ONLY IN MY ARMS [020-011-4.4]

By: JO GOODMAN

Synopsis:

Award-winning author Jo Goodman writes stories that are sheer magic.
Her unforgettable characters--spirited women and sensual men-hold
readers spellbound.  Now with ONLY IN MY ARMS, she concludes her
beloved series featuring five different Irish sisters in a poignant,
passionate tale of love and faith.  A MAN ABOUT TO DIE... A WOMAN READY
TO LIVE... Torn between devotion and a secret yearning for adventure
and fulfillment, Mary Dennehy makes her choice.  Shocking her family,
she leaves the convent and her cloistered existence behind and sets out
in search of a new life.

But for a woman alone, the West can be a hostile and treacherous place.
And no one is more dangerous-and irresistible- than Ryder McKay.
Faithful to the Apaches who raised him, now sentenced to hang for a
crime he didn't commit, Ryder is desperate enough to seize one last
chance for freedom.  Taking Mary Dennehy hostage, the army scout plots
his daring escape.  on a breathtaking journey into peril and forbidden
passion that will test her faith and challenge both their hearts ...

AND A LOVE THAT COULD SAVE THEM BOTH


Advance praise for award-winning author Jo Goodman and

ONLY

IN MY ARMS "There's nothing quite so delightful as one of Jo Goodman's
very special romances.  She captures the magic and joy of love with
laughter and tears.  Trust Jo Goodman to deliver top-notch romance! 
"Romantic Times "Jo Goodman's writing sparkles!  ONLY IN MY ARMS is the
crowning jewel of the Dennehy Sisters series.  Engaging, passionate and
memorable!  "The Literary Times "A fun-filled, action-packed western
romance.

ONLY IN MY ARMS will linger in the hearts of readers for a long time to
come."  Affaire de Coeur ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS "Jo Goodman keeps you
turning the pages.  Her delightful sense of humor, pacing and
scintillating knack for mystery combine for one great read!  "Romantic
Times "A delightful reading experience.

This book is lovely-very highly recommended.  "The Midwest Book Review
FOREVER IN MY HEART (winner of the 1994 National Readers' Choice Award)
"Put this historical on your summer reading list-it is great! 
"Rendezvous SWEET SEDUCTION Books by Jo Goodman PASSION'S BRIDE

CRYSTAL

PASSION SEA SWEPT ABANDON VELVET NIGHT VIOLET FIRE SCARLET LIES

TEMPTING TORMENT MIDNIGHT PRINCESS PASSION'S SWEET REVENGE

SWEET FIRE WILD SWEET ECSTASY ROGUE'S MISTRESS FOREVER IN MY

HEART ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS ONLY IN MY ARMS A GIFT OF JOY (with Fern
Michaels, Virginia Henley and Brenda Joyce) Looking around, Mary spied
the slim bar of soap she had used on her hair.  She picked it up,
ignoring the cloth that lay nearby.  She raised a bit of lather between
her hands, then applied the soap and suds to Ryder's body.

"I don't think-" he began.

"You think too much," she interrupted him gently.  Her hands worked
deftly, sliding the soap over Ryder's shoulders, massaging his chest
and upper arms with slippery lather.  Her fingers glided to his neck
before she circled around him and rubbed down his back.  His flesh
rippled under her touch and defined the hardness lying beneath his taut
skin.  Mary slipped her arms around him from behind, resting her
forehead against his back.  Her soapy fingers rubbed lather across his
abdomen.  Her hands went lower to the arrow of hair below his navel.
That was when she dropped the soap.  And the pretense.

Made buoyant by the water, Mary slipped around Ryder again, her entire
body rubbing smoothly against his as her hand went below the surface of
the water and grasped him.  Published by Zebra Books ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.   ZEBRA BOOKS are published by Kensington
Publishing Corp.  850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022 Copyright (c)
1996 by Joanne Dobrzanski All rights reserved.  No part of this book
may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written
consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Zebra and the Z logo Reg.  U.S. Pat.  & TM Off First Printing:

September, 1996 For John Scognamiglio -from the start he said I had to
write this one, and told me about his sixth grade teacher to prove it
Printed in the United States Of America Chapter One July 1884, The
Hudson Valley Stillness surrounded him.  He welcomed it, absorbing it
in much the same way a leaf absorbs light, turning into it as if it
were necessary to his very existence.  He was aware of his slowing
heartbeat and of the near-silent passage of each breath.  He didn't
concentrate on these things, but let them be.  They happened of their
own accord as he embraced the quiet and calm of being in this moment.
He had positioned himself on the lip of a large rock a few feet above
the clearing's water hole.  He hunkered more than sat, his lean, agile
frame folded so that he could rise without hesitation.  For now, he did
not move.  Waiting was its own pleasure.  Had he been asked for what or
whom he waited, he would have had no reply.  It wasn't important to
him, and it wasn't why he sat perched on the edge of the inclined rock.
Waiting did not foster impatience or anxiety.

Instead, it carried with it a certain heady anticipation that was like
the scent of wildflowers lifted on the back of the wind, fleeting and
elusive, but something to embrace and enjoy.  Waiting gave rise to
possibilities and expectations.  Anything could happen in the passing
of a moment.  Anything.  It was what he knew to be true and what he
felt now.  Ribbons of morning mist rose from the water hole.  The
perimeter of the clearing was marked off by red cedar, river birch, and
white pine, but even their sweeping branches could not crowd out the
sun's sure ascent.  Heat lifted the shroud of water vapor; and light
glanced off its surface.  He watched the shifting patterns of light
glint and sparkle like so many stars and could almost believe this was
a place where the heavens were captured.  That thought brought about
the first movement he made, a slight lifting of one corner of his
mouth.  An observer would have wondered at the smile, for it was at
once derisive and amused, a little mocking, a little secretive.  He was
not embarrassed by the thought that had crossed his mind, but he knew
of others who would be embarrassed for him.  Poets and philosophers
could entertain notions of the heavens being captured in a well of
water but United States Army scouts were better off keeping their own
counsel.  The hint of a smile faded and his features returned to their
resting state of impenetrable impassivity.  It was not a cold, stoic
expression.  The shape of his mouth was not tight or thinly set, and
the cleanly carved line of his jaw was not clenched in stony hardness.
The source of the implacability that defined his expression was calm.
Through the sleeve of his black oilcloth duster he could feel fingers
of heat on his shoulder.  As the sun rose higher a band of warmth
touched the side of his neck just above the collar of his shirt.  A
moment later it skimmed across his cheek and then the glossy black
thickness of his hair.  He made no move to shed the heavy coat or lift
his hair where it brushed his collar at the nape.  The heat was as
welcome as the stillness and the waiting.  He raised his face, shutting
his eyes momentarily, and breathed sunshine.  She was there when he
opened his eyes.  She stood on the opposite side of the water hole,
flanked by twin birch sentinels.  Her path to the water was marked by
the natural placement of large rocks rising from the bank like a stone
stairway.  She made no move toward the water or even to put her bare
feet on the flat, sun-warmed rocks.

Instead she remained very still and maintained her hold around the
clothing she carried in her folded arms.  The bundle of fabric draped
in front of her was the only clothing she wore.  At first he thought
she didn't move because she had seen him.  But as he continued to watch
her he realized she did not have the frozen, startled posture of a
frightened doe.  She was not clutching her clothing in front of her
protectively to preserve modesty or dignity, she merely held it.  He
was struck by the reverence of her posture, the respect she had for
this quiet clearing he had only just discovered.  Her stillness had
nothing to do with him at all, he realized.  She was unaware of his
observation, and he wished that it might remain so.  With no small
measure of regret he knew he would have to make his presence known to
her.  But not yet, he thought selfishly.  Not just yet.  Her
contemplative state ended abruptly as she tossed her clothing
carelessly on the rocks.  It lay like a darkly raised bruise against
the pale, sun-drenched stones.  She didn't appear to give it another
thought, not pausing even briefly to straighten or arrange it so it
wouldn't wrinkle.

