Sore from riding?" "A little." "You want me to look at it?" He kept himself from adding, "Please," but just barely. As if she could stand him looking under her shirt. "No. It's okay." He was quiet a long time. "Tell me about Benny," Henry said. Calla looked at her sandwich. It occurred toher that if Henryhadn't packed lunch again today, she would have gone without. She probably wouldn't be eating at all if it weren't for Henry. How had she become accustomed tothis caretaking soquickly? she wondered. "I thought you were asleep," she said. "Hah. And let another storm sneak up on you?" "On me?" He tipped his hat farther down over his face. "What do you want to know?" "I don't know. What do you want to tell me?" Calla considered that. She didn't spend much time talking about her older brother. She spoke to her mother about him before she died, but her father found the subject of his firstborn too painful. Calla respected that. And Clark had never once asked. They'd talked about her family on their first date and after she'd told him she had an older brother who had died in an accident, he'd never broached the subject again. In the beginning stages of their relationship, she'd accepted his lack of questions as polite regard for her feelings. Lately, though… "Benny was everything a little girl would want in an older brother. He taught me everything. How to fish and hunt and ride." Henry chuckled from under his hat. "Not every little girl wants to know how to hunt and fish and ride, Calla." "I did. That's what Benny did, so that's what I wanted to do. It's why I'm such a hopeless tomboy, I guess." "Not hopeless," Henry murmured drowsily.

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Calla warmed to her subject. How long had it been since anyone had asked her about Benny? "He was ten years older than me. When I was born, my mom told me he just … sort of took over raising me. I can hardly even remember being with anyone else when I was growing up. My mom was busy with the ranch. Dad helped her, plus he had all his other interests, so I didn't see a lot of them." That sounded disloyal. "Not that they weren't great parents." "You just had more in common with Benny." "Yeah." Calla laughed softly. "Looking back, I'm surprised he put up with me. I followed him around like a pup. I can remember when I started kindergarten, I was crazy from loneliness. He was in high school then. I used to bounce up and down on my seat on the school bus all the way home—I could hardly wait to see himatthe end of the day. I'm sure he thought I wasa terrible nuisance." "I'm sure he thought you were adorable." "Oh, sure." Henry didn't tip his hat. "Believe me. You're adorable." "Oh." She flushed, grateful Henry wasn't looking at her. "Benny taught me howto read when I was about four years oldby reading me the Sunday comics. His room was downstairs, the room where Helen sleeps now, and sometimes when I'd have a bad dream or something, I'd creep downstairs and we'd go into the kitchen and he'd make me hot chocolate and have me readto him from my schoolbooks until I was sleepy. By the time I was in the fourth grade, I was reading Shakespeare. Benny was the smartest person I ever knew. Until you. I think Paradise never knew quite what to do with Benny." Calla smiled at a memory. "He told me about the birds and bees." "Why?" "Because he caught me kissing a boy in the barn." "How old were you?" "Nine, I think. Or ten, maybe." "Precocious." "Thank you. Unfortunately, my love life was all downhill after that. I was afraid Benny would do serious harm to any boy who came near me." "What a nice thought. I wish Benny could have met Dartmouth. I would like to see someone do serious harm to Dartmouth." Calla frowned. She could only see Henry's relaxed mouth under his hat. She couldn't tell if he was joking. "You've kissed me, too." "I hate to keep bringing this up, but I did more than kiss you. And Benny would have liked me." "Hah. Not everyone is as easy to charm as Helen and Jackson." "And Lester. You forget I charmed Lester."

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"And Lester," Calla conceded, laughing at him. Talk about adorable. She very nearly scooted over to kiss him, he was so adorable. "Benny was the first person to bring me to cow camp for a summer. I was only six. I rode with him every day that summer. I used to hate to have to come home on Saturdays because my mother would make me take a bath." "Six? You were just a baby. I can't believe your parents let you go." "I asked my mom about that once," Calla said thoughtfully. "What did she say?" "She said Benny would have died before he let anything happen to me." There was a long, still silence. Calla scooped fine dirt into her hand and let it sift through her fingers. Henry didn't look up. "What happened to him, Calla?" he said softly. She sifted more sand. "He died before he let anything happen to me." Henry raised himself and leaned on his elbow and studied her. She was careful not to meet his eye. "Do you want to tell me about it?" She shrugged. "We were across the river one day, looking at a piece of ground Benny thought we might want to lease for spring pasture. The truck broke down a couple miles from Paradise dam. It was hot. In the middle of August. I didn't want to walk back to the dam and into town. It would have taken us all afternoon. So I decided to swim for it. The river is wide there, and the water is calm. Deceptively calm. Benny was furious. He tried to stop me, but I'm pretty quick." She gave a bitter smile. "I jumped into the water. It felt good, actually. There's no air-conditioning in that truck, you know." "Calla…" Henry brushed the dirt from her hand and took it in his own. "I started swimming. Benny watched me from the bank for a minute. I turned around and laughed at him. I laughed at him." Calla stared out across the valley for a minute. "When I was about halfway across, I got caught in an eddy or something and I couldn't get out. It happens all the time. The Snake is like that. We lose kids every summer in that river. It looks so slow and fat, but when you get in there…" "What happened to you?" "Benny came in after me." Calla took her hand from Henry's and hugged her knees to her. "He managed to get me free of the current somehow, but he was sucked under. I'm surprised by that, you know. He was a good swimmer. He taught me. "He didn't come up for nine days. Can you believe that? Nine days. We waited for him. The current kept him under. Somebody said maybe his body was caught under a rock. I can't remember who it was who said that, but it made me cry, thinking of it. Lester brought the camp tents down and we waited on the bank for him to surface. People came from town and took shifts. We even set up lights in case he came up during the night."

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"Calla…" Henry whispered. He pulled her to him, taking her into his lap like a child, cradling her there, wondering if he'd ever felt so heartbroken before. "I often wonder if my mother ever forgave me, Henry," she said finally. "He was her firstborn. She was going to leave the ranch to Benny. I was always too scared to ask her if she ever forgave me." Henry took her chin firmly in his wide palm and tipped her head to him. Henry was so close she could see the beautiful gold flecks in his deep brown eyes. "Don't say that," he whispered fiercely. "Don't ever, ever say that. It wasn't your fault." "Oh, Henry," she said as she lowered her head to rest against his shoulder, "of course it was." He rocked her, his grip on her so tight she didn't think she could move if she wanted to. Not that she wanted to. "I know people think it's strange, the way I pamper that old gray horse," she said after a time. "But he's all I have left of Ben. Sometimes when I'm with him, I can almost feel Benny with me, too." "When we get home, Calla, I'm going to build Bubba the most luxurious stall you've ever seen," he vowed. "We'll put padded velvet on the walls and one of those big bug zappers in there. We'll buy thick rubber mats for the floor. He'll think he's in the Kentucky Derby." Calla smiled wearily. "You make me laugh, Henry." "And you break my heart." Calla lifted her head from his warm shoulder and lookedathim. "Is your heart broken?" she whispered. He smoothed her hair. "No," he said, and kissed her, sweetly, so gently, tears stung her eyes. "But it could be." They watched each other for a long moment. God, he felt everything for her. But there were rules in this game, and one of them was you didn't take advantage of a sad and vulnerable woman. She'd told him more than once she didn't want him; she'd have to tell him when she'd changed her mind, and with words, not with those amazing hazel eyes. He closed his eyes, sighed sharply in regret and lifted her off his lap. He raised himself to his feet, swung his saddle onto his hip, andwalked over to catch their horses. *** Pete was waiting for them when they returned to camp. His rented Cherokee was parked at the edge of the camp compound and he had helped himself to a beer from Henry's cooler. He watched them approach through the dusk with a bemused expression. "You guys look like the cavalry," he called good-naturedly. Henry dismounted without looking at Calla and handed her his reins. "Take care of the horses." Then he looked backather and said, "I didn't tell you anything."

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Calla started to protest, but changed her mind. Without greeting their guest, she rode off obediently to the horse pasture, leading Lucky, and began to unsaddle the horses. Henry strode to the picnic table and leaned over, slapping his hands to the wood, to face his old compadre. "Did you send someone to watch Calla?" "Oh, hello, Mitch. Yes, the trip up was fine. No, of course I don't mind driving all over hell and backat your beck and call." Pete held up the beer. "Thanks, I have one already. Yes, I'd love to stay for dinner. What are you having?" Henry set his jaw. "I'm not in the mood, Fish. Did you send someone to watch Calla or not?" Pete took a casual swig of beer. His hawklike gaze shifted to Calla, who was hefting Henry's saddle into the nearby tack shed. She didn't meet his gaze. "Aren't you going to help her with that, you unchivalrous bastard?" Henry glanced over his shoulder without taking his hands from the table in front of him. "She's as tough as you and me put together, Pete. Answer the question." "She has a perfect little rear end. What the hell kind of jeans are those? She looks like one of those rodeo girls or something. Do they make jeans like that for men? I think I'd look good in jeans like that." Henry leaned closer. It was a case of the student trying to intimidate the master, Henry knew, but his greater size and strength, coupled with a rising fury, gave him an edge. "Don't make me punch you. Tell me." "Tell you what? Okay, okay, I'm just funning you, Doc. No. There are no orders to keep an eye on your girlfriend there. If there were, I'd do the job myself. No pay. She is strong, isn't she?" Calla held her saddle against her hip with one sleek arm and carried a stack of saddle blankets with the other. Pete gave a low whistle which Calla ignored but which made Henry bunch his flat palms into fists. "I'll hit you, Pete," Henry said through his teeth. "Geez, Doc, if I didn't know better, I'd swear you got some real live emotion worked up here. I didn't know real live emotion was even in your repertoire." "If it wasn't you, who was it?" Pete shrugged and took another slug from the can of beer. "Damned if I know. I'll bet she rides you like a mule, doesn't she?" Henry was torn between a powerful urgetobeat the snot out of him and laughathis one-track mind. Pressure's getting to you, Johannsen. "Can we get back to the subject at hand?" "Your spook?"

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"Well, that brings up an interesting point." Henry sat down at the table and faced Pete. "I don't know if he was a spook. If he was, he was a pretty poor one. I got on top of him in a motel room in Paradise before he even woke up. He spilled his guts like he'd been eating bad fish, to borrow a colorful phrase of yours." "I feel like a proud father." "Don't. Intimidating people is not a skill of which I'm particularly proud." "You're getting goodat itthough. Hey, look at that." He pointed an index finger past Henry's shoulderat Calla. Henry looked overatCalla. She was back out in the horse pasture. Toke had his soft black nose buried in a bucket of oats and Calla had one of his forelegs tucked between her knees. She was digging mud from the shoe with a hoof pick. "I'd like to get one of my legs between her knees like that. She'd like it, too, I swear to God." "Why don't you go out and ask her, Pete? If she doesn't shoot you first, I will. And, Pete, by the time that woman was finished tearing you up one side and down the other, you'd be begging me to shoot you." "Feisty is she? I like 'em feisty." "You're a mongrel dog, Pete. Now, if you wouldn't mind taking your beady eyes off Calla, I'd like to talk to you about this situation in which I find myself." "Go ahead." Henry chose his words thoughtfully. "What about the Haitians? Or the CIA? You said they were sniffing around pretty hard before I left." "I lied. About the CIA, anyway." Pete smiled. "Offensive tactic. The Haitians are looking, but not too hard, and not way the hell out here. Hate to disappoint you, Doc, but you just aren't the important boy you were two months ago. Word's out you packed your little formula into cotton wool and moved on down the road. My personal opinion is that they never really knew what you had in the first place." "But you do." "I already told you, it wasn't me." "And Frank does." "That's true." Henry leaned forward. "And maybe Frank has decided I wouldn't use what I have on him if he got to Calla." "Maybe so. What have you got on him?" "Pete, you're the teacher in this schoolhouse. You figure it out." "All the tools are there, Doc." He tapped his skull with a blunt finger. "But you and I were given unequal amounts of brain power. Why don't you let me in on what you've got on the colonel, and I'll take care of this little Calla Bishop mess you've gotten yourself into. Then you can come back and finish the studies

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with the formula and we'll all live happily ever after." "Come on, Pete. I'm never going back. You know that." Pete returned his gaze to the woman in the horse pasture. "If that's the way you feel, Doc, then it wasn't very wise of you to get tangled up with this pretty little cowgirl, was it? She's a very weak link in the very short chain anybody could usetohang you dead." "Let's forgo the poor metaphors, shall we? Is that a threat, Pete?" "Nope." Pete drained the beer can. "More like a question. Why the hell didn't you keep moving?" "Why do you think? Listen, Pete, the guy watching Calla was a local, from Salt Lake. I don't care if you find him or not, but I wanttoknow who sent him. And I wanttoknow yesterday." He dug into his pocket, came up with the card on which he'd jotted the jerk's name. "Here. It might be an alias." "I forgot I was working for you." Henry shook his head in frustration. "Look, just do it. I can't go anywhere without this information. And I can't leave Calla unprotected while I get it myself. I'll make it worth your while." "I'll settle for an hour in that tent over there with your cowgirl." "I'd slit your throat first. When do I get my information?" "I'm not coming back up here, that's for sure. These damn rock roads are murder on my back. When are you coming back to civilization?" "I'll beatthe ranch again on Saturday afternoon." "You've developed a poor idea of what passes for civilization in the past few weeks, Doc." "Believe me, it's a hell of a lot more civilized up here than it ever was back in your world, Pete." Five minutes later, Pete was rumbling along the road back toward Paradise. Henry walkedtothe edge of the horse pasture and leaned against a fence post. Calla joined him. "That was fast. What did he say?" "It wasn't him." "Oh." She frowned at him. He put a booted foot on the middle strand of barbed wire and lifted the top wire with his hand. "Come through." She slipped through the fence with the ease that came from over twenty years of practice. Henry took her hand and led her toward camp. "What do we do now?" she inquired.

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"We forget about this until Saturday. Pete's going to work on it for us." "Why couldn't I listen to your top-secret conversation? I assumed that since I'm the one being spied on, I would be invited to sit in on the strategy session." Henry stopped and looked at her in surprise. "Are you angry?" "Yes,I'm angry. I'm not an idiot, Henry. Nor am I a frightened little girl. I've been taking care of grown-up problems for a long time now, and I don't appreciate being relegated to the horse pasture while you two big studs discuss my life." He blinked at her. It was almost fully dark now, and he could just make out her features. They were set in angry lines. "Calla, I have never once made the mistake of thinking you were either an idiot or a child. You are, in fact, one of the smartest, most grown-up people I know. I didn't include you in my conversation with Pete for a couple reasons." "And they are?" "One, Peter Fish is the horniest lowlife I have ever known, and if he so much as batted his pup-dog eyes at you, I would have had to punch him out." She considered that for a minute. "Oh" was all she could come up with. "And two, I didn't want him to know you know anything about this. It's safer for you that way." Henry took the hoof pick from her fingers and tossed it on the table. He tugged her shirt free of her Wranglers. "What are you doing?" She pushed at his quick hands. "I want a look at your side." "It's … it's fine," she managed to tell him. She yanked the tail of her shirt back. "Just let me look at it." "It's okay. I swear." He ignored her and lifted her shirt himself. She stood with her hands in the air while he examined her. He scowled at the bruise underneath the scrape. "Where's the Neosporin?" "In the kit. On the table." He reached behind her and snagged it, pressing against her for an instant as he did so. She didn't even want to think about what that did to her. Henry squeezed out a dab of the gel onto his finger. "Lift your shirt again." "I can do it." "Just lift your shirt."

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Funny how she'd started taking orders so well, Calla thought. She'd never been very good at it before. He anchored her with a hand at her hip. "Terrible scab," he muttered, touching it lightly as he spread the antiseptic over it. "But not deep." "No," she gasped. His hand stroked a light circle along the outer edge of the wound. Once, twice. "Does the bruise hurt?" "No." So slowly, like a man gentling a wild animal, he moved to the smooth skin beyond her wound. Calla sucked in a breath, but made no move to stop his wandering hand. It didn't even occur to her. "I was afraid yesterday you'd broken a rib," he whispered. She could barely form words in her head, much less her mouth. "Um…" His fingers drifted down to her belly, stroking, moving to her sidestocup her waist and back again. He was petting her, kneading softly when he came to each curve or swell or indentation. His fingers stretched out until his hand was splayed wide against her stomach. She quivered under his touch. He didn't look up when he smiled. "Umm, Henry?" She didn't think to drop her shirt back into place. He turned his hand over and curled his knuckles, letting the feel of her sink into him. He made circles on her flesh with the back of his hand, low, until he felt the shallow impression of her navel. His thumb came to rest there while he raised his head to meet her gaze. "I don't think it will scar." "What? Oh, no, I don't think…" He was standing too close. Too close. She forced her eyestostay open, lookingathim looking at her, though it took every ounce of will not to just let them drift shut, as they did whenever he was too, too close. And his hands. The oneather hip flexed and pressed. And the other one. Oh. It was slow, hard, skillful. She wanted him to dip it beneath the waistband of her jeans and make those little circles lower down. Foratleast an hour. As though he'd read her thoughts, he unsnapped the button of her fly and slid his hand down, palm out, until he touched the silky top of her panties. He took the elastic between his index and middle finger and tugged. Her head did drop back then. Soft, flattened hair. His fingertips touched it, and when they did he saw Calla's lips part, saw her tongue dart out to lick the fuller, lower one. He leaned forward to suck lightly at her collarbone. "Come lie with me, Calla," he whispered against her skin.

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"Oh … I can't." His voice was so soft, and his mouth was cruising up her neck, and she labored valiantly to remember why this couldn't happen. "I can't." "Calla, I want you so much. Come with me. Forget about everything else. Just for right now. We'll worry about it all later." Well, wonderful, now he was hypnotizing her. She couldn't think of another, better explanation why her knees went weak and her body softened and her will collapsed at his words. "Henry … please." She couldn't have said what it was she begged him for. Release or capture. "Calla. Come with me. Let me touch you." He sucked lightly again, higher this time. Calla felt the thrill zip right down between her legs. "I want you to touch me." "Ah … Henry, please…" "Say yes, Calla." He was this close to begging her. He knew it. Didn't bother him in the least. "Say yes." "No, Henry." She pulled awayatthe last possible second, like a pilot pulling out of a fatal dive. His mouth left her soft throat, his hand left her soft skin. She pleaded with him, silently, with those lovely hazel eyes, to understand. "I can't." He watched her for a long minute, his breath rattling in his chest. Then he turned away, leaving her relieved, and bereft. "I'll make dinner," he said thickly. Chapter 16 «^» Henry heard Calla groan. He opened his eyes. It was not yet sunrise. Henry smiled. She was back on schedule. He turned lazily and peeked one eye open at her. "Good morning," he said, stretching the familiar, pleasant aches from his body. "It's5:27." "I didn't ask." She was lying on her back, her hands over her face. "It's usually your first question. You are certainly not a morning person, are you? What's wrongthis morning? I hate to ask." "I don't want to talk to you right now." Henry leaned on an elbow. "Why don't you want to talk to me?" She groaned again. "Don't look at me." She suspected that her face under the cover of her hands was

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bright pink. She felt it flame. She'd just had the most amazing dream, was barely recovered from it, still felt a shocking pulse inside her body. If Henry suspected she'd just had her very first erotic dream—about him, aboutanyone—she wouldn't get out of this tent with her principles and her plans intact, she was certain of it. He reached to pluck her hands from her face. She snatched them back, flopped onto her stomach and buried her face in the saddle pad he'd given her for a pillow. Miscalculation. Her breasts tingled sharply where they met the bottom of her sleeping bag—the nipples that, in her vivid imagination, had been so recently in his mouth, were hard as river pebbles. Another groan. Henry wondered how she breathed with her face buried like that. He admired her thick, straight hair as it spilled over her shoulders and contrasted with the dark-colored saddle pad. If nothing else, at least he'd got her to stop wearing that damn ponytail every minute of her life. He touched the heavy, silky stuff. "Aah! Don't touch me!" she shrieked. Henry pulled his hand back as if she'd touched a match to it, guilty as a little boy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. It made him furious. He hadn't even kissed her last night! So, he'd made a suggestion. She was a grown woman; he was allowed! She didn't want him touching her? Fine with him! "Fine with me!" he shouted at her prone form, and left the tent. Calla shook her head against the saddle pad, mashing her nose in the process. The minute her body stopped quaking, she'd go and apologize. *** They loaded salt into the wood-framed packsaddles atop Lucky and Sonny, tied the two horses behind Toke and Buster, and started on the eight-hour round trip to Upper Pyramid Flats—with Henry still fuming and Calla still mortified. She did her best to make amends, without actually telling him it was his fault she was so flustered. Him and his … well, she shouldn't think about his … his … oh, it had been just magnificent in her dream! "Want to know why they call it Upper Pyramid Flats?" "To distinguish it from Lower Pyramid Flats?" "Very funny," she said. "There's a real pyramid there. Made from lava rock." "Hmm." "You're pouting." He shot her a nasty look. "Yeah, right." "You are. Pouter." He kept silent. She guessed she couldn't josh him out of his sulk. She'd just have to apologize, darn it.

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"I'm sorry about this morning." "Look, if you're mad about last night…" "No. No. I was just as involved in that as you were." "I doubt it," he mumbled crossly. "I had … a bad dream." No, a very, very good dream. A really excellent dream. One in a million. "It made me wake up grumpy. I'm sorry." "You wake up like that every morning. You must have a lot of bad dreams." "Not like this one," she said under her breath. They rode in silence for a long while, each lost in their own thoughts. They'd have been surprised to know how often those thoughts ran exactly parallel. "Benny told me the pyramid was there before Great-granddad started coming through these mountains with his sheep on the way to the shipping depot in Station City." "Your great-grandfather ran sheep?" "Four bands. Wool was high then, and he sold lambs in the spring." "Why don't you run sheep anymore?" "Doesn't make sense. Wool prices are too low and labor costs are too high, especially during lambing season. You need a man for every band during the summer, and ten men for every band during lambing season. And you can make the same amount on four hundred fall calves as you can on fifteen hundred spring lambs, plus you only have to pay one cowboy. I hate sheep, anyway. The lambs are cute, but fragile as hell. You end up slitting the throats of the sick ones and throwing 'em to the eagles and the coyotes all winter. I can't take the gore. Besides, as dumb as cows are, they're Einsteins next to sheep." She turned in her saddle to check the balance of the packsaddle on the horse behind her. Satisfied, she gave Henry a brilliant smile. "I'm impressed. The art of packsaddles is almost as archaic as ditch riding. Where did you learn to do all this stuff, Henry?" Henry shrugged. "My grandfather had a ranch in central California. It wasn't as big as this, but he had a few cows and one thousand acres in dairy hay. I used to spend my summers there." Calla was delighted. "Your grandfather? Who runs the farm now? Your parents?" "My father sold the farm when my grandparents died," he said flatly. "He sold it? How could he sell it? Was it in financial trouble?" "No. It was clear." "Well—" Calla struggled to understand "—did he need the money?"

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Henry snorted. "My father? No. My father has plenty of money." "Oh. What does he do for a living?" "He's a doctor. An M.D. He's chief of staff at a hospital in the San Fernando Valley." "Wow. That's a great job." Henry looked quizzicallyather for a second, then chuckled. "I guess so. I've never heard it put quite that way, but yes, I suppose it's a great job." "I didn't mean that to be funny. It's just that no one in my family ever even graduated from college." "They got to stay on the ranch." Calla gave him a winning flash of white teeth. "I've never heard it put that way before, but yes, I suppose that's true. They got to stay on the ranch. No one has ever really wantedtoleave." "Lester told me you wanted to leave." "Lester's mouth is as big as a moon on an outhouse." "Why did you want to leave?" Calla thought about that for a minute. "It's not that I wantedtoleave,exactly," she answered slowly. "I wanted to go to college. Ben and I used to talk about it all the time. He should have gone. He was brilliant, wanted to be an engineer. But we never had the money, and he just sort of forgot about it after a while. After Benny died I forgot about it, too, for a couple years, anyway. Then, about six years ago, without telling my dad or me, my mom took out a loan, using the ranch as collateral, so I could go away to college." "Where were you going?" "Dartmouth." Henry hooted. "Give me a break." Calla gave him a sharp look. "Dartmouth is an excellent school. I was lucky to get in, especially considering my background." "Yes, well, one can hardly fathom why a revered institution like Dartmouth would take a grizzled Idaho farm woman. So, why didn't you go?" "I did. I'd been there almost three years when my mom died. I stayed in a dorm my first year, but then I got a job cleaning for a sorority house. I never pledged, of course; it all seemed kind of silly, but they made me a sort of house mother," she said. "I hadn't even noticed how she had wasted away until I came back to Idaho for the funeral. She looked like a little doll in her big casket. Dad told me she'd been sick with cancer for over a year, but she didn't want treatments. Said they made her too sick to enjoy her last months with him."

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"She didn't tell you she was dying?" Calla shook her head. "You know, I wonder if she even believed it herself," she said thoughtfully. "She was a strong woman. Incredibly strong. She did the work of a rancher every day of her life until the last few months. She and Benny and I used to feed before school every morning and you never saw anybody pitch a bale like my mother. I don't think she really thought the cancer could kill her. But even if she did, she didn't want me to know it. Especially when I went away. She didn't think I'd have left the ranch if I'd known." "And you wouldn't have." "No." "You didn't go back to school after she died?" "No. My dad left his job in town. He was the librarian for thirty-four years, but he just couldn't handle the ranch and thedeath of my mom at the same time. Besides, we couldn't afford to hire anyone to help with the farm." "So, you were the knight in shining armor." "Hardly. It was my fault we were in trouble in the first place. My college loan was the first debt the ranch had since my mother paid off a cattle note twenty-six years ago." "And you feel guilty about that." "Shouldn't I?" Henry shook his head. Between this and the death of her brother, no wonder the girl carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. No wonder she was going to marry that putz. "How much debt?" Calla stared at him in disbelief. "I'm not telling you that!" "Why not?" "It's private!" "Maybe I could help." "Not on $850 a month. Besides, Clark has promised to look into it after we're married." "Calla…" "Don't, Henry," she said. "I'm telling you. Don't even go there." *** They reached Upper Pyramid at midday. After they unloaded half the salt into a lick box and readjusted the packsaddles, Henry spent twenty minutes examining the Pyramid while Calla unpacked their lunch. "It's very intricate." He'd come back to sit next to her, unwrapping his sandwich thoughtfully.

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"The sandwich? Thank you." "Not the sandwich, dufus. The pyramid." "I know. Yes. The weather doesn't seem to touch it. We even had an earthquake here in 1985. I don't think a single stone moved. That's why no one has ever dismantled it, I guess. It's almost mystical in design." "Basque?" She nodded. "A marker. The sheepherders leave them everywhere they go." "Are there Native American writings around here?" "The next butte over. I'll show them to you sometime." Her insides flipped. No, she wouldn't show them to him sometime. "Are they defaced?" He had finished his sandwich and had tucked an arm beneath his shoulder and leaned back into the dirt. His hat tipped over his eyes. Calla smiled down at him. She had become accustomed to his postlunch position. On impulse, she scooched onto her back and rested her head in the crook of his outstretched arm. They were friends now; this was perfectly acceptable, between friends. She could hear his heart thudding solidly against his chest. "No. Hardly anyone knows where they are, and you can't get to them unless you're on foot or horseback. We haven't yet managed to blacktop everything in like you Californians." She closed her eyes. The sun beat pleasantly down on her eyelids. Not too hot today, she mused. Wonder what August will be like? Hope that spring on Milner Meadow stays open. "How's your—" "Fine. Stop mothering me." "Fine. We'll talk about something else. When did you meet Dartmouth?" Calla stiffened. "I told you I don't wanttotalk about him with you." "When you went back East?" "Henry, look…" "I'm just curious. Humor me." Calla gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yes, my last year at school. Does he seem like the typetocometoIdaho tomeet a girl?" "No." Henry waited for her to go on. Calla couldn't tell if he waited because he was naturally patient, or because he assumed she'd spill her gutsatwill. "I met Clark when he came by the sorority house with his fraternity brotherstowelcome the new pledges in the house where I was working." "Come on." He tipped his hat back and dipped his chin, staringatthe top her head. "You're kidding me.

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He graduated, what, ten years ago? What was he doing welcoming pledges?" "I take it that's odd?" "It's odd for seniors. It's absolutely sick for someone who left the university years earlier. He was trolling for freshmen, for crying out loud. Eighteen-year-old girls!" Calla was indignant. Sortof. Because, in truth, she'd felt the same thing when she'd seen the smooth, worldly group of men, some alreadyintheir late twenties, hit the sorority house late that September evening. They'd been dressed in suits and ties, and most of them drove the expensive sports cars that were their New England-middle-management stock-in-trade. Those young girls never knew what hit them. Calla had been a little overwhelmed herself. Clark's clean-cut good looks and old-money charm had swept her off her feet. She waited until their third date to tell him she was already twenty years old. "That's not true! They were a welcoming committee. His fraternity has been doing it every year for, I don't know, years." "Since about 1989, I imagine," Henry grumbled from under his hat. "Why did you pick Clark?" "Clark?" "I have to distinguish him from the other Dartmouth pedophiles." "Hey!" "Sorry, sorry. Go on. So, why did you choose him out of all those slathering ex-fraternity studs?" "You act like I had a wide range of choices. Clark was the only one who took the slightest notice of me. And that's only because I askedhim out. I was the poor Western washerwoman in a room full of Eastern, finishing-school flowers, remember." There was a tense response from under the hat. "Anyway, we only went out a couple times. Then I came back for my mother's funeral. I gave Clark my number in Idaho, but I never expected to hear from him." "Because you were an old washerwoman, right?" "Right. But one day, about a year ago, out of the blue, he called me from Boise. He was in town on a real-estate deal for a hotel site in Eagle his father wanted to develop. I was calving out heifers at the time, and I couldn't leave the ranch, so I invited him out." "Was he impressed with the ranch?" It had never crossed her mind to ask. "I don't know," she said simply. "I think that's enough chitchat about my fiancé. We'd better get going." Calla reluctantly left the shelter of Henry's warm, strong arm and got to her feet. They still had an hour's

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ride to the next saltbox, and she wanted to be back in Two Creek Camp before dark. Henry leaned on an elbow and watched her stretch lazily in the afternoon sunshine. "Did you tell him about the ranch when you met him?" She shrugged in midstretch. "I guess so. It's a pretty difficult subject to avoid considering it's the only place I've ever lived or worked, and my entire family has been here for 114 years." Henry got to his feet and walked toward the horses. He took another cursory glance at the pyramid. It occurred to Calla, not for the first time, that she would have loved to watch him at his work. Hisreal work, not this game at which he was currently playing. He had such a natural curiosity for everything around him. "When did he ask you to marry him?" "He didn't. I asked him. Last Thursday." Henry stopped and stared at her. "I can't think of a single thing to say about that." "Thank God." She gave him another smile, hoping it was brilliant and amused and detached. She didn't feel brilliant or amused or detached. She felt embarrassed, as if asking Clark to marry her had been a terribly unfeminine thing to do. She supposed it was. "You usually have far too much to say, anyway." *** "He's caught. He'scaught!"Henry came awake instantly. "Calla, wake up." He went to her on his knees, placed a hand on her shoulder. She jerked under his touch, deep in a nightmare. "Don't. Don't. Let me go.He's caught." "Calla!" He shook her roughly. Her eyes snapped open. The panic of her nightmare shone brightly in their hazel depths. Henry felt a sick chill. "Calla, wake up. Come on, sweetheart. Wake up." She stared, wild-eyed, at him for a moment, clearly unsure who he was. Then she sank back into her cot and closed her eyes. She was peacefully asleep again in seconds, but Henry watched her for a long time. He reached out to brush a loose strand of her thick hair from where it tangled across her forehead, and found his hand was trembling slightly. She'd had the same dream three nights in a row. He should never have asked her about her brother. Whatever pain she had pushed beneath the surface of her conscious mind had obviously been resurrected. He exhaled heavily, willing his shaking hands to still, and lay back on his cot. He stared at the tent ceiling. Five nights now he'd spent with this woman. Five nights and five days. And he was in love with her. How in the world had he made it more than thirty years without it happening, and in a workweek allowed this wild cowgirl to change everything?