In a way he was disappointed that she didn't care more for her
garments.  He had only an impression of healthy pink skin, elegantly
slender curves, and rose-tipped breasts as she ignored the stone
stairway and launched herself rnto the water from where she stood,
entering it cleanly and shallowly in an arching, graceful dive that
sprayed diamond droplets in her wake.  She didn't come up immediately,
and he followed her path as she moved swiftly just below the water. She
was as fluid as the element she moved in, her body undulating sleekly
in a current of her own creation.  The tapered length of her legs moved
in unison, propelling her forward in a seductive, almost lazy rhythm. 
Once he thought she would surface for air in the middle of the water
hole, but she dove abruptly and only the curve of her bottom broke the
waterline before she went deeper.  A smile flickered on his face.

When she finally came up for air it was directly below his perch.

He was no longer smiling when she looked up and saw him for the first
time.  He was still hunkered on the lip of the rock like a bird of
prey.  His glossy black hair and the long black duster draping the
ground around him, furthered that impression.  Intense gray eyes
watched her narrowly above the straight, but somehow aggressive line of
his nose.  He didn't say anything, just continued to stare at her.  In
spite of the flush that was creeping across her skin and heating her
cheeks, she didn't duck beneath the water.  It wasn't in her nature to
run even when common sense dictated she should.  With characteristic
directness she stared back at him.  Her eyes were remarkably green, he
thought, as deeply green as the forest around her.  It was a pure
pleasure to look into them, and he was in no hurry to look away.

"I don't think you have any shame," she said.  In other conditions, in
anqther setting, she would have been able to infuse her words with
enough acid to etch glass.  This stranger merely smiled at her.

"It's that obvious?"  he asked.  She had to draw on a contemptuous
glare which she had been told could leave a bruise.  It left the man
above her unmoved.  She was realistic enough to acknowledge that he had
all the advantages.  He was on the high ground, on solid footing, and
more importantly he was the one wearing clothes.

There was simply no dignity in treading water naked.  Worse, she was
getting tired of doing it.  He watched the tempo of her movements
change as she sought purchase among the submerged rocks.

He was prepared to lend her a hand when her feet touched on a narrow
ledge that would support her.  She made no attempt to raise herself out
of the water, rather she remained very satisfactorily cloaked by it
while she rested.  Water glistened on her shoulders and at the hollow
of her throat.  His eyes strayed up the length of her neck, glanced off
her smooth cheek, passed her ear, then fastened on the red-gold cap of
hair that was like a damp helmet on her head.  If her eyes were her
most remarkable feature, then her hair was her most unusual.  It was
not merely the color that made it so, but the length.  Closely cropped
to follow the shape of her head, it defied any fashion.  It lay sleekly
against her scalp, the ends of it already drying and curling in the
early morning sunshine.  Apache women cut their hair when they were in
mourning.

It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she had lost a loved one,
a husband or father perhaps, when he remembered she wouldn't understand
the question, that New Yorkers certainly didn't observe the same
rituals as the Chiricahua, Kiowa, or Mescalero.  He touched the back of
his neck where his hair brushed the collar.

Even at this length it was still longer than hers, yet shorter than he
had worn it for most of his life.  He had cut it out of respect for the
passing of a friend and more regretfully as a concession to New York
mores.  As the stranger continued to stare at her hair, she surprised
herself by touching it with an air of self-consciousness, tugging on a
damp strand near her temple to make it seem longer.  That simple
gesture was enough to cause him to look away.  She wondered what
construction he had put upon her cropped hair.  Did he think she was
ill?  That she had been?  That she was a banned adulteress?  The sense
that he was pitying her forced her chin upward at a defiant, proud
angle.

"You're trespassing," she said coolly.

"This is private property."  He was unperturbed.

"I was invited."

"By whom?"

"The owner."

"That's not possible."  He shrugged.  It didn't matter if she believed
him or not.

"You're not his wife, are you?"  She blinked at that, startled that he
thought she would be anyone's wife.  Glancing over her shoulder to the
opposite side of the pool, she saw her discarded clothes piled on the
rock.  No, she realized, there were no clues for him there.  She looked
at him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Whose wife would I be?"

"Walker Caine's."  She sidestepped the issue.

"This isn't Walker Caine's property.  The Granville mansion is a few
miles farther up the main road."  As she watched with some fascination,
color crept just beneath the surface of his sun-bronzed complexion.  He
was clean shaven with no beard or mustache or side-whiskers to hide the
telltale tide of embarrassment.  When it receded a faint smile touched
his mouth, and it was rife with self-mockery.

"I don't think this is a story I'll be sharing with Walker," he said.

"Or anyone else."  Before she could ask what it was that amused him
about being lost, he stood and shrugged out of his duster.  He was tall
and leanly muscled, limber and loose in spite of the fact that he had
been crouched throughout their conversation.  She had no difficulty
appreciating that he was what her mother called a "fine figure of a
man," but it wasn't his physical appearance that made her react with a
small gasp.  The gun belt resting on his hips accomplished that.

"You're not from around here, are you?"  she said.  She supposed she
deserved the smile he tossed off like a flippant remark.

"What I mean is, men in Baileyboro don't wear guns."

"Gun," he said.

"Singular.  Short-barreled Colt A5."  He had it unfastened by the time
he finished commenting and laid it with some care on his duster.  His
fingers were deftly moving over his shirt buttons when he added, "Just
like the gunslingers wear."

He glanced down at her, a single dark brow raised, wondering if she'd
rise to the bait.  She didn't.  The fact that he was taking off his
shirt had riveted her attention.  She found her voice when he began to
unbutton the fly of his jeans.

"What do you think you're doing?"  she demanded.  His fingers didn't
pause even a beat.

"I'm going swimming."  He wondered if he could.  He had no illusions
that he would be as expert as she in the water.  At best he would be
awkward.  At worst he would drown.  He had been seven years old the
last time he was in water deep enough to swim.  That was twenty-three
years ago on the banks of the Ohio River.  He had balked on that
occasion until his father had held out a hand and told him once he
learned he would never forget.  He was about to test the truth of those
words now.  There was so little he remembered about his father, he
hoped that memory wasn't playing him false.

"Not here you're not," she said firmly, as though she believed it was
in her power to stop him.  He didn't respond to that.  Instead he sat
down on the rock before removing his pants and pulled off his dusty
boots.  He felt as if his entire body was layered with the same dust.
The decision to sluice it off in this water hole seemed more inspired
with each passing moment.  When he stood again to strip out of his
jeans and drawers he saw that he was, for all intents and purposes,
alone.  She had dived, pushed off the ledge, and was swimming toward
the center of the water hole.  His face wore its calm, impenetrable
mask as he flung himself into the water.  He didn't come up for so long
that she grew worried.  From her position in the water it wasn't so
easy to follow his progress.  She ducked below the surface and looked
for him.  His deep dive had worked up clouds of silt and all but
eliminated her underwater vision.  She came up when she felt him brush
her leg, either by accident or design.  He raked back his thick hair.
Droplets of water and sunlight lent it a blue-black sheen.  He was very
close to her and instinctively she moved away before a swell of water
drew them together.

"My father was right," he said.

"About what?"

"I didn't forget."  She supposed he knew what he was talking about. She
certainly didn't.

"I don't think you should be in here.  I told you this is private
property."  She noticed that she expended a great deal less energy
staying near the surface than he did.  It would serve him right if he
drowned, she thought.  Or at least believed he was drowning.

She had no illusions that she could let it happen.

"I know.  But you also told me it's not Walker's, and I imagine it's
safe to assume you're not Walker's wife."  He leveled her with his gray
glance.

"Are you?"  She considered lying.  After all, before Skye Dennehy had
become Walker Caine's wife she had been known to occasionally
skinny-dip in this very pool.

"No," she said finally.

"I'm not Walker's wife."  He considered that as his eyes grazed her
face.

"Good."  She wondered how he could give that single word so much
meaning.  His voice had not changed at all.  The smooth, husky quality
of it made her think of her father's best bourbon.  His light gray eyes
were still like frost, yet it wasn't a chill she felt but searing heat.
For no reason that she could understand she was drawn to him and the
sensation of being pulled in was unnerving.  She knew she was the
better swimmer, but it no longer mattered.  Here, in the familiarity of
the placid little pool where she had spent so many enjoyable summers
with her sisters, Mary Francis Dennehy acknowledged that she was out of
her depth.