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He'd lied when he'd said he wished he'd never seen her boots sticking out from under that truck. He'd had more fun, laughed more, dreamed more, been more blood-pumpingly alive since that day on the high desert than he'd ever been. He'd found for the first time what a simple kiss against a haystack could do to a man. It could cripple him with longing, could make him feel as powerful as a thunderstorm. He'd wanted Heidi, with what he'd thought of then as unusual desire. But when he touched Calla, he knew he'd never really wanted anything before. Not sex, not science, not the secrets of the physical universe. And, God, heliked her. Another revelation after his time with Heidi. He liked Calla so much. Liked the way she looked at the world, liked the way she worked, the way she took care of those three old people backatthe ranch, the way she remembered her brother and her mother. He liked how she laughed, how she moved, how she thought. He liked that she dashed through lightning to save a frightened horse—it scared him bloodless in practice, but he liked it in theory—and how she stomped around, bossy and cranky and preoccupied, with a heart as fragile as glass. But more than any of that, if he was honest, he liked how she made him feel. Not a brain attached to arms and legs, but a man, with emotions as unruly as any man's. When he was with her, when he even thought about her, he was happy or angry or tender or insane with lust. Never indifferent or analytical or detached. In the space of less than four weeks, he'd felt the primitive adrenaline rush of pure jealousy, enough in his system to remind him that, no matter how many years he'd spent in a laboratory, he was still a man, and wanted no other man near the woman he knewtobe his. He'd laughed harder, been angrier, felt more passion and fear and tenderness than he had since he was a child, since all those clear, true emotions had been educated out of him. She made him think, this clever woman with her quick mind and her world of troubles; but better, she made him feel. He turned on his side, found her watching him. Her hands were tucked under her cheek like a child. "Henry?" "What, honey?" "What time is it?" Henry looked at the glowing dial of his watch. It was 12:48 a.m. Saturday morning. "It's almost one." He heard her sigh, saw her close her eyes. "We go home in the morning." "Yes." During the long silence that followed, he thought she'd gone back to sleep. As he watched over her dreams, he turned his mind and his heart back to the question that had plagued him for days. How was he going to make this woman feel for him all that he felt for her? "Henry?" "Yes, Calla?"

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"I don't know what to do." Her voice was a whisper in the darkness, but he heard the breakin it. It quickened his sore heart. "About what?" "About Clark. The ranch. About … you." His breath stopped. "You know what to do, Calla." "There's so much riding on … I have so many responsibilities. So many people counting on me." Dead and alive and not even born yet, she thought, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. A hundred years back, a hundred years forward. He shifted onto his elbow, his head propped on his hand. Pretty, he thought. Beautiful, amazing woman. She mirrored his posture in her own cot. They watched one another, while she decided, while he willed her forward. "I've changed my mind." "About what?" he asked. His voice sounded strange in his own ears, thick with sleep, and with a desire that had been simmering for weeks. "About you. About us. I don't want to go the rest of my life not knowing. I want…" She stopped, unsure. Henry came off his cot slowly, crossed the narrow space between, knelt beside her. "Say it, Calla." "I can't. You say it for me. I don't want to be wrong about this." He touched her hair, her face. "Me, Calla. You want me." "Yes." The word caught in her throat as he rose, giving her a starlit view of that honed body she'd come to crave more than anything else. He shucked his old-fashioned shorts and stood, already fully aroused, letting her know the impact of her decision for just a moment before he dropped beside her again. "I haven't even touched you," she whispered, awestruck, embarrassed, but he stopped her silly words when he kissed her. And kept on kissing her. Time made its own way, then, as it will for lovers. It seemed hours that he knelt beside her, kissing her, allowing hertokiss him. Such a gift, she mused. It may have been hours. Calla didn't know, and Henry didn't care. He didn't feel the rough boards under his knees, or the chill of the night air on his back. The long wait, the weeks-long lovers' dance, the power of every glance and delay of every touch was passed between them in those kisses, along with murmurs and moans and sweet words.

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Tongues met, stroked, met again and soothed, dove greedily into dark crevasses and slipped gently along wet surfaces. Oh, to kiss like this. Neither had ever done so, and they could barely stop for breath. This kind of kissing was for teenagers, for young lovers with nothing but time and no other outlet, but neither Calla nor Henry had ever been so young, and they took their time to learn, so late, what everyone else already knew. Calla's broken heart was forgotten, Henry's indifferent heart filled with new love, as sweet as any young love. And finally, he touched her, and she hadn't known how desperately she'd wanted him to until he did. His hands, the hands she'd so admired, the hands that had been the focus of too many small fantasies to count, slid beneath the cover of her sleeping bag and smoothed down her body, over the soft cloth of a worn nightgown, into the curves and dips of her body, stopping to admire with sensitive fingertips this flat plane, that high peak. She shivered and writhed under them. Henry fisted one hand in her hair to keep her still—he was terrified she'd make him stop—while the other one made the most incredible discoveries. He rolled a taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger, measured the length of a strong, smooth thigh, smoothed the flannel of her gown over the triangle of hair below her stomach, over and over until she cried out, until he felt a wetness through the heavy fabric, and he wished fervently that it was noon, so he could see what he was touching. He reached for the hem of her gown and tugged it upward. She lifted her bottom and he took it higher, higher. He touched again everything he'd touched before, only without barrier this time. Eyes closed, he let his lesser senses, of touch and smell, take over every other. His hand shook. The poor, rough skin of her mending scrape he tended to gently, apologizing without words for his part in marking her. He gripped her throat, slid his open hand down the center of her, smoothed over her hip, reached under and palmed her bottom. He touched her everywhere, and if she'd protested, he would have completely, unconscionably, ignored her. He came back to her breasts—finally, she thought, finally—and tugged at them, rolled them between his rough fingers, until the nipples stood as stiff as gemstones, and she begged for his mouth on her. He dropped his head and suckled. It brought him as much comfort as it did pleasure. Calla experienced nothing of that deeper significance. All she felt was the lust. It exploded inside her like a range fire. She gripped his head and kept him in place, arching under him so he'd take more, suck harder. She felt wild, displaced, frantic. "Oh. My. Goodness." She moaned out each word separately as she slid to the floor onto her knees. She bunched her nightgown at her chest and arced her backtogive him better access and wondered why the hell she'd never done this before. And when Henry dipped his finger into her, and groaned like a man dying when he felt how wet she was, she knew she'd die with him, from gratification and greediness and bliss. He played with her mercilessly. Slow circles, long strokes, his clever fingers dancing, fluttering, exploring, soothing, inciting. When it became too much to passively bear, she fell upon him like a madwoman, breaking contact with his fingers and his busy mouth on a cry of dismay, tipping him over backward, straddling him, kissing him frantically because she didn't know what elsetodo. Luckily, he knew. He might have smiled, in triumph, at her impatience, if he hadn't been caught in the

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same frenzy. "Take that off," he said. She leaned back and whipped the gown over her head. "Oh, Calla," he breathed. She towered over him like a goddess, her plum-tipped breasts firm and swollen with passion, the wet curls against his belly the same color as her hair. He rubbed his knuckles across them. Calla whimpered and bowed back her body as a gift to him. "Henry…" He touched her again, parting her, running a long finger along her cleft, the pearl waiting there rising to meet him. It was as firm as a new rosebud, as soft as wet silk, as soft as anything he'd ever touched. He levered up, took a nipple between his teeth, making her cry out. He would've liked to have touched her breasts again, molded them, run his thumbs over the plum-colored crests, but what he touched now was too precious, too amazing. He couldn't make himself stop stroking, stroking, stroking. She came like a wave crashing, uninhibited. He watched her, intent on everything, her look, her scent, her movement. She bucked against him, unknowingly, as she crested, and he nearly went with her. No rest for the wicked, though. She snapped from her climax greedier than before. Her hands started to move before the last quiver inside her had abated. Aah. Henry. Straddling him, her eyes still closed, she took the same journey of his body he'd taken of hers. And she found that the dreams she'd had of him were so much less than what he really was. His chest was wide and hairy, with a narrow line of brown fuzz that winnowed downtohis navel. She raked her short, functional nails through the hair, sorry for the first time in her life she didn't have inch-long claws. Henry didn't seem to mind. His back and hips came off the bare floor when she touched his nipples, making of himself a bow with his shoulders and heels, of her the arrow notched above. Ah, so he is sensitive there. Who knew a man could be so fascinating? She toyed with him, kissed and suckled and bit, and found that if she wriggled backward just a little, and slid ever so slightly back and forth, it made his eyes roll back in his head. And drove her insane. "Wait. Wait," he whispered frantically. He really would liketoactually get inside her before he spilled like a randy teenage virgin. "Here." He sat up, banding her to him as he moved, and snagged her sleeping bag. Rocking back and forth on his knees, he managed to spread the bag beneath them. He stretched out again, taking her with him, lying next to her, then, when instinct could dictate nothing else, on top of her. He kissed her again, and she ran her hands along the taut muscles of his back down to his tight buttocks, lifting for him, urging him silently, in the way of women since the first coupling, to come to her. She felt as needy as if he'd never touched her. But he wouldn't be rushed; the wait had been too long, the sensations now, too intense. He kissed the hollow of her throat, the valley between her breasts, the rosy, tightened buds, the soft, white curve. He kissed her belly, the indentationsather hips of flesh stretched across bone, the delicate cup of her naval. He murmured regret over the bruise he'd given her, and kissed it gently, too. Every kiss he took as though it would be his last, every kiss she received as though it were her first.

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And when he reached that slick nub, that little, perfect center of her, and took her between his lips to brushather with his tongue, and tasted what he'd already brought forth from her body, all worlds came apart; his, hers and the one they'd made together. "Ah … ah…" She reached for it. And it swooped down to take her, stronger, sharper, a thousand times keener than before. He hummed his pleasure as she bucked against his deft and mobile mouth. And before the first high crest subsided, he was inside, where he belonged. "Calla." It was his turn to moan. She was tight, hot, wet, everything he could have asked for. The mold within which he'd been cast. "Don't move … don't…" Innocent. It flashed through his head, where he dismissed it. Innocent. No, it couldn't be. She moved under him, in a way that told him she knew everything there was to know about this, even if it was the first time. He gathered what strength he could and lifted his head to look into her beautiful, her beloved face. "Calla?" "Henry," she moaned, her eyes tightly shut, and she writhed beneath him once more, seeking further rapture, a higher release. She clutched at him, trying to force him deeper, though he knew he could go no deeper; they were fully, gloriously together. A better man might have been abletoresist the lure of her, to question and console, but he couldn't. He slid out of her body until he could feel those chestnut curls against his sensitive tip, and sank in again. Over and over, faster, faster, until she was gone again. He watched her climax under him until his own vision grayed and his own head dropped forward in surrender. *** "A virgin." He could not believe it. "Mmm." He felt the low rumble of her laugh against his chest. "Not anymore." "Calla, you should have told me." "Why? So you could wonder what a twenty-four-year-old woman like me was still doing with a hymen?" "You didn't have a hymen." "I know. Horseback riding. It was a figure of speech." She opened her eyes to see him staring down into her face. She touched his face with tender intent. "How did you know?" How? He wasn't sure. It had been a revelation, like a vision in the desert. He was her first, he'd be her last. "I just knew." "Oh, well, so I didn't need to tell you, anyway."

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"You should have," he insisted. "I would have been more…" Something. She smiled up at him. "Gentle, tender, wonderful, spectacular? What?" She grinned up at him. "If you'd been more of anything, it would have killed me." Well, that was certainly good for the old male ego, she thought. She watched him in amusement as his concern turned slowly, manfully, inexorably, to satisfaction. He buried his face in her hair, took hold of her earlobe and bit down softly. She could practically hear him crowing. "It was like that for me, too," he whispered into her ear. If she hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he had turned just a little shy. He had, in truth, and it made him feel a bit idiotic. But that he'd pleased her so well, that it had been everything he'd hoped it would be, made him giddy. He wanted to laugh, to squeeze her tightly to him and never let go, to weep with the newness and discovery of it all. But he wouldn't tell her all that. Not yet. He rolled until she was stretched on top of him, protecting her from the hard floor as he wanted to protect her from everything. He ran his hand from her hip to her shoulder, again and again. "So," he asked after a while, "was that, um, your first orgasm?" She laughed. "Egomaniac. No. In fact, I had one just the other morning." "When?" "The other morning. When I woke up so crabby." "You'll have to be more specific." "I had a dream, about you. I had one then. I can't believe I'm telling you this." "You had an erotic dream? About me?" He was touchingly thrilled about that. It may have been the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him. He was also hard again thinking about it. "What was I doing?" "Um, basically what you were doing a little while ago." "Which? With my fingers?" "Your mouth." "Huh." He wanted to slide down and do it again, with her on top this time. But he did have one more question first. "So, why were you?" She buried her face in the warm hollow of his neck. "Look, I think you know enough now." "Come on. Spill it." "It's my private business!"