"I have to go," she said.  She wished her voice did not sound regretful
or uncertain.

"Not yet."  She didn't reply.  She struck off for the bank of rocks
that held her clothes.  He easily caught her by the ankle as she swam
past and pulled her back.  Her instinctive struggle brought her within
inches of his slick, wet chest.  She calmed herself to keep from being
brought flush to his naked body.

"I want to go," she said clearly.  This time there was no mistaking her
resolve.

"All right."  As he held up both hands to surrender to her wishes he
sank a little in the water.  She watched him warily while he sputtered.
When she was sure he wasn't in need of rescuing, she swam for the stone
stairway.  Before climbing out, she darted a look over her shoulder. 
The eyes that met hers were certainly predatory.

"Turn around," she said, making just that motion with her index finger.
"or go under the water while I get out."

"You weren't always so shy."

"I didn't know you were here, and you knew I didn't."

"Guilty."  There was no remorse in his tone.  If he had it to do again
he wouldn't do it differently.  However, he saw she was willing to wait
him out this time and now he was the one tired of treading.  He ducked
under the water and counted to ten before resurfacing.  She was sitting
on the sun-baked slab of stone wearing a plain white cotton shift.

Her knees were drawn toward her chest, and she hugged them with her
arms.  The shift was damp in places as it absorbed the water she hadn't
had time to towel off.

"You could have surfaced with your back to me," she told him.

"How could you know I'd be covered?"

"I trusted you to be quick about it even if it meant diving into the
brush."  He realized she was feeling a little more confident now that
she was clothed.  He was not going to disabuse her of that notion by
pointing out that the sunlight made her shift an ephemeral covering at
best.  If she stood up now she would be more exposed to him than she
had been in the water.

"Is the house I passed on the way here yours?"

"No," she said truthfully.

"You're a guest?"  In her parents' home?  Hardly.

"No," she said.

"Not a guest."

"A servant, then."  She had a serenely quiet smile, and she graced him
with it.

"No.  But it's a mistake that's been made before in my family."  She
saw him working out another question and saved him the trouble by
asking one of her own.

"What's your business with Walker Caine?"

"No business.

Just reestablishing an old acquaintance."  She regarded him steadily,
weighing his words.

"Walker Caine has enemies.  How do I know you're not one of them?"

"You don't."  She considered that.  Her sigh was audible as she came to
a decision.

"Walker Caine is my brother-in-law."  One of his dark brows arched
slightly.

"Then Mary Schyler is--"

"My sister."  His eyes narrowed now as he studied her, and he felt his
skin prickle with the sensation of wariness.

"And you're..  Mary Michael?"  The serene smile returned.  She shook
her head.

"In Denver."  The water seemed several degrees colder than it had
moments before.

"Mary Renee?"

"Laying track for Northeast Rail somewhere in the Rockies."  The smile
had now reached her forest green eyes.

"Mary Margaret?"  It seemed that Walker had written to his friend about
the whole family.  She cautioned herself that she shouldn't be enjoying
this stranger's comeuppance quite so much.

"Recently graduated from the Philadelphia Women's College of Medicine
and back home on the Double H in Colorado."

"I see."  She gave him credit for masking his discomfort so well.  She
smoothed her cotton shift over her knees and looked at him
expectantly.

"That makes you Mary Francis," he said finally.  She couldn't help it
that her smile widened.

"That's right."

"The nun."

"The nun," she confirmed.  He surprised her again by turning the
tables.  In spite of the fact that she now commanded the high ground,
had solid footing, and was wearing the clothes this time, he was able
to stare her down.

"I don't think you have any shame," he said.

Turning in the water, he swam with strong but awkward strokes toward
the opposite bank.  Mary Francis sat as still as stone.

Several moments passed before she got to her feet.  She was reaching
for her own clothing when she heard him climb out of the water. Knowing
that he wasn't looking in her direction now, she began to dress.  The
black habit was creased by her earlier carelessness, and she made a
halfhearted attempt to smooth it.  She adjusted the stiff white collar.
Out of her pocket she pulled her rosary and attached it to her waist. 
She did not have her comet or veil and her red-gold hair was in
congruently bright against the severity of her habit.  She threaded her
fingers through it quickly, squeezing out the last of the water
droplets.  He was fastening his gunbelt when he heard her voice coming
to him quietly from across the water hole.  He paused, raising his
head, and looked at her.  She was standing there in her plain black
gown, both somber and simple, and he was thinking about a flash of
rose-tipped breasts.  She was standing there with the serene features
of an angel, and he was thinking about kissing that mouth.

She took a step closer to the water, the movement making the habit
shift against her legs.  Suddenly he was remembering the undulating
rhythm of hips and thighs and calves as she parted the water with her
body.

"Did you hear me?"  she asked.  His eyes never leaving hers, he shook
his head.

"You're welcome to come to breakfast at the house.  If you're hungry,
that is."  He was.  The train from West Point had deposited him in
Baileyboro long before any boarding house was serving a meal.  He'd
chosen to walk the five miles to the Granville mansion rather than cool
his heels at the station.

Now, not only was he hungry, it seemed he hadn't walked far enough.

"No, thank you," he said.

"I think I'll go straight to Walker's."

She could have said "Suit yourself."  God knew as well as she did that
it was what she wanted to say.  Mary didn't, however, believing she
might as well behave with charity in her heart right now rather than
confess a lack of it later.

"Walker and Skye have returned to China," she said.

"They left soon after Maggie's graduation.  There's no one at the
mansion except the groundskeeper and his wife."  She took the path that
led into the forest and then to the summer house, leaving it to
Walker's friend to follow her or not.  He drew abreast of her more
quickly than she would have thought possible.  His passage was both
swift and silent.  She made no comment about his decision to join her.
The fingers of her right hand ran absently along the length of her
rosary.

"My name's McKay," he said.

"Ryder McKay."  Mary acknowledged the introduction with a brief nod.

"I don't recall Walker mentioning you, but then I haven't spent much
time with him.  It's unfortunate he's not here to greet you."

"I doubt he'll think so," Ryder said.

"He wanted to return to China."

"My sister was excited as well.  Skye imagines herself to be some sort
of adventuress."

"Then she married the right man."  Mary glanced at him sideways.

"Yes," she said quietly.

"I think she did."  They walked along in silence, their path shaded by
the sweeping boughs of pine and oak and hickory.  When it rose more
steeply she raised her gown and revealed she was still barefooted.  She
had no difficulty crossing the uneven ground.

"What led you to the pool?"  she asked as they came over the rise.  The
summer home was a hundred yards across an open field, in front of them.
Blackeyed Susans, columbine, and day lilies dotted the field.

"Why didn't you come to the house if you thought Walker lived there?"

"It was too early.  I looked around, but no one was up.  It seemed more
polite to wait."

"But what led you to the pool?"

"The scent of water."

"The scent?

But-" He shrugged, cutting off her question.  It wasn't something he
could explain and it wasn't something she could understand.  She
probably wondered why he hadn't gone directly to the river, but that
had a different scent than the place she called the pool and he called
a watering hole.  Mary didn't pursue her question.  The summer home
beckoned her, its newly painted, white wooden frame gleaming in the
sunshine.  The windows winked at her.  At the entrance to the enclosed
back porch she wiped her feet on the hemp mat, then slipped them into a
pair of soft black leather slippers.

She picked up a pail of raspberries she had picked earlier in the
morning.  Raising it in front of her, she said, "I was already up when
you came by, I just wasn't home."

"I stand corrected," he said somewhat stiffly.  She hesitated a beat,
fighting the urge to look away.

"I'm sorry about what happened at the pool," she said quickly, before
the apology stuck in her throat.

"I should have told you at the beginning.  I knew it would make a
difference."

There was a hint of roughness in his voice and an intensity about his
light gray eyes.

"Why didn't you?"  Mary didn't respond.  She preceded him into the
kitchen, knowing it would take a lot of soul-searching to answer that
question honestly.  The kitchen of the summer house was spacious.  A
large, solid rectangular pine table dominated the center of the room.
Kettles and skillets and cooking utensils dangled from iron hooks on a
wooden frame which was suspended from the ceiling.  One of her sisters,
she couldn't say now which one, had christened it the pan chandelier
and the namie had stuck.