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"Need I remind you where my mouth was a few minutes ago? You don't have private business from me anymore." She bit his shoulder, was pleased by the little yelp. "Dog." "Just tell me." "Why are you so curious?" "I just am. I'm curious about everything about you. So, spill." She should have had the will to separate from him. She should have got up, put her nightgown back on and gone back to her narrow cot. It was over, her curiosity and her lust were satisfied, and they both understood it shouldn't get any more intimate that it already was. But she couldn't resist. She snuggled naked on top of him and chatted as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "I was a mess after Benny died. Grief-stricken and guilty and, God, for a while there, even suicidal." Henry tightened his hold on her for a minute. His grip almost took the breath out of her. "While everyone else in high school was steaming up the windows in their father's pickups, I was working like a maniac on the farm, trying to take Benny's place and keep my sanity." "But, eventually, I mean, you're twenty-four, and gorgeous, Calla. There must have been a thousand men since high school who wanted…" "Oh, please," she mumbled, flattered. "You've been up on this mountain too long. There were a couple guys I dated, but Paradise is not exactly teeming with eligible bachelors. Sober, employed ones, anyway. And I was always working, anyway. And when I went to college, I worked even harder, to justify the loan Mom had taken out." "And Dartmouth is obviously gay." Calla laughed. "No. But it's not like I have a lot of privacy in that old house. It's like living in an elder hostel. Besides, I'd already waited this long, and there didn't seem much point to doing it until I got married." "Then Dartmouth can live." "Very funny." "Come on." He scooted out from under her, grabbed her wrist and tugged her to her feet. "Aaah! I'm naked! Where are we going?" "Out to that trough. I've been fantasizing about you in there for two weeks." "What time is it?" "Get a watch. Are you sleepy?" He wasn't. He could have run all the way to Hot Sulphur Lake. And back to Calla. "No, but we should…"

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He pulled her through the tent flap and scooped her into his arms, making her laugh. "Put me down. I must weigh a ton." He nippedather neck. "Shut up." He lifted her into the trough and climbed in after. Water cascaded onto the ground around them, and the hot water steamed in the clear night air. "Oooh, nice," she said. "Calla. Be still for a second." She looked up and found him watching her intently. She let him look. "You are so beautiful," he breathed. "Calla, you're beautiful." Of course, she wasn't, but it pleased her that he thought so. "So are you, Henry. I've thought so from the first second I scooted out from under that pickup." She turned until her back was to him and she settled against his chest. His hands came up to cup water over her exposed breasts and shoulders, warming them. His lips in her hair made silent promises he wasn't ready for her to hear. "You have the most beautiful breasts. They were about the … third thing I noticed about you." "Third?" "Okay, first. They've haunted me ever since." She giggled. "Theyhaunted you? My breasts havehaunted you?" "Stop laughingatme, you little brat. I was being poetic." "Well, you stink at it." She turned in his arms, went to her knees, kissed him lightly a dozen times. "And don't call me a brat, or I'llhaunt you with my breasts some more." She collapsed into giggles. He smiled into her hair, deliriously happy. "You know, I've imagined this a thousand times, but I never imagined you'd be laughing." She shook her head and leaned into him. "No. That would have been bad." He could feel her chest shake against his. After a minute she quieted and snuggled closer. "Henry?" "Mmm?" He petted her silky bottom. "Have you had enough of this hot tub?" His fingers reached a little lower, where soft hair clung to them. "Why?" She wriggled, giving him better access. "Because I was thinking we could go back in the tent and … oh,

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do that … ahh … a little lower…" "You were thinking…?" "Slide your finger … there, that's … oh, Henry." He watched the stars as he touched her, held her in his hand. "Are you sore?" "I've been riding horses for twenty years, spud. It'd take a better man than you to make me sore." "Good." He slid his legs between hers and positioned her on his lap, straddling him. "What are you?" she teased, "Eighteen?" She impaled herself, greedy, impatient and wanton, and rode him, he thought later, with considerably more grace than she ever rode any mule. *** She heard the pickup from miles away. It snapped her awake just as if she'd had a full eight hours under her eyelids. Not even close. It had been light when they'd finally collapsed on their makeshift bed, each gasping for air, each begging the other, no more, no more. "Henry." She shook him hard, but he only grunted. Consequences, dire and imminent, started seeping through the sexual satisfaction, making their way to her brain. "Henry, wake up. My dad's coming." He didn't budge, and she couldn't help feeling a little smug over that. "Henry!" He snuffled and flung an arm over his eyes. Calla stared at his armpit, remembered how the hair there had fascinated her that day in the stack yard. It did still, she thought. "Henry!" "Okay, come here," he mumbled, "I'll rub you, but I'm too tired to…" She shoved him. "Wake up, fool. My father's coming. I can hear the pickup." "Your father?" He was up and dressed before she could roll her sleeping bag. Chapter 17 «^» The ride back to the ranch was nearly as silent as the ride up had been. Jackson, true to form, didn't try

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to interrupt the quiet with idle conversation. Calla finally broke the long silence when they were about fifteen minutes from home. She had to. Or go crazy. Why was it, as smart as she was, asold as she was, as sensible as she was, she hadn't given a thought last night to how dreadful she'd feel in the morning? How stupid and wretched and heartbroken and cruel. "Anything come back this week?" she asked her father. She was willing to talk about anything to keep her mind off her own stupidity. She'd made love,lost her virginity, to a man she couldn't possibly marry. To a man she couldn't possibly love. "We had fifteen head and a black bull come in Thursday. Ate off an acre of second cutting before I even saw 'em." Only she was desperately afraid she already did love him. Like a madwoman. But she was sensible, she was smart. A man she'd known a month couldn't possibly mean more to her than her brother, than her mother, than the dream of every ancestor for a hundred years. Could he? "Calla?" Oh, they were talking about the cows, right? "I'll have to move 'em back up next week." Henry didn't say anything. She was probably right. He might not be around to move the cows next week. Depending upon what Pete turned up, he might be away from the ranch a day or two next week. "Did Dupree call?" If he hadn't, maybe that meant he'd given up. Maybe that meant she could make a different choice. A choice that wouldn't make her feel like this; like her heart was trying to claw its way from behind her ribs. "Twice. No, three times. Is something wrong?" "No. No, nothing." Calla frowned out the bug-encrusted front window of the truck. Okay. Okay. She could fix this. She fixed everything. That was her job. All she'd have to do was marry Clarkston Shaw III and live with a broken heart for the rest of her life. "Have you heard from the honeymooners?" "Helen calls every day to see if I'm eating right," her father said good-naturedly. "I talked to Lester. The fool sounds like he's just turned twenty and fallen in love with Cinderella." "Probably spending every minuteatthe slot machines," Calla said. "I doubt it." Jackson smiled. "The way my sister was giggling, well, I don't even want to think about it." "I just hope she trimmed the hair in his ears," Calla said. She was quiet for a minute. "Aren't you going to ask me if Clark called?" Henry heard the amusement in Jackson's voice. The old bugger. "Did he, uh—" Calla cleared her throat "—did he call?" "Nope. He came out."

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Henry grimaced. Wonderful. Now he had two problems to handle. He was goingtohavetofigure out who had had Calla watched, and he was goingtohave to get rid of Dartmouth for her. Of course, if the ugly suspicion forming in his excellent but slightly sex-befuddled brain was correct, it would be the same task. "He came by?" Calla asked. "He's in Idaho? He's not supposed to be back for another week." She was supposed to have a week. To get over the worst mistake of her life. To get over wanting to weep every time she thought of him. Of Henry, beautiful, wonderful Henry. "He said he'd brought something for you to sign. Came by the house last night. I told him you were at cow camp." Jackson leaned over the steering wheel and smiled warmly at Henry, who was riding next to the passenger door. "I didn't mention you were up there, too, Henry." "Thanks anyway—" Henry nodded politely "—but that was unnecessary." "Is he coming back? Did he go to Boise?" "No. He's staying up to the motel." "Why didn't he just stay at the ranch?" Calla asked. Henry could think of twenty reasons why Dartmouth shouldn't stay at the ranch, but he kept his mouth shut. "Because I didn't ask him. He'syour friend." "Fiancé," Calla corrected absently. Henry shifted hard against her, but Calla didn't seem to notice. She ran her hand distractedly through her loose hair. In a sudden movement, she lifted her hips off the bench seat of the cab and reached into the pocket of her jeans for a hairband. She found one and wound her hair into a tight ponytail. Henry very much wantedtogive that ponytail a yank. "When's he coming back? Did you tell him I'd be back this afternoon?" "He said he'd wait for youatthe motel. Apparently the rental car place just informed him that the road out toSulphur Lake is not approved for that little car. He put the ranch address down on his last mileage ticket. He thought they'd give him a free upgrade because of all the extra miles. Instead, they made him sign a liability waiver." Jackson chuckled happily. "He's liable for full replacement cost for any damagesto the car on this trip. I got to hear all about it." "Lucky you," Henry said grimly. Jackson raised his eyebrows and gave Henry a knowing smile. They arrived at the ranch a little after 2:00 p.m. and headed straight to the barn to unload the horses from the long trailer. "Daughter, your saddle smells like a dead cat." "It got wet," Calla said. "That tack tent leaking again?" "Not too bad," Calla said truthfully.

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"Well, how did it get so wet? Both these saddles smell like dead cats. What did you two do with 'em? Leave 'em out in the rain?" He went back in the barn, carrying Henry's saddle. Henry and Calla exchanged glances. Henry knew Calla was worried about Pete, but the anxious look on her face was disturbing. "Calla…" he began. "Not now." She jerked her head toward the open door of the barn, where her father was hanging bridles neatly on the hooks in the old barn walls. "Well, that's done," Jackson cheerfully announced. "Bet you two would like a hot bath right about now. A week in cow camp is enoughtotake the bloom off any rose, even one as lovely as my little girl." He patted Calla affectionately on the head. Henry recalled how the simple gesture had once made him weak-kneed. It still did. *** A half hour later, shaved and showered, Henry heard the pickup start in the driveway. Jackson heading to town for groceries, Henry thought. Then he heard the dogs settowhining, and a second later he heard Calla's voice, shushing them. He threw open the door of the bunkhouse and stepped outside, barefooted and dressed only in jeans. "Hey," he shouted. The friendly dogs stopped their take-me-to-town pleading, and wagged overtohim. The hot, late-day wind dried his damp hair almost before he reached the pickup. "Where are you going?" "To see Clark." Henry felt a surge of something hot ball up in his gut. Jealousy, and it had fangs like a rattler. It infuriated him. "The hell you are." And break my heart? he wanted to add. And make me beg? He chose to focus on theother reason she shouldn't go to town, instead. "You're not going anywhere alone. What did you think this past week in Two Creek was about? You're being watched Calla, have you forgotten that?" "No." She couldn't meet his eyes, which turned the rattler in his gut to panic. "Let go of that mirror. I'm going to town." Henry reached for the door handle just as Calla punched down the lock. He tried to get his hand inside the window, but she was already rolling it up. He was more than panicked now. He was furious, down to his bare feet. Was she leaving him? Was that what this was about? "Calla, dammit, open this door." "Look, Henry. I have to do it," she shouted miserably through the closed window. Already her throat was closing with tears. They'd been threatening all day. "I hope you can understand. I hope … I hope you can forgive me." I hope you won't always love me the way I'll always love you.

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"Roll down the window, Calla," Henry said through clenched teeth. "I have to do it. I promised." She was crying now, her hands pressed against the window in supplication. "I promised my mother. For Benny. She made me promise, Henry." He saw the tears pooling in her eyes, running down her cheeks, making her words hitch. The woman who never, never cried. A shaft of terror went through him. He pounded a heavy fist against the side of the truck in frustration. "Calla, if you drive off this ranch, I won't be here when you get back." It was a lie, and he knew it as he said it. He'd dog her heels every minute until the day she married that Ivy League idiot. And then he'd kidnap her. Damn her. She had her face in her hands now, and he could see her shoulders shaking. God, he loved her. How could she do this to either of them? "Calla, if you don't open this door right now and talk to me…" Before he could think what it was he was threatening, she'd straightened in her seat, spun her tires and let up on the clutch. Henry stepped back to avoid having the tires go over his bare feet. Before she was out the driveway, Henry was running hard toward his pickup. The keys, which he had become accustomed to leaving in the ignition, were gone. Henry ran to the house, mindless of the pebbles and bits of hay and weed heads that bit at the soft bottoms of his feet. He burst through the door. Jackson, sitting over a cup of coffee and a thick, ancient-looking farming book, looked up calmly. "Did you take the keys out of my pickup?" "Nope," Jackson said, taking a sedate sip of coffee. "Damn that woman." Henry realized his heart was pounding furiously in his ears and his fists were clenching and unclenching. He wanted to weep in frustration, in anguish. He'd never known he could hurt like this. She'd left him. Left him for another man. After she made him fall in love with her. Well, he wasn't letting her get away with it. "I need a car." "'That woman' took the only one we got," Jackson said. "I'll take the Hydro100, then." "You're goingtochase her down in the tractor?" Henry recognized it for the idiotic plan it was. He laced his fingers at the apex of his pounding head and lookedtothe ceiling for inspiration. "Dammit,"he roared. Jackson got up from the table and took a coffee cup from the cupboard. "I have some pie here," he offered.

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Pie?Pie? "I need to gettotown, Jack." "No, you don't," Jackson said as he handed Henry a cup of coffee, which Henry promptly slammed back down on the counter. "She'll be back." "Look, Jack, you don't understand…" "I never thought that boy was right for her," Jackson said conversationally. "I'm relieved she didn't go too far. Problem with Calla is, she's got that McFadden blood. All honor and commitment. She promised her mama, you know, that she'd keep the ranch going. I figured once she married that fool Clark because of it, it'd be all over. She'd be miserable for the rest of her life. Lucky you came along." He raised his cup in salute and then took a genteel sip. Henry watched him incredulously. He could hardly hear for the roaring of blood in his ears. Her own father thought she'd come back to him. There was hope in that, wasn't there? "Jack, it's not just Dartmouth…" "I'm telling you, son, she'll be back. You don't need to worry about Clark." "I'm worried about Calla," he shouted. He had Jackson's full attention. "I don't have a thing you can take up there, Henry," Jackson said quietly. Henry raised himself off the table and looked desperately around the room. "I'll take a horse." "Henry, son, don't be a fool. It's thirty miles. Even if you ran the horse the whole way, and providing it didn't drop dead on you at mile twelve, she'd be back long before you ever reached her." Jackson rose and put a calming hand on Henry's shoulder. "You can trust Calla. She can take care of herself. She always has." Henry fought for control of himself. He knew Jackson was right. Shecould take care of herself. He just didn't want her to have to anymore. He wanted to take care of her. *** She cried for thirty miles. Huge, wrenching sobs. If she'd had any brains at all, she'd have pulled over before she killed herself, she thought once or twice. Henry. Henry. She would never get over Henry. When she was old and gray and teaching her own granddaughters howtomake water magically spill onto McFadden fields, she'd remember every single thing about him. And mourn the fact that McFadden fields were, in the scheme of centuries, more important than one woman's heart. She had herself marginally pulled together by the time she reached the Paradise Motel. Clark wasn't in

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his room and Jerry at the desk in the shabby, odd-smelling little office said he didn't know when he'd be back. He gave Calla the key to Clark's room. She shook from her head to her feet, her capable, work-worn hands barely able to fit the key into the lock. Reaction, regret, terrible remorse tore at the foundation of her spirit. She knew, sheknew what she had to do, but she hadn't grieved like this since Ben's death. Henry, I'm so sorry. Maybe Henry would go back to his old life. Maybe she would never have to look him in the eye and explain to him that love and happiness really weren't all that important in the larger picture of things. Family was important. Fulfilling your obligation was important. Keeping promises was important. But then, Henry knew that. He'd made the same decision when Heidi had slept with David. He'd chosen his family over his personal happiness. He'd understand. Somehow he'd understand. And if he didn't, well, there was nothing she could do about it—114 years stretched behind her like Idaho's mighty Snake. Muddied with pain and sorrow and decisions made in haste, but strong and powerful nonetheless. The current of the future was even more powerful. The ranch was everything. She had to remember that. Calla picked up the phone on the faux wood nightstand and dialed the ranch. Henry picked up on the first ring. "Yeah?" he growled into her ear. She winced and foughttosteady her shaking voice. "Henry?" He heard the catch in her breath. She'd been crying. Well, good. He'd been damn close to it himself. "Where are you?" "I'm at the motel. I'm fine." "I want you to get in that pickup and get back here. Now." "Henry…" "Calla, do as I say. I'm not in the mood to argue with you right now." His fury burned through thirty miles of phone line. She wondered if it might singe her ear. "I can't." "Listen to me, Calla." He seemed to make some effort to control his tone. "I do not want you talking to Clark until we see what Pete has found out." Calla was momentarily baffled. "What does Pete have to do with Clark?" "I'm not going to explain this over the phone. Is he there with you?"