"Will pancakes be all right?"  she asked, reaching for one of the
cast-iron skillets.  He nodded shortly and looked around for something
that he might do.  Her hospitality confused him.  Ryder McKay wasn't
used to a welcome mat.  An invitation into any home was rare, and the
circumstances of this invitation were most unusual.

"Just have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the six chairs
gathered around the table.

"Unless you'd rather eat in the dining room?  You could wait in the
parlor while I cook."  He nudged one of the chairs out with the toe of
his boot.

"No," he said.

"This is fine."  More than fine, he thought, but he didn't say the
words.  He was conscious of his dusty boots, of his clothes that looked
as if he'd slept in them, of his dark, damp hair that was just
beginning to dry at the back of his neck.

"You can hang your duster on that hook by the back door," she told him
when she saw him hesitate.  Mary glanced at his empty hands.

"You don't have a hat?"  Ryder shook his head.  Most often he wore a
bandana tied around his forehead and hair.  He had one in the pocket of
his duster, but he hadn't worn it since leaving Fort Apache two weeks
ago.  He touched the back of his neck again.  It was when he had cut
his hair.  He was aware suddenly that Mary was looking at him
expectantly, and Ryder realized he'd still made no move to take off his
coat.  He did so now, hanging up not only the coat but his gunbelt as
well.  Although his hostess made no comment, he could sense her relief.
The black iron stove was a monstrous contraption that generally needed
more coaxing than a contentious child.  On this occasion it fired up
easily, and Mary set the skillet, adding a dollop of butter upon it to
heat.  She quickly put the pancake ingredients in a bowl and placed it
in front of Ryder along with a wooden whisk.

"You mix this while I clean the berries."  Welcoming something to do,
Ryder didn't object.  Butter was popping on the skillet by the time he
had the batter smooth and without direction from Mary he left the table
and began pouring the first cakes.  At the sink Mary paused and glanced
over her shoulder to where Ryder was working.  He was intent on his
task and didn't appear to sense her interest.  There was nothing
tentative about his work.  His movements were crisp and efficient as he
measured out the batter and, later, when he flipped the saucer-sized
cakes.  She turned back to her own work, finished rinsing the berries,
and sugared them lightly to bring out their own juice.

"Do you want coffee?"  she asked, realizing she was remiss in not
thinking of it earlier.

"Are you having it?"

"No.

I'm drinking milk."

"Milk will be fine."  Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall
when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk.  It wasn't as long ago
as the last time he'd been swimming, it only seemed that way.  He
expertly flipped another cake and placed it on a warming plate.

"Do you want me to get it?"  he asked before he poured more batter.

"I saw the cooler on the back porch."  Mary accepted his offer,
reasoning he wouldn't have made it if he minded.  It gave her the
opportunity to set the table.  In a matter of minutes they were sitting
at a tight angle to one another, unfolding their napkins.  Ryder
started to pick up his fork when he saw Mary bow her head.  His lean
fingers released the fork and his hand slid onto his lap.  He lowered
his head, but didn't close his eyes, watching Mary instead as she said
the blessing quietly.  When she was finished she smiled encouragingly
in his direction.

"Please help yourself."  For a moment he couldn't think what she meant.
He was staring at her mouth, at the smile that had some extraordinary
power to tilt him off center.  He blinked.  His world was righted as
her smile slowly faded under his penetrating stare.  He looked away
abruptly, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the pile of pancakes.  Out
of the corner of her eye Mary watched Ryder stack his cakes, spread
them with butter, and add the sweetened raspberries.  She appreciated
his appetite and wondered when he'd last eaten, though good manners
dictated she couldn't ask.

"How do you know Walker?"  she said, lifting two pancakes to her own
plate.

"We met at West Point."

He saw her startled pause.  The reaction didn't surprise him.

"I

was two years older than Walker, but we began at the same time.  He
finished.  I didn't."  She resumed preparing her pancakes.

"But then that's probably more in line with what you'd expect of me."

Mary's red-gold brows arched.

"I don't believe I've formed any expectations regarding you, Mr. McKay.
We've only just met."  He said nothing and applied himself to his
meal.  She was silent for a few minutes, then asked, "How is it that
you came to go to West Point?"  Ryder looked at her frankly.

"How is it that you came to go to the convent?"  Mary's head jerked a
fraction in response to his candor.  He couldn't have let her know any
more clearly that she was intruding upon his privacy.

"Look, ma'am," he said.

"If the price of breakfast is having to answer your list of questions,
I think I'll pass."  Waiting for her reply, Ryder leaned back in his
chair and pushed away his half-eaten plate of food.  Mary found herself
apologizing for the second time that morning.

"You're right," she said softly.

"I was being unconscionably rude.

There are no strings to breakfast."  She pushed his plate toward him
again, even as she felt her own appetite fading.

"Eat your fill.  I won't bother you again."  She noticed he did not
require a second invitation.  He tucked into his food with relish while
she mostly pushed hers around her plate.

"This is a big house for just you"' he said, looking around the kitchen
again.

"Are you here alone?"

"Right now I am.  Jay Mac and Mama were up here for most of June and
they'll return again next month.  They hire some help in Baileyboro to
maintain the house.  I didn't want anyone here, so I sent them away."
Her sigh was a trifle wistful.

"But you're right, it's a big house to ramble in alone.  Every room has
memories, this one perhaps more than any other.  Sometimes I can almost
believe I hear the Marys laughing and bickering and chattering."  She
smiled gently now, thinking about squabbles at the kitchen table over
who would clean the berries and who would make the pie crust, who would
set the table and who would pour the milk.

"There were too many of us and not always enough jobs."

"The Marys," he said thoughtfully, interested.

"Is that what you call yourselves?"  Her smile deepened to a grin.

"No.  My father called us that.  He came up with it after we started
calling him Jay Mac.  He mostly used it when he was thinking of some
collective punishment."

"Collective punishment?"

"You know, when one of us had done something wrong and wouldn't admit
to it.  Jay Mac would line us up, oldest to youngest, and pace the
floor in front of us, speaking to our mother as if we weren't in the
room at all."

Mary's voice deepened, her brow furrowed, and she tucked her chin lower
and looked up, as if she were looking over the rim of invisible
spectacles.  Ryder watched, fascinated by this imitation of John
MacKenzie Worth.  The man was a leader of industry, the owner of one of
the most powerful and successful rail lines in the nation, a personal
friend of presidents and generals.  He was not a man to be taken
lightly or to be made light of.  Yet his daughter showed no compunction
about sharing this intimate glimpse into their family life.  ""Moira,"
he'd say, 'the Marys have perpetrated a most heinous crime.  I count
two of my cigars missing from the humidor on my desk.  Not one Mary
will admit to it, so all the Marys must bear the responsibility."

"The impression she gave of Jay Mac was quite credible, but then all
her sisters agreed she'd had more years to practice it.  Mary
straightened and resumed her own sweetly melodious voice.

"He'd go on for a few minutes, hoping to wear us down, I think, but he
never did.  Being one of the Marys made us stronger.  Against a force
like Jay Mac, it was necessary to band together."  Half her mouth
curved in a quick smile that also lighted her eyes.

"Poor Papa, he's smart about so many things, but he's never quite
learned how to divide and conquer his five Marys."  If only a third of
what Walker had written him about the family was true, Ryder imagined
that five young Marys were a force to be reckoned with.

"Why were you all named Mary?"

"Mother's idea."  She took a sip of milk.

"Tradition, I suppose.

She's Irish, you know.  And Catholic, of course.  But Jay Mac's a
thorough Presbyterian, and then there's the problem of us all being
bastards because Jay Mac didn't marry my mother until a few years ago."
She glanced at him, wondering what Walker had revealed to him.

"Did you follow that?"  He nodded, but he was paying more attention to
the fact that she had a milk mustache on her upper lip.  Her youthful
smile, the odd cropping of her red-gold hair, and now the milk
outlining the shape of her upper lip made her seem as young as a
schoolgirl.  As innocent as one, too.  He needed to remind himself of
that.  He cleared his throat and touched his own lip.  She understood
immediately.