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"No. I don't know when he'll be back. Look, Henry. I just called to tell you I'm sorry about last night, it wasn't fair to you, but I couldn't go through with this without knowing, and … no matter what, Henry … I won't regret…" The words backed up in her throat. "I'm sorry." She gently replaced the phone on its hook. She could hear a roaring male voice just before it clicked home. "Who was that?" Calla whirled at the sound of the cultured voice. Clark stood in the doorway of the shabby room, his key in his hand. "Clark," Calla breathed, wiping furiously at her swollen eyes. "You scared the sh— You scared the daylights out of me." "Sorry, Calla, but youare in my room." He came forward, leaving the door open behind him, and tossed his keys on the nightstand. "I'm glad to see you. Your father told you, I presume, that I can't drive out to the ranch anymore. I suppose I'll have to rent a sedan from here on out. I hate sedans. They're so pedestrian." "Dad told me. What are you doing here, Clark? You weren't supposedtobe in Idaho until next week." "I came to give you something." He walked to the door and closed and locked it. "What?" A ring, probably. A token of their engagement. Her stomach throbbed with the same dull ache she'd had since she'd awakened this morning in Henry's arms and realized it was Saturday. "The agreement we spoke of." He pulled a sheaf of papers from his sport jacket pocket. Calla had always wondered why he bothered to wear a jacket in Paradise. Not only did he look out of place, he looked unbearably hot. "What agreement?" She took the offered papers and stared at them blankly. She saw her name at the top, and Clark's name. "What is this?" "Calla," Clark began soothingly, "I know you had some doubts at the beginning, but you seemed to understand the importance of this." She looked at the papers again. A prenuptial agreement. She had agreedtoit, Clark had said. Was that true? Had she ever agreedtosomething like a prenuptial agreement? "Calla?" Clark was tapping his foot. "Do you want a pen?" "I … I want to read it." "Of course, Calla. By all means. I would think you a fool if you didn't." Why the hell did he talk like that? I would think you a fool? Who talked like that? Calla sank backward onto the bed and began to leaf through the papers. She didn't really care what they said, she realized. She wouldn't be signing them. Because it's Henry I want to spend the rest of my life with. Henry, and Henry's humor and his beautiful hands and his warm heart. Not Clark. Not this man with the prenuptial agreement and the perfect East

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Coast manners. Henry. Andtohell with the rest of it. Together, she and Henry would make a new family legacytopass on to the children of the next hundred years. She was abouttotell Clark that when the name of her ranch caught her eye. It was on the prenuptial paper. She began reading. A minute later, she was no longer blurry eyed. In fact, her eyes were as clear and cold as shards of ice. She looked up slowly at the man opposite her. "Clark, what exactly do you want with my ranch?" "Your ranch? Why would I want your ranch?" "You tell me. It's in this prenuptial agreement." She thrust the sheaf of papers under his nose. "Page eight, paragraph four, under Community Property. That you get half ownership of it in case of divorce. My ranch. The homestead my great-grandfather carved out of the Idaho desert, Clark." "I'm telling you, Calla, that isn't what that clause is supposed to mean. As I am the main property holder in this partnership, I wanted something to protect myself. It never even occurred to me that you would consider your ranch of any importance." What had never occurred to him, Calla thought, was that she would figure it out. Developers. Dupree. With half ownership in Hot Sulphur Lake, he could force hertosell out. Calla tasted bile in her mouth. Was she goingtobe sick? Surely not. This was hardly a time for hysterics. "I'm listeningtoyou talk, Clark, but I can't understand a word you're saying. It's as if everything that's coming out of your mouth is in another language or something." Clark misunderstood, and was visibly relieved. He shook his head indulgently, as if trying to avoid becoming exasperated with a petulant child. Calla recognized the action. She realized he'd made that little gesture a thousand times before. Had he always been so condescending? Why hadn't she smacked him for it? "I know. Legal talk can be very confusing." He smiled gently. "It's even confusingtome sometimes, Calla. But don't worry. We'll go over everything very slowly, just you and I. Okay?" He sat down nexttoher on the bed and patted her knee companionably. "What property do you own, Clark?" "I beg your pardon?" "I said, what property do you own? I thought everything was in your father's name. All the development property was in your father's name." "W-well," Clark stuttered,"technically, that's the letter of the law, I suppose. But there are many ways around that, as I'm sure a good divorce attorney could tell you. That's why we need the prenup." "So I don't bother hiring a good divorce attorney?" "Exactly. I mean, no. Calla, look, you seem very emotional right now. Perhaps we should talk about this in the morning. Why don't you sign this silly thing now and I'll fax it off to my attorney? I have so many things to tell you about the wedding. My secretary found a wonderful caterer."

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"You don't have much respect for me, do you, Clark?" "I'm sorry?" She spoke very slowly. "You have no respect for me. You think I am a witless, overly emotional female you can screw over with a prenuptial agreement." "Calla, please. Your language." She got off the bed and walked to the tiny bathroom that adjoined the room. She lifted the lid of the toilet, ripped off the sanitary strip the maid had slung across the seat, and dropped the crumpled prenuptial agreement into the water. Then, apologizing silentlytoJerry, who would have to come clean up the mess, she deliberately flushed the toilet and watched Clark's plans for her great-grandfather's homestead clog the drain. Water began to spill over the sides. She walked back into the roomtoface her indignant ex-fiancé. "That was very childish," he said, his voice a high-pitched squawk. "I hope you know I'll expect reimbursement if the motel charges me for that…" he pointed, sputtering, to the water cascading out the toilet and across the bathroom floor "—that … mess." "Did your father make an offer on my ranch?" Clark was nonplussed. His mouth formed words for several seconds, but no sounds came out. His accusing finger appeared frozen in midair. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he finally managedtoreply. "That's ending a sentence with a preposition, Clark. Did your father make an offer on my ranch?" "What would my father want with your pathetic, weed-infested, drought-stricken little piece of wilderness?" he snappedather. Calla admired his recovery time. He was an excellent liar. She hadn't noticed that before. She'd apparently not been seeing things clearly. But she was seeing them clearly now. "I think," she answered slowly, "your father wants my ranch and my hot springs for a revolting little spa and hunting club, doesn't he, Clark? He made a below-market offer to Dupree, and when I wouldn't accept it, he talked you into this prenuptial agreement. And I, inferiority-complex-ridden fool that I am, walked right into it. Did you have a good laugh when you told himI askedyoutomarry me?" "I care for you, Calla," Clark said, desperation tainting his voice. The old college try, Calla thought. She'd havetoremembertotell Henry that Dartmouth gave it the old college try. He'd get a kick out of that. "Why did you call me last year, Clark, when you first cametoBoise? I never really thought you liked me enoughtoremember my name after only a few dates." After a moment's hesitation, Clark shrugged his narrow shoulders. "I didn't," he said simply. "My father read about the warm-water springsatHot Sulphur Lake Ranch in a cattle magazine or a Western magazine, something like that. He did a deed search. When he came up with your name, I remembered you from Dartmouth. I looked up your name in the phone book when I gottoIdaho." Calla remembered the magazine article. A freelance reporter had done a story on the five oldest Idaho

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homesteads that still belongedtothe original families. Hot Sulphur was among them. She'd mentioned the hot water springstothe reporter in passing. "There are plenty of places in Idaho with hot water. Why me?" "Well, I knew you, for one. And Hot Sulphur really is unique. It's protected on all but one side by federal ground, so there's little chance of nearby resort development. The views are spectacular… Why are we discussing this?" He lookedatthe water now seeping across the carpet of the room with revulsion. "I'm calling the front desk." "Wait. I wanttoask you one more thing, Clark." "For God's sake, what?" He was already picking up the phone. "How long did you plan to stay married to me?" He rolled his eyes. "I knew you didn't read that prenuptial very carefully. It said six months. My Lord, Calla. Take some correspondence courses, at least." He turned and tapped in the number for the front desk. Calla walked to the door and let herself quietly out. Clark's rented sports car sat in the sloped parking lot that overlooked the river. Paradise was not for everyone, Calla knew, but it did have wonderful views of the Snake. She fished the car keys she'd taken from Clark's nightstand out of her pocket, opened the door to the little car and slid inside. Calla started the car and gunned the engine. She looked out the open door and found a lovely, head-size lava rock. Ah, Paradise. How she loved it. Lava rock everywhere you looked. Calla picked up the rock and placed it near the gas pedal. Just as she finished carefully checking the mirrors and looking over her shoulder, Clark appeared at his motel room door. Calla noticed his mouth was open in astonishment. The flies will get in, she thought. She smiled. Henry was so funny. She jammed the little car into Reverse, stepped out and popped the emergency brake. And rolled that lava rock with the toe of her boot until it hit the gas pedal. As she calmly walked to her pickup, Calla heard Clark's high-pitched shriek and the sickening crash of his rented car hitting the rimrock as it bounced toward its watery grave. "I doubt that's on your list of approved roads, Clark," she said as she stepped up into her truck. She didn't see the white pickup, the newer match to her own, until it stopped in a skid nexttoher. Henry leapt from the driver's seat and stalked around to her window. He didn't seem to notice the commotion going onatthe other end of the parking lot. The desk clerk, along with a handful of other motel occupants, had come out to gape over the edge of the rimrock cliffatClark's car, which was now floating downriver toward Boise. "Are you all right?" he inquired tersely when Calla rolled down her window and gave him a shining smile. "How did you get your truck started?" she asked. "I hot-wired it," Henry said. He was searching her face, ignoring Clark's anguished wailing in the background. "Are you all right?"

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Calla reached out and touched his face. The muscles in his jaw were set so firmly, Calla wondered if his teeth were going to crack. She soothed the lines across his forehead. "I'm all right. You forget. I'm the knight in shining armor. I'm always all right." She glanced over Henry's shoulder, to where Clark paced furiously back and forth on a short path between Calla and the cliff. He was shouting incoherently at the hapless desk clerk. She returned her gaze to Henry. "Where did you learn to hot-wire a truck?" "That is hardly an issue right now, is it?" Henry captured her hand and held it away from his face. "I am furious with you," he said through his clenched teeth. "I know. I didn't run over your bare feet back there, did I?" Henry gave an exasperated grunt. "No, you did not." For the first time, he appearedtonotice the tumult Calla's prenuptial revenge was causing. Without releasing Calla's hand, he glanced over her shoulder. "What happenedtoDartmouth? He looks hysterical." "His car went over the cliff. And to think he signed that liability waiver." Henry appraised her for a moment. "How did his car go over the cliff, Calla?" "It's a long story. I'll tell you when we get home. Can we go home now?" "You don't needtosay anything elsetoClark?" Henry asked her. Calla saw an odd glimmer in his eyes. Suspicion? No, it was pain. Her heart went to her throat. Calla reached out with her other hand. "I don't have a single other thing to saytoClark. Ever." Henry let go of her hand. "Then go home." Calla started her pickup. "Aren't you coming, too?" "I'll be along after a while." He started toward Clark. "Henry?" He turned back. "What?" "Do you want your keys?" "That would be very convenient, yes." She handed him his keys and then drove slowly through town toward the ranch. *** Henry surveyed the scene of Calla's revenge. Paradise's lone police officer, a frighteningly frail-looking middle-aged man with an enormous gun strapped to his bony hip, had made his way down the block from his office and was now escorting Clark, still ranting, to his police car for questioning. Henry strode toward the officer, a respectful smile on his face.

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"Sir?" He reached out a hand. The policeman took it automatically. Henry felt bones. It was like shaking hands with Barney Fife. "Roy, right? You were at Lester and Helen's wedding. I ate three pieces of your wife's pie, darn it. Next time you come out to the ranch, you tell her not to bring any pie. I'm getting as fat as a tick." Henry plowed every friendly ounce of drawl he could into his well-educated voice. The skinny cop beamed at him. "Well, I'll tell her that … uh, I'm sorry? What's your name again, son? I know you work out there at the McFadden place, right?" Clark scowled first at the cop and then at Henry. "What do you want, you son of a bitch?" he growled. "Get out of here. This is none of your business. If you came here to protect her from the consequences of her actions, well, you're wasting your time." What a pompous ass, Henry thought. How had Calla endured the way he talked? "Geez, Roy." Henry turned, his hands on his hips, and surveyed the crowd that had gathered from almost every home and business in Paradise to stare at the wreckage left by Clark's little rented sports car, which, from what Henry could tell from the excited exclamations of the townspeople, was stuck upside down on a willow-wrapped sandbar downriver. "Whatcha got here? Looks like somebody's car went over the cliff." Clark lunged for him. "You son of a bitch." Roy grabbed at Clark before he reached Henry. Henry was impressed by the strength of the skinny older man. Clark was stopped in his tracks, struggling ineffectively. The action of the officer seemed to inflame Clark further. "It wasCalla. She pushed my car over the cliff. Thebitch." He was screaming now, and the crowd turned with interest toward the noise. Henry looked back at Clark, and narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. How many times had he imagined smashing in that smug yuppie face? Henry wondered. It was going to feel wonderful. Soon, he promised himself. Very soon. "She pushed your car over the cliff?" Henry raised his eyebrows ironicallyatRoy, who tried to look impassive. "What does Calla weigh, you think Roy? You've known her all her life. What, about 120? 130?" Roy hid a smile. "Shedidn'tpush it, you idiot. She drove it off the cliff." Clark was puffed up like a sage hen, all feathers and rage. "I'm sure you're mistaken, Clark. Calla has been at the ranch with me. I just left her. This looks like it happened real recently." "You'relying. The desk clerk saw her here. She drove my car off the cliff." Clark looked helplessly toward the river. "I'm going tokill her." "Clark. You know better than to make threats like that." Henry shook his head knowingly at the officer, who was taking a keen interest in the exchange. "Especially after what's been going on around here lately, eh, Roy?" "What's been going on lately?" Roy asked.

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"Geez, Clark. I thought you would have told him." Henry shook his head again, wearily. Clark scowled at him in confusion. Henry turnedtoRoy. "Someone has been following Calla, Officer. I think he was from Salt Lake, but I can't be sure. Big mustache, 'bout five-ten, five-eleven. Stayed hereatthis motel, didn't he, Clark? Anyway, Calla has been out of her wits about it. Poor thing. She really is pretty naive, growing up here and taking care of her family all her life, and all. She really hasn't the kind of experience the rest of us have." Roy nodded gravely. "Ain't that the truth? You say somebody's been following Calla?" He directed the questionatClark, who was staring open-mouthedatHenry. "I … uh…" "Yep," Henry said, "she's been holed up at the ranch. Even went up to cow camp to get away for a while. Scared to death. You ever been up to the McFadden cow camp, Roy? Oh, it's beautiful up there." "No, I never did. I went hunting with Lester a couple years back and we stayed at the Hole in the Wall…" "What does any of this have to do with my car?" Clark exploded. "I want to make out a complaint!" "That's a hell of an idea, Clark," Henry said smoothly. "You know, I think it's about time we filed a report on the man who was stalking Calla, too. Let the professionals handle it. Stalking is a federal offence now, isn't it, Roy? Maybe we can get the FBI in here. I talked to the guy briefly the day of the wedding. I don't think he'd be too hard to find." Henry gave Clark a meaningful stare. The man from Dartmouth was white as a grub, Henry thought. Roy took a long, narrow notepad from the pocket of the shirt that hung on his skeletal torso. "I think that might be a good idea. Why don't you start, Mr. Shaw. Just what did happen to your car, there?" Clark struggled with his emotions for a minute. Henry watched his Adam's apple bob heavily in his long neck. He cametoa decision with considerable difficulty. "I … I must have left the emergency brake off," he said finally, his chin dropping to his chest. "Beg pardon?" "Isaid, you pusillanimous, small-town potentate, that I left the emergency brake off." Clark spat the words. A fleck of saliva hit Roy right in the face. "Well, what was all that about Calla Bishop, then, Mr. Shaw?" Roy asked, calmly wiping the spittle from his cheek with the back of his hand. "It was … we had a…" "A lover's quarrel," Henry supplied helpfully. "Calla called him from the ranch to break off their engagement. I heard the whole thing, standing right there in the kitchen. I was eating a delicious slab of that leftover pie of Ruby's, in fact, Roy. Calla said she'd wash the tin and bring it in to Ruby this week. A man could see why Mr. Shaw might be a little upset about the news, and then to have his rental car go into the river like that." Henry gave Clark a sad, compassionate smile. "Isn't that right, Clark?"