"Oh," she said a bit self-consciously.  She dabbed at her mouth with
her linen napkin, then looked to him.

"Better?"

"You got it all," he said, not quite answering her question.

"So you were all Marys."

"Well, yes," she said, picking up the threads of her story.

"But not really.  I'm called Mary.  Sometimes Mary Francis.  My sisters
were always Michael, Rennie, Maggie, and Skye.  They only heard Mary
precede their name if they were in serious trouble."  Which sounded as
if it had been rather frequent, he thought.

"Who stole the cigars from the humidor?"

"What?  Oh, the cigars."  Mary gave up any pretense of eating.  She
carried her plate to the sink and scraped the uneaten pancakes into a
pail.

"It was Michael.  She actually liked the smell of cigar smoke."

"What was your father's punishment?"  Turning to face him, she leaned
back against the sink.  Her nose wrinkled with the power of the
memory.

"We smoked until our faces were the color of pea soup."

"Michael, too?"

"Michael, too.  She lasted longer than the rest of us, which of course
confirmed her as the perpetrator of the heinous crime in Jay Mac's eye,
but eventually she succumbed.  Jay Mac was pretty certain she'd never
pick up another cigar as long as she lived."

"Did she?"  Mary shook her head.

"Not that I know."  She gave Ryder a dead-on look and added dryly, "She
gave them up for cigarettes."  One corner of his mouth lifted slightly,
acknowledging the irony and humor.  He resumed eating while Mary
collected the skillet from the stove, the crusty mixing bowl and dirty
utensils, and began washing.  She didn't hear him come up behind her,
didn't know he was there until he slipped his plate into the
dish-water.  Surprised, she jumped a little.  Before she could say that
he had merely startled her, he was backing away as if he had been the
one who'd been burned.

"Don't worry," he said tersely.

"I'm not going to touch you."  Her forest green eyes regarded him
curiously.

"I didn't think you were.  And I wouldn't jump if you did.  You caught
me unaware, that's all.  I didn't know you were there.  I'm not
frightened of you."  He was quiet, measuring the truth of her words.

"Is it because you feel safe in that getup?"  Her brows rose a fraction
in reaction to hearing her habit described as a "getup."  Her tone was
patient but cool.

"It's because I don't think you intend me any harm.  You're Walker's
friend, aren't you?  Why would you want to hurt me?"

"You weren't so confident back at the water hole."

"Back at the..

the water hole I wasn't so confident you even knew Walker Caine."  She
turned her back on him and continued washing.

"And, yes," she added softly, with almost pained honesty, "perhaps some
of it has to do with my getup."  Then it had nothing to do with him, he
thought, wondering if he could believe her.  Nothing to do with his
sun-bronzed skin, straight inky hair, or the gunbelt he wore low on his
hips.  Ryder reached in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out an
envelope.  It was wrinkled and dog eared.  There were a few smudged
fingerprints on the back.  He opened it carefully and took out the
contents.  The letter was two pages long, front and back.  It had been
handled with more care than the envelope.  He held it out to Mary.

"You don't have to prove anything to me," she said.

"Take it."  Mary pulled her hands out of the water, shook them off, and
wiped them on a towel.  She took the letter Ryder held in front of
her.

"This isn't necessary."

"Read it."  She had only taken note of Walker's handwriting once
before, at the occasion of her sister's wedding when he'd signed his
name to the marriage papers.  Mary quickly turned the pages, and her
eyes flickered to his signature.  She would recognize the scrawled and
sweeping lines of his "W" anywhere.  Having established the letter was
really from her brother-in-law, Mary went back to the beginning and
read it through carefully.  Most of the letter was about Skye, about
the hasty marriage, and the circumstances that had brought Walker to
the Granville mansion.

There was anecdotal information about Skye's family and descriptions
which brought a smile to Mary's lips.  Walker certainly had them all
dead to rights.  The letter concluded with an invitation for Ryder to
visit Walker and Skye whenever he wanted.

"Walker didn't know yet about his assignment to China," she said,
returning the letter to Ryder.

"He's been there and back and gone again."

"He didn't know when I would take him up on it."

Ryder replied.

"I haven't been much good about writing back myself."

"It was a rather nonspecific invitation."

"He meant it."

"I know that.  Walker didn't make the offer to be polite.

That certainly isn't his way."  Mary was able to see the envelope
clearly as Ryder replaced Walker's letter.

"Is that where you came from?"  she asked somewhat incredulously.

"Fort Preston in the Arizona Territory?"

"That's where I was when I got the letter.  I came from Fort Apache."

"You traveled over most of the country to see Walker without ever
thinking to check if he was here?"

"There's no need to be scornful," he said evenly.

"Or have I given you the impression I'm a stupid man?"  No, she
thought, that wasn't her impression at all.

"Quite the opposite," she said.  He folded the envelope and put it
away.  There was a gravity to his voice that hadn't been there
before.

"I came East to pay my respects to a teacher who died recently.  I
missed the funeral the military gave him, but I spoke to his widow and
made my peace.  That was what was important to me."  Mary saw that it
was.  The cleanly defined lines of his face were still impassive, but
there was a certain solemnness about his eyes.

"An instructor at West Point?"  she asked, beginning to piece things
together in her own mind.  He nodded.

"General August Sampson Thorn."  It was an impressive sounding name but
one with which Mary was unfamiliar.

"I don't believe I know of him."

"A veteran of battles at Shiloh and Manassas and some of the early
Western campaigns against the Cheyenne.  It's all right," he added when
she continued to shake her head slowly in nonrecognition.

"He would have rather been remembered for his career as a teacher."

"What was his subject?"

"Mathematics."  Once again she was disconcerted by his ability to
surprise her.

"This was a subject you liked?"

"Very much so."

"I see," she said, wondering what to make of him.  He almost smiled
then.

"No," he said.

"You don't see at all."  Mary noted that he didn't seem bothered by the
fact, which meant that he didn't care for her opinion one way or the
other.  She supposed that was as it should be.  They were virtual
strangers in spite of a common acquaintance and a perfunctory exchange
of names.  Mary finished up the last of the dishes while Ryder stood
by.

"When do you have to return to the Fort?"  she asked.

"I'm not going back to Fort Apache.  I have a new assignment."

"Here in the East?"

"No."  Was that disappointment he glimpsed?  Relief?

"In the Southwest Territory."

"You're regular Army?"  In Ryder's opinion there was nothing regular
about the Army.

"More or less."  he said.

"I scout for them."  Mary Francis Dennehy's laughter was not for the
faint-hearted.  It exploded from her like a burst of Gatling gunfire.
It was loud and raucous, yet wonderfully lively and infectious.  The
features that could be solemn and serene under the most trying
circumstances became animated and mobile.  Her eyes crinkled, her nose
wrinkled, her generous mouth split widely, and she flushed from the
hollow of her throat to her scalp.  Her family appreciated it.  Little
Sisters of the Poor made allowances for it.  Mother Superior suffered
it.

And Bishop Colden prayed it would never happen during his mass.

Ryder McKay took a step backward and stared mutely.

"Oh," she said, trying to catch her breath.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  No, I'm not.

Not really.  Oh."  Mary felt another burst of laughter rising in her,
and she fought to stifle it.  Brushing at the tears that had gathered
at the corners of her luminous eyes, she held her breath as if she had
hiccups.

"But it's so funny, don't you think?

You..  an Army scout... lost on your way to..  to..."

"To Walker's," he finished without any hint of humor.

"It was amusing when I realized it.  It's humiliating when you do."
That cut her laughter short.

"Oh, I didn't mean .. ."  Her voice trailed off when she saw his eyes
were not so sober as they had been a moment earlier.  He was teasing
her, she realized.  She dabbed at her eyes again.

"I wouldn't mention this to anyone," she said.

"I think I said that earlier," he reminded her.

"So you did."  She picked up a dishtowel but he took it out of her
hands and dried things himself.  She leaned against the sink and
watched him and wondered why he was here now, why he had lost his way,
and what it meant.