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"That's right," Clark mumbled. "Making false accusations is a very serious thing, Mr. Shaw," Roy said. Clark leaned his head back and looked up at the cloudless afternoon sky. "Yes, I know. I'm very sorry." Roy looked over at Henry. "Let's talk about this man who was following Calla, then, why don't we?" "I'll come in to the station tomorrow and give you a full report, Roy. Maybe we could pick up Ruby and have her buy us a little lunch, how about that?Write it off on Dupree." Roy chuckled and closed his notebook with a snap. "That'd be fine. You won't forget, now? I don't much like the idea of anybody bothering Calla Bishop. She's a hometown girl, after all." He shot a withering look at Clark. "You bet," Henry said cheerfully. "As for you—" Roy pushed a bony fingertoClark's expensive cotton button-down shirt "—I'm afraid you'll have to pay for hauling that car out of the river. Can't have an old wreck like that down there. Ruins the look of the whole town." "Yes, well, we couldn't have that," Clark muttered bitterly. Henry walkedtothe edge of the river while Roy took Clark's personal check and copied his insurance numbers. The little car was nothing more than a tangled heap of metal on the sandbar. A knight in shining armor. Everyone said she could take care of herself. Henry smiled and walked backtothe motel. Chapter 18 «^» "What the hell do you want?" Clark asked when Henry interrupted him at the door of his motel room. There was no longer any heat in his voice. Henry thought he just sounded tired. Too bad, Dartmouth, Henry thought. "Step inside." Henry kicked open the unlatched door and shoved Clark through the doorway with a push between his shoulder blades. "What do you want now?" Clark appeared startled at the shove. The man had been playing hardball, Henry thought, hiring thugs, attempting to steal family legacies. But he was a little better suited to slow-pitch. Henry glanced down. His boots squished in the wet carpet.Calla'd been in this room, he thought with affection as he noted the running toilet and the flooded bathroom. When his woman took her revenge, she did it right. He smothered another smile and poked a finger on Clark's heaving chest. "Sit."

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Clark slumped onto the bed. "Why did you hire someonetowatch Calla?" Clark didn't even inquire how he'd known she was being watched. He didn't care anymore. No real-estate deal was worth this kind of grief. His father would simply have to accept that. "I didn't. Dupree did. I just footed the bill." "Dupree? The banker? Why the hell would he want her watched?" "He wanted to keep an eye on her. I don't know why. Thought she'd bolt, make her own deal, refinance with another bank, I don't know. I don't care. He's an idiot. He had an idea this was some sort of covert spy operation instead of a business deal. Go ask him why he did it. Just leave me the hell alone." Henry's mind raced. Dupree. He'd make a stop at the bank, visit a little terror upon Dupree, make a call to the banking commission. And then he had to get back to the ranch. See Calla. Tell her this had all been unnecessary from the start. He'd save her ranch for her. He'd do anything for her. Clark was studying him now, noting the vicious intent in the bigger man's eyes, the clench of his fists. He laughed weakly, evilly. "You're in love with her." The idea made him laugh harder. "You're in love with that cowgirl. Perfect. Just perfect." He'd been willing to marry her, had beendying to sleep with her, but he'd never once entertained the notion a sane man would fall in love with such a wildcat. "You're perfect for each other." Henry ignored the man on the bed and made his way to the door. "You do her yet?" the man on the bed was asking. "I bet she's wild in the sack. I bet she rides you like a…" He never got the sentence out of his mouth. He screamed and fell back on the bed, his hands clutched to his spurting nose. "You … you broke my … you broke my nose." "I hope so. I've wanted to for weeks." "I'm…" Clark spit out a mouthful of blood that had gushed from his nose into his mouth. "I'm goingto… sue you, Beckett." "Give it your best shot, Dartmouth." Henry watched as Clark curled into a fetal position. He shook his head. "You wouldn't have made it five minutes on the Harvard hockey team." *** The man stepped into the road from a stand of willows and flagged Calla down. She slowed the old pickup. A stranded hunter, she thought, this far from town. She sighed in resignation. She was still a couple miles from home and she'd wantedtoget in and get cleaned up before Henry got back. Begging

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forgiveness demanded of a woman she look her best. And if she was going to propose to a man—for the second time in two weeks, she thought with a little grimace—she oughttotake a bath first. And then she'd tell him she plannedtosell Hot Sulphur Lake Ranch. For love. For him. That nothing, not 114 years of family history, not promises, not pride, could make her leave him again. She pulled uptothe man who'd waved her down. "Dupree. I can't believe this." "Calla." Dupree nodded at her politely as he climbed into the cab of the truck. "I thought you'd be heading home about now." "What are you doing out here? Where's your rig?" "Down in that patch of willows. I was heading outtoyour place anyway when I went by that little scene you were kicking up at the motel. I reckon your engagement's off? I figured you'd never go through with it. Lucky I had an alternate plan." "Your plans are crap. I can't believe I didn't figure out you were in on this with Clark. I'm calling the Feds in the morning. I can think of one or two laws you've broken in the past six months, and I'm sure they'll be abletothink of a couple more, don't you?" "You can't prove a thing, Calla. All I did was act as a go-between for the developers and one of my clients." "Bull. You tried to extort my ranch right out from under me, Dupree, and you know it." "You'll have a hell of time getting thattostand up in court," Dupree said. Calla noticed his voice was strangely calm. It was also devoid of the usual Dupree clichés. Calla shrugged. "I don't guess I'll haveto,Dupree. My feeling is the accusation will be enough for a small-town bank like Paradise Savings and Loan. You'll go under like a horseshoe in a stock tank." The skin of Dupree's tanned face went a sickly white. "That wouldn't be particularly fair to your fellow investors, would it, Calla?" "I can't think of a fellow investor who has more than a hundred grand in your bank, can you? The FDIC will cover everybody, if you aren't bought out by somebody bigger by then, anyway. Paradise will be better off without you, Dupree. And they'll know it soon enough." "You're a cast-iron little bitch, you know that, Calla? You McFadden women have all been cast-iron bitches, along down the line." "It's what makes us so appealing. Now, get out of my truck, Dupree. If you're broke down, you can just walk the thirty miles to town." "You smug little bitch." "You're getting repetitive, Dupree." Calla turned to the little man. She was met with a vicious stare and one very large, very deadly-looking 9mm pistol. "Holy hell. You really have lost your mind, haven't you,

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you idiot?" "I haven't lost my mind, Calla. Now drive." "Are you going to shoot me, Dick?" "If I have to. But first I'm going to get your signature on the deed to your ranch." Calla laughed. "And how are you goingtoexplain that to everyone?" "Easy as pie. We're going up to that old elk camp at Tellum Canyon, and you're goingtosign and past-date a deed for me. When you die from a nasty fall off one of those horrible rimrock cliffs you're so fond of climbing, it'll just be another tragic accident in the long line of tragic accidents that have plagued your family for years." He shrugged. "Though, if you broke up with Shaw this afternoon, we'll just all assume you couldn't take the heartbreak and tossed yourself off. I'll tell everybody you signed the deed over when you were in my office last week. It was the smart thingtodo. Not only does Paradise get free of the McFadden line once and for all, but the bank gets the ranch. I'll have to fight the developers off with a stick. When it's sold, I'll get the bank's money back, a little commission of my own, and whatever I can skim off the top." He winked at his own resourcefulness. "I know just how to do it. Been doing it for years. What that place is worth, I could make fifty, sixty grand, easy money." "You'd kill me for a measly fifty grand?" Calla shook her head in disgust. "You're delusional, Dick. Nobody's goingtobuy this story. Is this the best you could come up with?" Dupree shrugged. "On short notice. It'll do." "Get serious. Ruby, for one, will know I never signed any deed." Dupree shrugged. "Even if she talks, which she undoubtedly will, she won't be abletoprove a thing. I'll have the signature on the deed. And that's all that counts." "No one will believe you, Dupree," Calla insisted. "People always believe me." Dupree grinnedather "I'm very important in this town, you know." "Dick, you're about as important in this town as knapweed. And just as hardtoget rid of." But for all her bravado, Calla's heart had started a relentless hammering. She knew he was right. People would believe him. Calla's daredevil disposition was the stuff of legend in Paradise. It would surprise no one if she slipped on a rimrock cliff and plungedtoher death. It would also surprise no one that she'd signed over the ranchtoDupree. Everyone in town knew it had been in trouble since the day her mother died. Nope. No one would be surprised. Except Henry. Henry would find out the truth. Henry would string Dupree up so high he'd dangle forever. She cheered briefly. Henry would avenge her. Not that she wanted to be avenged, particularly. She'd much rather be alive.

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Well, she just wouldn't let Dupree kill her. The man was thirty years her senior and although he'd done his share of hunting in the hills above the Hot Sulphur, no one knew those mountains better than she did. She'd figure out something. *** "Where's Calla?" The trio around the kitchen table gaped at him. As well they should. He looked like a madman. "Wasn't she in town?" Jackson asked. "Yes. But she came back here. Didn't she? Is she in the barn?" "No, I haven't seen her come in. Henry, what in the world is the matter with you?" Henry had gone to the bank straight from the Paradise, but found it closed up tight. Not even that nice old woman from Helen's wedding, the pie baker, the wife of the skinny sheriff, was behind the teller's counter. He'd known instantly that his Calla was in real trouble. And now it had been more than an hour since he watched her drive out of town. He had to get to Calla. He darted across the kitchen, yanking the phone off its wall cradle, punching in the series of numbers Pete had once proudly told him even the president didn't have access to. He ignored the question. Lester glaredathim. "Ain't you even got the decent manners to welcome us back from our honeymoon, you pissant? Or are you too hot to trot…" "Quiet, Lester," Jackson said. He stood. "You better tell me what's got you so riled up, son." "I want to talk to Fish," Henry barked into the phone. "Henry…" "Then give me the colonel." Henry slapped a hand over his eyes and squeezed at his temples with thumb and middle finger. His teeth were bared. Even Lester was a little taken aback. "It's Johannsen and if you ask me one more question, I'm going to reach through this phone and yank out your jugular." "Criminy," Lester breathed. He groped for Helen's hand. "Frank, here." The colonel's voice bristled with impatience. "You've got nerve calling this number, Johannsen. I'll give you that much." "Shut up. Where's Pete?" "What?" "Where's Pete, you damn simpleton?" Unbelievably, Henry heard a chuckle across the phone line. "You losing your temper, Mitch? I didn't

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know you could. And was that a swearword you just used? You must have thawed a little of that ice in your veins since you've been diddling that little cowgirl." There was an ominous pause. "Pete always has the best information around. He tells me you still got those diskettes stashed somewhere." A sickening chill went down Henry's spine. Maybe this wasn't hometown trouble after all. Maybe Calla had nothing to fear from that little fireplug of a banker. Maybe she should have been afraid of Mitchell Henry Johannsen and all his vile secrets all along. Helen nearly jumped in her husband's bony lapatthe look that crossed Henry's face. Jackson was frozen in place, fear for his daughter draining the blood from his head. Henry spoke slowly, menacingly, into the phone. "Listen to me, Colonel. I'm only goingtoask you this one time. Do you have her?" "The cowgirl? You lost her already, Johannsen? You never could keep a woman." "Where is she? If you've touched one hair—" "I don't have her," Frank shouted indignantly. "What the hell kind of criminal do you think I am?" Henry threw his head back, eyes shut tight, and growled his frustration. "Pete, then?" "Look, Johannsen, I'm not saying I wouldn't take you outatthe first opportunity. I hate your stinking guts, and the minute I figure out where you've stashed those diskettes, you'd better be on a plane to the South Pole. But I don't have your cowgirl, and Fish is on a carrier in the Pacific. He went out this morning. He doesn't have her, either." "Get him on the phone." "You're whacked, you know that. I don't take orders from you." "Get him, Frank. I want to talk to him in the next two minutes or everything I've got on you goestothe press." He gave him the number of the ranch house and slammed down the phone. Henry whirled on the terrified trio watching him. "Dupree's got Calla. Don't ask me how I know, I don't have timetotell you." And couldn't anyway. Not for certain. His ordered, careful brain was working on instinct now. And he knew it was as right about this as it had ever been about anything. "Well, so damn what?" Lester exploded. "You got us scared to death because Calla's gone somewhere with Dick Dupree? You're crazy, you pissant, and if my wife wasn't here, I'd whup youtowithin…" "Shut up, Lester!" Jackson snapped, never taking his eyes from the young man in front of him. If he knew anything, he knew this man's fear. It had crawled into his gut the minute he'd walked through that kitchen door. His baby girl was in trouble. Horrible trouble. He also knew Henry would do anything to keep her from harm. "What's Dupree want with her, son?" Henry raked a hand down his face. "I don't know, exactly. He and Shaw were trying to scam her out of

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the ranch." And if she had even one little bruise on her lovely body, or she shed even one tear over this, he was going to hunt Dartmouth down and pound him into sand. "Dupree's desperate. He even had Calla followed. I don't know why he's got her now, but I want her back." Lester grunted, but looked plenty nervous. "Hell, boy, Dupree wouldn't kidnap Calla. She'd kill him." "Elk Camp," Jackson spoke calmly. "He'd take her to Elk Camp. It's the only place he knows around here." The phone shrilled. Henry was across the room clutching it in his hands before the first ring faded. "Pete." "Lost your cowgirl, Mitch? She's gonna have your hide." "I know. I know where she is, though, and I'm going outtoget her. I need your help." "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly in the neighborhood. I can get a chopper out and be there in two hours." "Do it." "Where?" Henry turned to Jackson. "Where?" Jackson took the phone out of his hand. There were tears in his eyes, and he made no attempt to wipe them away. "Go find my girl, Henry. I'll tell this man what he needs to know." He headed for the door. Lester was already there. "Move, old man," Henry snarled. "Don't you 'old man' me, pissant. You don't know where Elk Camp is, and I do." He opened the door for Henry and gave him a little shove for good measure as he went though it. "You'd be wandering around for weeks before you found it, Californian." Chapter 19 «^» Seven o'clock and she was still alive. That was certainly something. By now, Henry would have returned to the ranch and discovered her missing. And, pretty soon, he'd come and get her. She knew it with the same, unshakable confidence that allowed her to believe that, by whatever force of dumb luck or fate, Henry had fallen in love with her. He loved her, and he wouldn't let this puny little banker toss her off a cliff. Henry was her knight in shining armor. She'd just have to be patient until he got here. "I wish you'd stop smiling like that," Dupree grumbled heavily. "Are you going crazy on me or something?" "Uh, listen,Dick," Calla said, "if I was walking around in the hot sun, holding a gun on one of my best

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and oldest clients, threateningtodump her off a cliff and then trytoconvince a town of six hundred of her closest, indeed her only friends, that she signed over to you a piece of million-dollar property that had been in her family for more than one hundred years, I wouldn't be calling anybodyelse crazy." "They'll believe it." Dupree waved the gunather. "Get up. We're almost there." "Don't be such an idiot. You and I both know you're not going to be throwing me off any damn cliff." "Well, me and this big gun say different. Now, move it or lose it." "Nope." Dupree sat down on his rock again. He was incredulous. "What?" "I said no. I'm tired. If you want to kill me, you're going to have to shoot me through right here where I'm sitting." "I will, dammit," Dupree threatened, the gun swinging wildly in her direction. Calla tried not to lookatthe gun. "Go ahead then. But it'll be even harder to convince anybody I died by accident if I have a big bullet hole in my head. Even the folks in Paradise aren't stupid enough to believe that." Dupree considered that. Calla pushed her advantage. "And come on, Dick," she scoffed. "If I haven't committed suicide by now, I never will. You forget, they watched me for six months after Benny died." "It could be that delayed-grief-syndrome thing," he offered finally. "You mean the suicide? Dick, it's hard to believe, but you could actually be dumber than you look." "Come on, smart-ass," he shouted. "We're walking again." "I'm not walking, Dupree. Forget it." Dupree crossed the space between them with alarming alacrity. Calla wondered suddenly if she had underestimated him. "Get up," he commanded grimly. "Don't try to intimidate me, Dick Dupree. You can't." Calla saw the blow coming to her head, but wasn't able to dodge quickly enough to avoid it altogether. The butt of Dupree's gun cracked against her shoulder. She swallowed her scream, but tears rushed to her eyes. She grabbed the shoulder and massaged it gently, feeling for a broken bone. The gun had hit the muscle, luckily, and she'd have a whale of a bruise, but nothing was broken. Calla looked steadilyatDupree. "That hurt."

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"Good. I hope it got your attention." Dupree leaned down to breathe his minted, businessman's breath into Calla's face. "I think you believe this is a gametome, Calla. It isn't. This is my life. This is fifty-four years of sweating it out in this little town, waiting for a break. Waiting for someonetonotice how good I am at my job." He tipped her chin with the barrel of the gun. Calla stopped rubbing her shoulder and stared into Dupree's clear blue eyes. "A little smack on your arm is the least of your worries. I'm going to kill you, Calla." His small mustache twitched at the threat. "Now, you have a choice whether to live until we get to Tellum Canyon, or not. It doesn't matter to me either way. I can beat you to death right now and throw you over the cliff later, or you can start walking." He straightened. "Choose." Calla rose from the rock, the pain in her shoulder shooting down to her fingertips and up through her necktoher skull. A headache was already settling in. She'd pushed him too far. It was a lifelong problem with her. When she got out of this, if she got out of this, she'd have to think long and hard about why she always felt compelled to push people too far. She started walking toward Tellum Canyon. *** Henry saw the abandoned truck, situated as it was on the rise of a small, rock-jacketed knoll, from more than a mile away. He raced toward it, a cloud of dust smoking up from the dirt road behind him. Lester clungtothe door handle to keep from toppling over onto, the bench seat of the cab. "You're going to kill us before we even get there," Lester shouted over the roar of engine noise and the clatter of the truck body as it bounced over the rough wads. Henry didn't answer. He tried to think of some reason Dupree and Calla would abandon their vehicle. "Are we close?" Henry asked Lester. The din of rocks and dirt flinging out from under the wheels of the truck almost obliterated the sound of his voice. "Five miles," Lester yelled. "Why would he leave the truck? Does the road go through?" "Yeah. It's bad, but it goes through." Lester pulled the rifle from the gun rack behind Henry's head and checked the chamber. It was loaded. Lester laid the gun across his lap and gave Henry an approving glance. "You're pretty handy for a city boy," Lester said. Henry slowed the truck to a crawl when he came upon Calla's abandoned vehicle. The truck was empty. And the front left tire was dead flat. "Flat tire," Lester stated. "I can see that, Lester."

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"The spare's right there. Wonder why he didn't get Calla to change it? She can change a tire in no time. Ever seen her do it? It's a sight." "I've seen it." The unchanged flat tire and abandoned truck could mean one of two things. Either Calla refused to change the tire and they were now on foot, or Calla couldn't change the tire because something was wrong with her. No. Nothing was wrong. Henry couldn't allow himself to think that. If he did, the knot in his throat would come back and choke him down so thoroughly he would be of no use to her. Calla was still safe. She probably pretended she didn't know how to fix a flat. Or simply refused to do it. And it was a sure bet Dupree couldn't fix it and keep an eye on Calla at the same time. So they went on foot. Henry looked at his watch. Seven o'clock. He had no more than two hours of daylight left to find Calla. After that, he'd have to depend on Dupree's lighting a fire, or perhaps using a flashlight to find his way back to the abandoned pickup. "Which way?" Henry asked Lester. "Northeast. That way," he said. In the waning light, Henry could make out only a ridge and a valley beyond. He gunned the truck back onto the road. "That's Elk Camp?" "And Tellum Canyon. Steepest son of a bitch you'll ever see. You can't see it from here. Dupree shot a cow elk up there last year. Never did get her out." "Great." "Yep," Lester nodded slowly. "That's about the size of it." "Can you tell how long ago they started walking?" "Who am I? Daniel Boone?" Henry stared out at the landscape, hoping against hope to catch a glimpse of her. "How far is it?" "To Tellum? It's past Elk Camp a mile or so. The road gets worse on up ahead. The BLM don't even bother with it no more. Fish and Game, neither. I'd say forty-five minutes by truck. Only a little longer if we hike it cross-country." "We'll take the truck." Lester shrugged noncommittally. "Dupree'll hear it." "If we walk, we might never catch up to them."

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"That's true, too. Six of one." "Calla says that." "Does she? I'll have to give her hell about it when we find her." Lester and Henry exchanged looks. "Give me the rundown on Dupree." Henry knew from Pete's extensive instruction that it was best to know the man you were tracking. Besides, listening to Lester gave him something to think about besides Calla out there somewhere, facing down a small-time lunatic all by herself. *** Tellum Canyon had two-hundred foot walls, black and deep and impossibly sheer, formed by the unstoppable forces of water and lava some uncounted millions of years earlier, and accessible only to the golden eagles and red-tailed hawks that made their nests there. As they approached the rocky lip of the canyon, Calla heard rather than felt the rush of warm air that seemed forever trapped inside the canyon walls, wailing up one side and down the other, making hot pockets on which the wild raptors hung, inspecting the ground far below for the movements of field mice and jackrabbits. Calla shivered in spite of herself. Little chance she could hang in one of those pockets of air. She'd drop like a stone. The eagles would close in before her body was even cold. She turned to Dupree. "Now what?" "Now you sign this deed and take a dive off that canyon wall." "Get serious, Dupree. You sound like that old song, 'Give up the deed to your ranch or I'll blow you all to bits!'" Dupree shoved the papersather chest. A ballpoint pen, stamped with the logo of the Paradise Savings and Loan, bent thematone corner. She shoved them back. "I'm not signing it." "You'll sign it. And if you don't, I'll bring your father out here until he signs it. And if he won't sign it, I'll bring your Aunt Helen out here until she signs it. See how that works? I have it all figured out." Calla rolled her eyes. "Oh, that'll be believable." "I don't really care what people believe," Dupree insisted. "I only care about what they can prove. Besides, your family has always been a little on the odd side. The fact that one by one everybody came up to the spot where their beloved Calla died and flung themselves off the cliff in her memory may not even surprise anybody. You never know." He rattled the papersather again. "Now sign." Calla lookedatthe deed that represented four generations of McFadden ranching families and took it, almost reverently, in her fingers.

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She lookedat itfor a long minute. Her name was on the deed, right under her mother's name, and her grandfather Lemuel's and her great-grandfather Benjamin's names. Calla began to methodically rip the deed into tiny pieces. Dupree watched her, stunned. She opened her hands and let the pieces of paper swirl and dance in the breeze. Together, Calla and Dupree watched the shredded document as it lifted from her hands and hovered above Tellum Canyon, held there as a feather is held above the soft breath of a curious child. "You didn't really think I'd sign that, did you, Dick?" Dupree slowly focused on her, his expression twisting from shock into a kind of hideous anger Calla had never seen before. He was suddenly, utterly out of control. It was what Calla had been waiting for. She kicked the heavy toe of her boot hard up into Dupree's groin. The little man grunted pitifully and folded. His gun skittered harmlessly down the canyon wall. "Calla."The shout of Henry's voice was sweet and strong in her ears. "Henry! I'm here." He appeared at the crest of the little rise, a rifle in his hand, looking for all the world just exactly like a knight in shining armor should look. She tried to run toward him, but something had happened to her legs. She couldn't imagine what it was. She looked up at Henry. He was coming toward herata dead run, an expression of horror and fury distorting his strong features. I'm safe now,Calla thought.Why does he still look so scared? She attempted again to go to him, but she stumbled instead. Calla looked downatDupree. He seemed to be wrapping himself around her ankles. Too late, she realized what was happening. As she fell to the ground, she kickedatthe dead weight around her ankles, buttono avail. Dupree had her clutched too tightly. Calla curled forward and rakedatDupree's face with her fingernails, pulling great threads of skin from his cheeks. Blood poured into his eyes, mixing with the dirt she had kicked up onto his face with her boots and making a grisly paste, but Dupree appeared not to notice. He was fixed on the canyon, only a few feet away. He wriggled forward on his belly toward the lip of the canyon wall, like a great vulture with a too heavy carcass, dragging his prey along with him. "Henry,"Calla screamed. Calla clawedatDupree, but the rage and adrenaline coursing through the little man made her no match for him. She turned onto her stomach, the grit and glass-sharp rocks of the canyon rim sliding up into her untucked shirt and scraping the skin from her navel to her chin. She reached desperately for something to hold onto,but her hands grasped only the rough, flat ground. Her fingers dug deep furrows in the coarse sand.

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She felt the warm currents of air come up the legs of her jeans as her feet dangled over the edge of the canyon wall. Dupree was lying on his side now, kicking her over the wall into the canyon. He'd loosened his grip on her ankles, and his hands and feet pushed her relentlessly downward. The wind that whippedather blended its scream with hers. Henry loomed suddenly in front of her. His strong hands grasped her wrists. "Henry."She looked up at Henry. His face was a mask of concentration and resolve. She didn't know if he'd even heard her. "Hold on," he commanded through gritted teeth. Henry braced himself against the flat ground and drew her toward him, kicking viciouslyatDupree as the crazed man continued his attack on Calla's hold on the edge of the cliff. Dupree hadn't appeared to notice someone was now pulling Calla away from him. Calla screamed again, a long shriek that ended with a low moan that came from somewhere inside her chest. Her body was being pulled apart. The strength of Dupree and Dupree's desperation seemed to open her insides to the warm drafts of wind. But Henry held on tightly. He released one hand from her wrist and quickly tucked it behind her bruised shoulder. She screamed again. "I've got you, Calla. Hold on." Calla's lower body begantojerk spasmodically. She felt herself slipping into the canyon in tiny increments. Maybe the air currents would hold her up. Maybe she could— "Calla," Henry shoutedather. "Don't pass out. Open your eyes, Calla." She could do nothing else. She opened her eyes and stared into Henry's face. It was twisted with primitive rage and fear, teeth bared, lips pulled taut. He was lashing violently at Dupree with one long leg. Calla heard a hoarse male scream. Dupree's scream. She spun her head toward the sound. If Henry kicked Dupree over the cliff, he would grab her and pull her down with him, Calla thought wildly. "Henry,"she screamed again. "I have you. I have you," Henry shoutedather. "Stop struggling Calla. It's Lester." Lester. Lester was holding the collar of Dupree's shirt with one sinewy had, the top of Calla's jeans with the other. He was leaned forward in a crouch, pounding one booted foot into the back of Dupree's head. "Stop kickingather, you crazy son of a bitch," Lester was shouting as he brought his boot heel mercilessly down again and again. "Stop kicking her, I say."

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Henry scooted his hips forward slightly, pulling until Calla's upper body rested on his chest. He dug his heels into the ground and yanked her ruthlessly back from the abyss. "Lie still. Don't move," Henry said. He held on tight, shaking violently, afraid she'd slip away from him somehow. Dupree layatLester's feet. His face was obscured by the blood that oozed from Calla's scratch marks and the wound made by Lester's boot heel. "Calla." Henry turned his head and lookedatthe bloodied manatthe edge of the cliff. "Shut up, Dupree," Henry warned menacingly. "Calla," Dupree screamed. His eyes, closed until a moment ago, focused on her. They were wild. The horrible sound of his voice, inhuman, like the scream of the eagles in Tellum Canyon, shocked Calla back to her senses. She looked blanklyathim. "Calla." Lester toed Dupree roughly in the back. "That's enough of that." But Dupree did not seem to realize there were other people on the cliff edge besides himself and Calla. His gaze burned into her. "You almost killed me, Dupree," she whispered. "Because you wouldn't give it up, you stupid bitch. One lousy hunk of land and you wouldn't give it up." "Not that way, Dupree. Not to you." "Not to me?" He laughed grimly. "You've ruined me, Calla. Killed me, like you killed your brother." "Shut up, Dupree," Henry shouted. "Killed me." He was smiling. Calla felt a chill in the pit of her stomach. She straightened in Henry's arms. "Don't do it, Dick." Dupree lookedather and smiled. "Why not? You should be used to watching people die. That's three, now, Calla McFadden. Benny, Judy and me." And before anyone but Calla realized what he intendedto do, Dick Dupree Tolled off the edge of Tellum Canyontothe welcoming willows of Joe's Crick two hundred feet below. "No," Lester shouted, flinging himself flat on his belly in a futile attempttograbatthe man. But Dupree was gone, and the eagles and hawks came screaming out of their nests as he passed them. Henry scooped Calla up and walked from the edge of the cliff without a glance backward. In the distance, Calla heard a mighty wind.

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This time it didn't come from the canyon. It came from the sky above. She closed her eyes and let the wind wash over her. Chapter 20 «^» Pete wasatSaint Luke's Hospital in downtown Boise when the military orderlies wheeled Calla through the emergency room doors. Henry was not surprised to see him. Pete jogged along next to the gurney, peering into Calla's wan face. "My God. Who the hell did this to her? Is she unconscious?" "Asleep, they said on the chopper. She's had a rough day. Hello, Pete. Thanks for the helicopter." Pete whistled. "A helloand a thank-you. Geez, Doc, you must have had some kind of epiphany out there." A nurse with a gigantic chest and a harassed attitude stepped in front of them, stopping them in their tracks. She wrested the gurney from the orderlies and gave Henry and Pete sharp stares. "That's far enough, gentlemen. We got the call you'd be coming. We'll take it from here." Henry started to protest as he saw Calla being carted away, but Pete put a halting palm on his chest. "They'll take care of her," he said. "You'll just be in the way." He smiled lasciviously. "Did you see the mammaries on that nurse? I'd like to bury my face in those for a day or two." Henry stared after the gurney as it disappeared into an examining room. "I should be with her. She might need me." Pete stopped a passing nurse. "Honey, if that girl that just came in wakes up, you let us know ASAP, will you? Her boyfriend here is a nervous little thing." The nurse puffed up like a sage hen. "I'm not your honey, buster." Pete winkedather. "Your loss. But you'll let us know, won't you?" She glared at him. "I guess." "Thanks, baby." Pete grinned foolishly. "I'll buy you dinner later, huh?" "Yeah. I'll invite my husband and my five kids along, too." She flounced off toward Calla's room. Pete shivered. "Five kids? Yikes. Imagine what it coststofeed them all. Come on, Doc. Let me buy you a cup of coffee." Henry allowed himself to he led across the entrancetothe small waiting room. A pot of old coffee and a pile of papercups sat on a table in the corner. Pete poured two cups and handed one to Henry.