"There's a sign at the fork in the road," she told him.

"Walker's place is clearly marked."

"There was no sign," Ryder said.  Yes, she thought, there was a sign,
but it was one meant for her, not for Ryder McKay.  It was after
midnight when Mary left the summerhouse and retraced her steps back to
the pool.  The night was cloudless.  Starshine and a first quarter moon
lighted her path.

Mary hadn't even considered carrying a lantern.  She had found her way
unerringly to the pool on much darker nights.  This evening presented
no problem.  Wearing only her white cotton shift, she was like a wraith
as she crossed the field of wildflowers.  She padded silently where the
grasses had been beaten down.  The earth was cool on her bare feet as
she wended her way over the hillside, and in the forest the bed of
fallen pine needles was soft.  At the edge of the clearing she paused
as she had on so many occasions, as she had earlier this morning.  This
place was a sanctuary to her, a place of peace and worship, and she
gave thanks for it now.

Stepping forward to the natural stone stairway, Mary pushed the wide
straps of her shift to each side of her shoulders and let the fabric
glide against her skin like a caress.  She stepped out of the puddle of
material and unhesitatingly launched herself into the pool.  From his
perch on the far side of the water hole Ryder McKay watched the
graceful, supple arc of Mary's body as it slid almost soundlessly into
the inky depths.  He should leave, he told himself, because she valued
this place for its solitude.  For the second time he was the
trespasser, and for the second time he had failed to make his presence
known.  The thought came to him again that he should leave, but Mary
surfaced then and raised her arms, stretching, and moonlight limned the
slender length of them and Ryder stopped thinking about what he should
do and considered instead what he would do.  Mary turned on her back
and floated with little effort, kicking her feet just enough to keep
her on the surface.  The water was warmer than the air, and her skin
prickled and her nipples hardened.  She ducked backward into the water,
warming herself all over until she completed a circle and surfaced
again.  She could see her own breath like mist in the air .. or cigar
smoke.  She smiled.  Now why had she told Ryder McKay that story?  Or
any of the others during the afternoon and into the evening?  He had
wanted to be on his way after breakfast since there was no chance of
seeing Walker, but she'd pressed him into helping her with a few of the
heavier chores around the house.  He hadn't seemed to mind, she
reflected, and he was the one who offered to finish painting the porch
rails after lunch.  Neither of them mentioned dinner, but it seemed
natural somehow that he should stay, and then they sat on the swing at
the front of the house and time slipped away.  She was the one who
realized he was missing his opportunity to get out of Baileyboro, yet
she hadn't said anything about the train schedule.  It seemed only
right that she offer him one of the summer home's five bedrooms for the
night.  She hadn't thought about not being able to sleep while he was
in the house, while his bedroom was across the hall from hers.  She was
tired when she bid him good night; she hadn't expected to toss and turn
and wonder if Ryder was finding his own bed comfortable.  After thirty
minutes she had risen and gone to the window seat.  She had tried to
read, but the star shine on the field outside her window was more
intriguing.  The path to the pool unwound through the field like a dark
grosgrain ribbon.  Even though she sat at the window for another half
hour she knew where she'd find a measure of tranquillity.  Only it
wasn't the same now; and she knew better than to blame Ryder McKay. His
intrusion wasn't the problem.  That rested within her.  There could be
no measure of peace anywhere if she didn't find it first in her heart. 
It came without warning, the ineffable sadness that was so much a part
of her life of late.

The weight of it lay heavily on her chest, crushing it.  Each breath
was labored.  The movement of her arms became listless and leaden. Mary
was too experienced with the sensation now to fight it.  She gave in
and allowed herself to slip beneath the surface where her tears could
mingle with the water.  Ryder raised himself up slightly, anxious now
for Mary to resurface.  He counted the seconds and wondered how long
she could possibly hold her breath.

He was on the point of diving for her when she came up and headed for
the bank.  in the stillness of the night he could clearly hear her
pained gasps for air, and it was only by slow degrees that he realized
the rhythm was wrong, that what he was hearing were really Mary's
anguished sobs.  He came to his feet, intent on leaving now.

Whatever was pulling at Mary's heart was between her and her God, he
thought.  It wasn't about him.  He had no place in it.  Still, he found
himself walking the perimeter of the water hole and coming to stand
beside her prostrated body.  He scooped up her shift and crouched
beside her.

"Put this on," he said softly.  And when she couldn't quite manage it
herself, he helped her.  After that it seemed the most natural thing in
the world to take her in his arms.

Chapter Two September 1884, New York City Mary went home to write the
letters.  The convent in Queens was not the place where she could put
her thoughts to paper this time.  Although it had been her home since
she was seventeen, for just a month more than thirteen years, Sister
Mary Francis needed to go to the place of her youth.  The mansion on
the corner of Fiftieth and Broadway was a palatial affair.  John
MacKenzie Worth had had it built when he'd recognized the populace of
Manhattan was moving north.  Central Park was mostly farmland when they
first moved in.  In the beginning their house sat alone on a street
that, though it later became a thoroughfare in the heart of the city,
was then a muddy tract in the hinterlands.  The gray stone home was
large and solid, built to accommodate Jay Mac's mistress and his five
bastard Marys.  There was a lot of gossip among society's upper crust
when Jay Mac's plan was first revealed and still more during the
residence's construction.  After all, matrons tittered, Jay Mac and his
wife lived not far from the planned site.  How could he do this to
Nina?  How would that woman hold her head up?  Only Nina's death
finally silenced the gossips on that subject.  On another front, one
closer to his heart, Jay Mac heard from Moira that she really didn't
want to leave the flat where she had been living with her daughters.
True, they were cramped, and Mary was old enough to deserve her own
room, but it was hardly a squalid setting.

John MacKenzie Worth had not become one of a dozen of the most powerful
and influential men in the nation by listening to what everyone else
said.  The construction went ahead.  Now, as Mary Dennehy came to stand
in front of the spiked iron fence that bordered the property, she
appreciated her father's decision as she had never done before.  She
pushed at the gate and it swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.  Mr.
Cavanaugh's work, Mary thought.

Their groundskeeper worked hard to present the house in its best light.
The shrubs were carefully manicured, the rosebushes pruned lovingly.
Now that it was fall, marigolds and hardy mums followed the perimeter
of the house and touched it with a deep, rich rainbow of autumn's
finest colors.  Mary let the gate swing closed behind her and paused
briefly before starting up the walk.  She drew a calming breath to
order her mind because she recognized that the serene and stoic
presentation of the house was not what one necessarily encountered
inside.  A maid she didn't recognize greeted her at the door and took
her shawl.

"Where's Mrs.

Cavanaugh?"  Mary asked.  The groundskeeper had a perfect counterpart
in his wife, who oversaw all of the inside work.  Mrs.

Cavanaugh had been with Moira Dennehy and her children since they'd
moved from the flat to the palace.

"M'name's Peggy Bryant, Sister," she said, making a little curtsy.

"Mrs.  Cavanaugh's having a row with the butcher this morning.
Something about being charged twice for lamb chops that weren't worth
their price once."

Mary smiled.  It had been disconcerting not to see a familiar, loved
face immediately, but Peggy's story was pure Mrs.  Cavanaugh.

She loved to haggle with the green grocer, the butcher, the flower
vendor, and the milk man.  She watched every one of Jay Mac's household
accounts as closely as she watched the stock market.  In her mind the
two were related.  The housekeeper supposed that whatever she could
save on the front end would be returned to her twofold through her
stocks at Northeast Rail.  Jay Mac tried to explain once that it didn't
work that way, but there was no telling Mrs.  Cavanaugh anything once
she had her mind made up.  To Mary's way of thinking that trait went a
long way to making Mrs.  Cavanaugh one of the family.

"Your mother's gone shopping," Peggy offered.

"I don't think she expected you before tea."  Mary did not let her
relief show.  The comet of her habit continued to frame delicate,
serenely untroubled features.

"And Jay Mac's at his office?"

Peggy nodded, and several strands of dark hair slipped from beneath her
dainty, starched cap.  She tucked them back quickly.

"Since early this morning, Sister."