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"Sit down, for crying out loud. You look like hell." "Thanks." Henry took a swig of coffee. It burned all the way down. He watched a middle-aged male doctor enter Calla's examining room. "No, I mean it. You look like hell. What the hell happened out there?" "Some small-town lunatic named Dick Dupree tried to toss Calla off a cliff." "You're kidding." "Do you think that's something I'd kid about, Pete?" He took another drink from his cup and leaned against the open doorway, his eyes on the closed curtain of the examining room where they were keeping Calla. Was she still asleep? What was taking them so long? "You killed the guy, I presume?" "Didn't have to. He did it himself." "That's lucky." "Not for Calla. She watched the whole thing." "Too bad." Pete paused. "But she's tough. She'll get over it." "Probably." Henry tightened a fist around his cup. "I may not, though." "What do you mean?" "She was dangling off a two-hundred-foot sheer rock cliff, Pete. And that maniac was kicking her over. I watched her dig holes in the dirt with her fingers, trying to keep alive until I got to her." Henry shook his head bitterly. "I almost didn't. Every time I think about it, I want to puke." "Combat fever. It'll pass." "I screwed up, Pete. She could have died." "But she didn't." Pete gave him a boisterous clap on the back. "That's the important thing, isn't it?" "Don't try to cheer me up. Calla's not going to punish me for this, so I'm going to have to do it on my own. I expect you to help me." "Suit yourself. You suck." Henry almost smiled. "Thanks." The doctor left Calla's room. A nurse parted the curtain and crooked a fingeratHenry. He handed his coffee cuptoPete. "Wait here. I want to talk to you about something later."

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"I live to serve you." Henry strode down the hall and yanked open the curtain. Calla was prone on an examining table, but her eyes were bright again and she was smilingathim. Someone had cleaned the abrasions on her face and arms, and, he presumed, the rest of her. She was draped in a loose, white hospital gown and covered lightly with a thin, cotton sheet. One swollen ankle was elevated but as yet unwrapped, and a nurse was expertly bandaging her right shoulder. Another nurse, a man, was hooking a saline bag onto an intravenous drip system that was stuck into the crook of Calla's arm. "Hey," she said. Henry nearly collapsed with relief. She looked almost like Calla again. She wasn't the gray-faced trauma victim she'd been in the helicopter. He gripped the side of her narrow little bed to keep himself from slidingtohis knees. "Hey," he managedtoreply. "Are you okay? You look terrible." Henry smiled. "You're not the first person to tell me that." "Did you call home?" Calla asked. "No. I sent Lester home in my pickup. He'll let them know what happened. I'll call them in a bit." "Good idea." She frowned, and Henry saw that the effort made her wince. "It's late, isn't it? They'll want to gotobed." "I don't think anybody is going to be doing much sleeping tonight, Calla." "You are. You look exhausted." "I'm fine, Calla." Calla lookedathim skeptically, but decided not to pursue the argument. "Damn that Lester." She smiled wearily. "He was kind of a hero today, wasn't he?" "Yes, he was." "He'll never let me live it down, you know." Henry smiled again. "You'll probably even have to give him a pay raise." "A raise? Not likely." The male nurse shot a syringe filled with clear liquid into the intravenous tube. Henry watched carefully. "What is that?" he asked suspiciously.

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"For the pain." After a moment, Calla closed her eyes. "Mmm. That's lovely." Henry refocused on her. "How do you feel?" "Boneless. Skinless. I feel like a boneless, skinless chicken breast." Henry stroked her dust-matted hair back from her forehead. He didn't know whethertolaugh or cry. "Henry, that was a joke," Calla said gently, her eyes still closed. "What's the matter with you? Everything is all right now. We're safe." He swallowed the sickening swelling in his throat. "No thanks to me. God, Calla, I'm so sorry." Calla opened her eyes and searched his face. "No thanks to you? Henry, I would beatthe bottom of Tellum Canyon right now if it weren't for you." Henry pulled himself together with an effort. He waited a moment as the last of the nurses filed from the room. "We'll discuss it later. Right now, I wanttoknow what the doctor said about your ankle and your shoulder." "No, Henry. I want to talk about it now. Yousaved me, Henry. You saved my life. You came to my rescue, just like I knew you would." She tried to scoot forward into a sitting position, but the effort made her wince and she fell back on the thin pillow. "I'm so sorry about stupid Clark. I knew the minute I saw him I couldn't go through with it. I'm sorry I hurt you, Henry. I'm sorry I scared you. I hurt me, too. Leaving you standing in the driveway … I thought it might actually kill me." She gripped his hand with her swollen fingers, kissed it. Henry noticed that two of her fingernails had been ripped from their bases. Nausea cametohim in a wave. "And even though … even after I was such an idiot, the whole time I was out there with Dupree, I knew you would come. I knew that no matter where he took me and no matter what he did to me, you would find me. Iknewit.I have never had as much faith in anything or anyone in my life, Henry. And I was right. You found me and you saved me." "Calla," Henry said very quietly, "what am I going to do with you?" "You'll think of something." She closed her eyes then, and sighed one of those breathy little sighs he loved. He kept brushing back her hair, content to watch over her as she slept. But she wasn't asleep. Eyes still closed, she took his hand. "Henry? He was wrong, wasn't he? Dupree? I don't havetopay anymore for Benny's and my mother's deaths. Do I? Because I wanttobe happy again." Henry felt his heart rend into tiny pieces. He wondered if it would ever come back together. "I want you. I don't want the ranch more than I want you. It's been a long time, Henry, but I do think I can be happy again." "You'll be happy, Calla. I swear."

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She smiled sleepily. "I believe you." Henry saw she was starting to drift on drugs and exhaustion. She yawned. "Do you think we could have a baby? I would like to have a baby." Henry kissed her. "We'll have twenty babies, Calla." "Twenty?" Calla closed her eyes again. "We could never afford twenty babies." There was a rustling of curtains. Henry turned, expectingtosee a doctor. "May I come in?" Pete stood, grinning like a Cheshire cat,atthe entrance to the tiny examining room. His upper body was almost completely obscured by an enormous bouquet of flowers. "Hi, Pete." Calla grinned groggily. "I'm afraid I'm not naked. You might wanttocome back later when I'm undressed again." "I've come bearing gifts." He handed Henry the flowers without a glance in his direction. "Take these." He wenttoCalla's bed and clasped her hand in his with great emotion. "How are you, darling? I've been frantic." "I'm fine, Pete." "You're hurting her hand, you schmuck," Henry growled from behind the flowers. Pete smoothed the sore hand back onto the white sheet. "I was overcome." "Come off it, Pete." "You stay out of this, Mitch. This is between Calla and myself, right, Calla?You didn't even bother to bring her any flowers." "Where did you get this ridiculous bouquet, anyway?" Henry grumbled. "It fills up the whole damn room." "Ever hear of a hospital gift shop?" Pete shook his head sadlyatCalla. "What do you see in him?" Calla looked up, met Henry's brown eyes. "Must be something." "Well, I'll step aside then, darling." "As if you had a choice," Henry muttered, his eyes never leaving Calla's. "Come on, Pete. Let her sleep." He leaned over Calla's bed, pressed a kiss to her battered forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up." He pulled Pete into the hall, shoving the flowersata passing nurse. Without preamble, he said, "I want out, Pete." "You are out. Relatively speaking." "I mean really out. I'm giving Frank the formula research diskettes and the information I've kept on him. In exchange, I want him to forget I exist, and I want him to make sure the CIA and anybody else who

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might be nosing around forgets it, too." Pete narrowed his eyes at him. "You're jerking me." "No, I'm not. I can't go on like this. I'm not like you, Pete. I can't live this half life anymore. I want kids, a home. I want a life." "And you want Calla." "Callais all that for me, Pete." "And you're willingtogive up the formula for her?" "I found out today I'm willingtogive up my life for her." "What about your famous moral dilemma? Frank's goingtogive the formula to the Pentagon faster than you can blink. Worse, if he figures out he can't live on a lieutenant colonel's pension, he may keep it until he retires and then sell it to the highest bidder. There's no telling what will happen to it, then." "I'm giving Frank my personal research disks, not mixing up a batch for him, Pete. There is ten years' worth of trial and error encoded into those disks. It'll take him years just to find someone who can break the code, much less calculate which of the formulas actually works. Frank won't be just retired by then, he'll be dead." "But in the meantime, he'll think he outwitted and outwaited the brilliant Dr. Johannsen?" "That's the idea." "You're a freaking genius." "That's what I've been told." The nurse poked her head around a corner and glaredatthem. "Keep it down, please. This is a hospital." "And I'm in need of some medical attention." Pete leeredather. "Now, you haven't got five kids, have you, honey? Look at your waist. I could put my hands around it." The nurse gave an exasperated groan and disappeared. "Wait, honey. I just want to talk to you a minute." Pete started after her, then turned back to Henry. "I'll see you around." Henry smiled. "Probably not. I'll have a courier send everything to the colonel at the lab." "He'll probably dance all over his office, he'll be so happy." "Wonderful mental image, Pete. I think your nurse is getting away." "Yeah." He peered down the hall. "See you, Henry." "Henry?" Pete grunted distractedly, his attention still on his nurse. "Well, it suits you. You always were an old-fashioned kind of guy."

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"I'm touched." Henry put out his hand, and Pete took it solidly in his own. "You've been a friend, Pete." "Thanks. I never did Heidi, you know. Too much the cold Nordic goddess for my tastes. But I'd do that cowgirl in a minute." "I'll take that as approval, I guess. But don't come to the wedding." "Yeah." Pete grinned. "I won't. Now, where did that nurse go? God, I love a woman in a white uniform. Maybe she'll let me play doctor." *** Calla's homecoming was an elaborate affair. And a crowded one. A small swarm of well-wishers at the front gate greeted the rental car Henry had hired in Boise for the drive home. They waved and knocked on the windows as Henry eased the car into the gravel driveway. "They're smiling," Calla said warily, "so I guess that means they're not here to slap me around for losing them the only town banker, huh?" "I'll slap you around myself if I ever hear you say that again," Henry said. Calla snuggled into him. "Not once I heal up, you won't. I could whup you with one arm tied behind my back." Henry ogled her foolishly, making her laugh. "Speaking of one arm tied behind your back, you think we might try that sometime?" "You're sick, you know that? And you look like Pete when you do that." He nuzzled her ear. "Plus, I've been meaning to talk to you about your chaps." "My chaps?" He whispered, making her laugh. "Okay, I might do that." Lester opened the car door, cleared his throat with great ceremony, and waited while Henry came around to lift Calla from the car. "I can use the crutches," she told him. "Put me down. Everybody's watching." He ignored her and swept her up the back steps and into the kitchen. When he got her settled in a chair in the kitchen, Lester eyed her up and down. "Well," he drawled dramatically, as much to the burgeoning group of admirers swelling the kitchen as to his injured employer, "I guess this means you're not goingtobe much use to me around this place for a while." He shook his head mournfully. "Once again, all the work falls on Lester." "Come here, Lester," Calla said.

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Lester took a grave step forward. "Thank you for everything. I can't say as I love you any better after what you did for me, but I don't hate you any worse." She blew him a little kiss. Lester was stricken."Dammit to hell. I knew you was going to make me pay for this," he shouted, stamping one dusty, boot-covered foot on the linoleum in frustration. "Twenty-five years of training, down the drain. Now I'll be expected to be nicetoyou all the time. Well, it'll probably kill me, is all. It'll probably kill me." Calla laughed, that wonderful belly laugh that had made him fall in love with her, Henry thought. He should be telling her that, soon. As soon as he could clear a path through her fellow Paradisians. He watched Calla like an overprotective mama while the crowd of townspeople milled around her kitchen, soothing and patting and gleaning every gram of gossip they could. When he saw her lashes dip toher cheeks and stay there for a moment too long, he shouldered his way through themtoCalla's side. Where he belonged. Calla looked up at him gratefully. "Hey," she said. He knelt beside her. "You look tired." "I am, kind of. I've had a busy weekend." Henry smiled. "Yes, you have." He scooped her up out of her chair effortlessly and turned to make his way upstairs. Paradisians parted in front of him like sheep. "If I was her daddy, I'd put a slug in you before I'd let you carry my daughter around like that," someone shouted. The crowd laughed. Henry smiled and shook his head. "I'm just taking her up to bed." "Yeah," another voice rang out, "that's what we're afraid of." More raucous laughter. "This town loves a good party, doesn't it?" he whispered in Calla's ear. She leaned her head against his shoulder. "What town?" He carried her sideways up the narrow stairs and set her on her bed. The noise from the kitchen came through the floor, but Calla seemed nottonotice. She yawned and stretched carefully. "I can't understand why I'm so tired. I never take naps in the afternoon." "I guess you're just lazy," Henry said as he kicked off his boots and slid cautiously into bed beside her. "You've been lying around for days."

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"Take your clothes off, Henry." Henry closed his eyes and burrowed his head in the pillow next to her. "You're in no condition for that." "You wish. I wasn't talking about that. You shouldn't sleep in your new clothes. I can't believe you bought us both new clothes just to come home in, anyway. We're on a tight budget around here, Henry." Henry allowed himselftofloat into sleep on the sound of her scolding. "I have a job," he reminded her. "I only pay you$850 a month, cowboy. And after the ranch is sold, you won't even have that job. You may havetogo back to being a brilliant chemical doctor or whatever you are." "Calla?" "Yes?" She already had her fingers in his hair and was stroking his head gently. "You're not selling the ranch." She felt tears come to her eyes. She hadn't cried for years, and all of a sudden it seemed she was weeping every time someone spoke her name. "I am, Henry." "No. You're not." "Yes. I am. I haveto.Dupree may be gone, but that balloon payment is just a few months away. I'll never raise the money in time." "Calla…" "No, Henry, listen. You think this will break my heart, but it won't. I found out yesterday what would break my heart and what wouldn't." She snuggled closer. "This won't." "Calla, do you think you could shut up for a second?" "That's rude. I always … oh, okay." "Do you remember the story I told you about leaving my patent for Perfect Soil with AgriFactor?" "Yes." "Well, you didn't think I just gave it to them, did you?" There was a short pause. Calla tried to wriggle over on her side. "Ow." Henry opened his eyes and looked reprovinglyather. "Be careful. You're not supposed to move that shoulder." "Stop mothering me. So, you're rich?" she asked.

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"We'rerich," he corrected. She glaredathim. "And you didn't tell me this, why?" "I've been busy." He grinned. "Besides, I took you for a gold digger the minute I laid eyes on you." "Be careful, city boy. I can still kick you with my good foot." She settled back down onto the bed and stared upather ceiling. "Really, Henry. Why didn't you tell me?" "I figured I would after you figured out you loved me." "Oh. Well, I do love you. You know that, don't you, Henry? I do love you." "I know you do." "But you'll try not to manipulate me in the future, won't you?" "Mmm. I'll try." He was drifting. Her room smelled really good. Someday he'd tell her how many mornings he'd staredather window trying to catch a glimpse of her in her nightie. "Henry?" "Mmm?" "I want you to pay off my bank note. It's ninety-three thousand and change." Henry smiled into his pillow. No pleading, no wheedling. Just straightforward Calla. Lord, he loved this woman. "Okay. First thing Monday. Now let me sleep. That chair in your hospital room was uncomfortable as hell." "I'll sign over half the equity of the ranch to you." "Whatever," he mumbled. "Idaho's a community property state. I'll get half when we get married anyway. If you don't make me sign a prenuptial agreement." "Very funny. Are we getting married?" He wondered if she had a bathtub up here. He remembered pretty vividly what she looked like wet. He'd have to ask her. If she ever stopped talking. "Of course, we're getting married. Idiot." "Henry?" "What." "How rich arewe?" "Pretty rich."

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"Then as soon as I get better, I want to start building my own house. This one doesn't have enough room for us and the twenty babies." "Funny," Henry murmured sleepily. "Calla, I forgot to tell you earlier. I love you." She snuggled beside him. The warmth from her body settled into him. "I'm not surprised, Henry. You're a pretty smart guy for a Californian."

*****