"I'm just Mary here."  Peggy's hazel eyes were skeptical as they took
in Mary's habit from head to toe.

"That will take some getting used to," she said uncertainly.

"I was raised by the Sisters at St.  Stephen's.  They weren't likely to
ask me to call them by their given names."  Mary saw Peggy glance
upward as if she were expecting lightning to strike.  She said dryly,
"In my experience, Peggy, our Lord uses more subtle means-at least
before tea."  Peggy's eyes widened so the whites were completely
visible around her hazel irises.

"Oh my, you're just like they said you were."  Mary didn't ask who
"they" were or what "they" said.  Clearly the newest member of the
staff had had her head filled with tales.

"I'd like to use my old room," she told Peggy.

"That's fine, Sister..  I mean..  ."

Her voice trailed off as she tried to correct herself "I just finished
cleaning it.  Mrs.  Cavanaugh said you might want to have a lie-down
there."

"Thank you, Peggy."  When the girl started to precede her up the
stairs, Mary laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"It's not necessary.  I think I know my way."  Peggy flushed.

"Very good."  She made another small bob and hurried down the hall.

Mary's room was much the way she had left it thirteen years earlier.
Dolls from her childhood crowded the overstuffed chair by the
fireplace.  Photographs of herself and her sisters as young hoydens
took most of the space on the mantel.  Her collection of small glass
figurines was still on one corner of her vanity.  An ivory-handled
mirror, a gift for her sixteenth birthday, still lay on the other
corner, her initials worked carefully into the pattern of roses on the
reverse side.  Two brushes, both made of boar's bristles and imported
from London, lay beside the mirror.  The small cedar box beside them
held ribbons and tortoiseshell combs.

Mary's slender fingers trailed lightly over the lid of the box.

Her hair had been her one true vanity, she thought, so it was good that
it had been cut.  She had had to fight tears as the weight of each long
curl was lifted away from her head and lopped.  There was no mirror for
her to watch the shearing, but a single glance at the floor, at the
red-gold carpet of hair surrounding her feet, told its own story.  The
face of Sister Benedict told another.

"She knew it was my vanity," Mary said softly to herself.  Her fingers
left the box and ran across the tips of the brushes.

"She took a lot of pleasure in watching it go."  Even now Mary could
hear the snapping of the shears.  There had been no public tears for
the loss of her hair, only private ones.  And they fell silently in her
solitary room as she prayed for forgiveness for being so proud.

"Maybe Sister Benedict knew I would always struggle with pride."

But Mary didn't believe it.  Sister Benedict was a small-spirited,
spiteful woman who liked nothing so much as making others feel they
were not as worthy as she.  Mary ignored the four-poster with its
eyelet lace comforter and pillow shams.  She had not returned to her
room for a lie-down as Peggy imagined.  She was set on a different
purpose this day.  Sunshine from the French doors fell across the
writing desk and polished floor in slanted rectangles of light.  Mary
sat at the desk and opened the middle drawer where the ecru stationery
was neatly stacked.  She had been composing the letters she was about
to write for months in her head.  Knowing what she wanted to say did
not make her task any less difficult.

The first letter was to Maggie.  Wise Maggie whose skill at healing
often extended to those with no visible wounds.  She wrote to Maggie
about her decision, what it meant to her, and what she suspected it
would mean to the family.  Maggie would understand where there would be
hurt and where there would need to be healing.

The letters that followed were copies of the first in some of the
content, but each missive accounted for the uniqueness of the sister
who was going to read it.  To Michael, the reporter for the Rocky
Mountain News Mary described her decision as writing a new chapter in
her life.  For Michael's twin, Rennie, a construction engineer for
Northeast Rail, Mary wrote in terms of building bridges with her past
and the foundation of her spirit.  Composing Skye's letter was perhaps
the easiest.  To Skye, her baby sister who wanted nothing so much as
adventure, Mary wrote of just that.

Change was its own adventure, and the change she was planning would
give her that ten times over.  Each letter was carefully folded, the
envelopes neatly addressed.  Three would find their destination in
different parts of Colorado.  One would find Skye months from now in
Shanghai.  Mary relaxed in the ladder-backed chair and stretched.  Her
fingers uncurled stiffly.  The small of her back curved until she felt
the lines of tension ease.  There was a tiny popping noise in her neck
as she moved it from side to side.  She picked up the letters and
carried them downstairs.  She considered giving them to Peggy to post,
but decided there was no one she wanted to entrust with the mailing of
these particular letters.

Mary found her shawl and left the house unnoticed, accomplishing her
mission by the time her mother arrived home from shopping.

Moira Dennehy Worth was a petite woman who stood only as high as her
oldest daughter's chin.  That didn't stop her from hugging Mary to her
breast as if this grown woman were still a child in braids.

"It's good to see you, darling," she said cheerfully.  She took a step
back, examined Mary carefully, and pronounced herself satisfied.

"You're looking very well.  You've a bit of color in your cheeks this
afternoon."

"You just squeezed it in there."

Moira wagged a finger, but she was smiling.

"Don't be insolent."

Mary kissed her mother's softly lined cheek.

"All right."  That lifted Moira's dark red brows a notch.

"So agreeable?  Are you certain you're not sickening with something?"

"Mother."  The dry, level tone was more familiar to Moira.  She smiled
and rang for tea.

"Come and see what I've bought for your nieces and nephew."

"Your grandchildren, you mean."

"You always were the quick one," Moira acknowledged with a sly smile.
She began opening the packages from A. T. Stewart's and Donovan's which
covered the cushions of all the available sitting space in the front
parlor.

She paused long enough in her enthusiastic recounting of choosing the
perfect dress for Madison to order tea and sandwiches when Peggy
arrived.  Mary dutifully admired each outfit and accessory her mother
unfolded from the tissue-paper packaging.

There was enough ribbon, lace, and bows to set up shop as a milliner.
Every item was quite lovely and obviously chosen with an eye for color
and the individuality of each of the grandchildren.

"Are you going to send these out for Christmas?"  she asked.

"Actually I was thinking I might get your father to visit Denver before
then."

"That's all?"  Moira asked.

"Just "Oh'?  "Don't you think it's a good idea?"  Mary injected the
proper note of passion into her voice.

"I think any time you can get Jay Mac away from the Worth building and
Northeast Rail, it's a good idea.  You'll have an argument, though,
since everyone was just together for Maggie's graduation."  Moira
sighed, surveying the bounty of purchases.

"I know.  But that gathering made me want to have all my babies under
one roof again."

"Babies or grand babies

"Both."

"Mother," Mary said, giving her a level stare.

"Skye and Walker can't possibly-"

"Oh, I know that, too.

It's just a dream.  I'll take as many of my babies as I can get."

Tea arrived and Mary helped her mother clear the love seats to make
sitting room.  The small watercress and cucumber sandwiches had a
delicate taste, and Mrs.  Cavanaugh had prepared Mary's favorite spiced
orange tea.

"Will Jay Mac be late this evening?"  asked Mary.

"No more than usual, I think."  Her mother frowned slightly.

"Why?  Is it a problem?  You can still stay for dinner, can't you?  We
have raspberry sorbet to finish the meal."  Mary couldn't help but
smile.  She supposed her mother hardly realized she was tempting her
with sweets as if she were a child.  Perhaps it was the nature of
motherhood to always see the little girl in the grown woman.

"I'm staying," she said.

"Even if raspberry sorbet is not on the menu."  The twelve-course meal
was served in the smaller, family dining room.  Moira and Jay Mac sat
at either end of the walnut table, and Mary, in spite of the fact that
there were five chairs she could have chosen, chose the one in which
she had sat for every meal with her family.  Perhaps, she reflected
later, it was in the nature of childhood to always be a little girl in
the presence of one's parents.  Jay Mac was full of news from the
business world.  Moira and Mary had no trouble following it.

They were familiar with the vagaries of the market, the unpopular
attempts to unionize laborers, the problems with getting government
land, and the difficulties laying track in the hostile Southwest
Territories.  Jay Mac shared his information as if he were among board
members, not family.  The expectation was the same: they should
understand what put food on their plates and cash in their coffers.
Somewhere between the artichoke consomme' and the roast lamb, Jay Mac's
recitation ended and he entertained questions and suggestions.  Moira
and Mary's contributions moved the meal through the light green salad
and salmon and peas.  Jay Mac listened thoughtfully to what they had to
say.  He accorded their opinions the same respect he accorded those of
his business associates, which was to say he took everything under
advisement.  His broad face could be impassive, the dark green eyes
distant, but when they lighted on his wife or his daughter there was no
mistaking the warmth at their depths.  John MacKenzie Worth wore his
authority and power as other men wore an old dressing gown.  He was
comfortable with the mantle of influence, enjoyed the responsibility
and the challenges.  Over the years it had been proven to him that
nowhere was he more challenged than in his own home.  He still had a
thick head of dark blond hair, but every graying strand at the temples
he counted as ground lost in a skirmish with one of his daughters. They
were all settled now, each with a family and a profession.  Even his
darling Mary had a family of sorts, Jay Mac thought.  He hadn't
approved of her joining the sisterhood; he considered it his first
major defeat at the hands of the Marys--but he had come to accept it.
He even made anonymous contributions to Little Sisters of the Poor to
help them run their hospital.  He suspected Mary knew where the large
donations to the charity originated, but she kept her own counsel.

Moira made overtures about a November trip to Denver while the potato
croquettes were being served, but Jay Mac did not bite on the dangled
bait.  She tried again, regaling him with a humorous account of her
shopping expedition, while they ate from a selection of cheeses.  He
chuckled in all the proper places but showed no interest in pursuing
the topic of a trip West.  Moira's unsuccessful maneuvering took them
just to the end of the meal, and so it was that Mary's own announcement
was finally made over the raspberry sorbet.

"I'm leaving the Little Sisters," she said.

Her tone was clear, and she didn't mumble or glide over the words.

Still, she had to repeat herself because neither Jay Mac nor Moira
could believe they'd heard correctly.  Though her resolve had not
changed, it was more difficult to say the second time.  Jay Mac didn't
watch Mary as she repeated the words.  This time he watched his wife.
Moira's complexion faded to the paleness of salt, and she looked as if
she'd just swallowed arsenic.

"You're serious about this?"  Jay Mac asked.

"You can't be serious!"  Moira said almost simultaneously.  Mary pushed
away the dish of sorbet.

"I've quite decided," she said calmly.

"You mean you're joining another order," Moira said, her voice at once
coaxing and hopeful.

The question challenged Mary's composure, but she managed to meet her
mother's eyes and answer with credible firmness.

"No, Mama, I mean that I am leaving the sisterhood altogether.  I'm
renouncing my vows."

"Oh, my God."  Moira's face crumpled and tears welled in her eyes.  She
was so frozen by the revelation that she couldn't raise the napkin from
her lap to her eyes.

"Oh, my God," she whispered softly, tragically.  Mary had had a
suspicion all her life that the clashes with her father were preparing
her for something more formidable.  She knew now that it was true and
called on an inner reserve of strength, if not Divine guidance, to see
her through this battle with her mother.  It was accepted, even
encouraged in a subtle sort of way, to match wills with Jay Mac.

It fostered purpose and initiative and clear thinking.  For as long as
Mary could remember, no one had ever stood up to her mother.

It had never been necessary.  Until now.  Jay Mac cut through the
tension at the table by posing a question and drawing attention to
himself.

"Perhaps if you told us what's brought this about," he suggested.
Mary's hands were clasped in her lap, the knuckles nearly bloodless
from her tight grip.  Her chin lifted a notch, but her face remained
composed.

"It's not easy to explain," she said slowly, searching for the right
words.

"Sure, and it's a crisis of faith," Moira interrupted.

"That's what it is.  I'm certain if you talk to Bishop Colden or Mother
Superior they'd tell you it's not an uncommon experience.  People of
the cloth go through it just like parishioners.  It doesn't mean you
have to leave the church."

"Mama," Mary said with rather more sharpness than she intended.

"A crisis of faith is not a cold.  It's not something one catches and
suffers.  One doesn't simply recover and go on.  And I've talked to
Bishop Colden and Mother Superior, and they agree this is not a crisis
of faith."

"Moira," Jay Mac said firmly, deeply.

There was a caution in his tone he did not often use with his wife.

"Let Mary say her piece."  Moira was stricken.  Her head snapped up,
and her full mouth narrowed.  The usual sparkle in her eyes was a
militant glint now.

"You're taking Mary Francis's side," she said, accusing in her hurt.

"Sure, and you never wanted her to take her vows.  You should be
reminding her to honor her promises, especially when they're made to
God."

"Please," Mary implored softly, her eyes darting between Jay Mac and
Moira.

"This isn't supposed to be an argument between the two of you."  It was
as if she hadn't spoken.  Jay Mac tempered his tongue by taking off his
spectacles and making a show of cleaning them.

"In the first place, Moira, I'm not taking anyone's side.  As near as I
can tell there's no side to be taken.  And while it's true that I
didn't think Mary should take her vows, I had to finally accept it was
her decision.  Now, if something's happened to make her change her
mind, isn't that between her and God?  Don't you think she's discussed
this with Him?"  He rose from his chair and replaced his spectacles on
the bridge of his nose.  Without asking what they wanted, he went to
the sideboard and poured three cognacs.  Rather than returning to his
own chair at the head of the table, he pulled out the one at a right
angle to Mary.  He set the glass in front of them and indicated they
shouldn't be shy about drinking.

"Do you think it's a crisis of faith, Mary?"  She raised the
balloon-crystal glass between her hands, warming the liquor, but she
didn't drink.

She shook her head slowly.

"No, it's not that.  My struggle hasn't been with God but with what He
wants for me.  It's not that I don't believe in Him, I believe He has
something else in mind for me."

Moira stared straight ahead, looking at neither her husband nor her
daughter.  Her expression was stony, and when Jay Mac laid a hand on
her wrist she stiffened and tightened her lips.  Mary saw the movement,
and the ache in her heart grew deeper.  The sympathy in her father's
eyes only made her want to cry.

"I've given this a lot of thought, Mama."

"Then you should have prayed more and thought less."  Jay Mac's sandy
brows arched this time and he lowered his chin, looking hard at his
wife over the gold-wire rims of his spectacles.  In thirty-one years of
knowing and deeply loving Moira this was a side he had never seen.  It
was not like her to be so closed or intractable.  She was more subtle
about her wishes than this exchange would lead one to believe.  And she
was never cruel.

"Moira, to twist your phrasing, you're being thoughtless."

"Mama," Mary entrusted, breaking in.

"I did pray.

This wasn't a decision quickly come to."  Moira shook her head.

"I don't believe it."

"I can't be responsible for what you believe," Mary said tonelessly.

"But it's the truth that I've been struggling to just this point for
years."

"Years?"  Jay Mac asked, surprised himself.

"Mary, you've never let on, never told anyone."  The corners of Moira's
eyes creased deeply and she gave Mary a narrow glance.

"Not your sisters?  Did you tell them and swear them to secrecy?"

"No.  I didn't do that.  I told them today, by individual letter.  I
wouldn't mock you and Jay Mac by sharing with them and not with you. If
any of the Marys suspect it would be Maggie and Skye, and that's only
because they've been close to home until recently.  They saw me more
often, and perhaps there were hints that I didn't know I was giving." 
Moira was not mollified, but she didn't comment.

"Mama, what would I have said?"  Mary went on.

"And when would I have said it?  My decision's made now, and I can
hardly find the right words to explain.  Most of the time the conflict
is grappling with uncertainty.  One hardly knows whether to reach for a
light or snuff one out.  When I went to our summer home in July it was
to be alone with my thoughts and my prayers, and find answers to the
questions I could hardly express."  She paused and reached forward to
touch her mother's arm, stopping short of Moira's satin sleeve when her
mother did not lean in to her.  Mary's hand hovered for a moment then
was withdrawn.

"Can you understand any of this, Mama?"  When Moira didn't answer Mary
looked helplessly to her father.

"It's a lot for her to accept," he said quietly.

"There's been no warning.  It's a shock, I confess, even to me."

Mary nodded.  It had gone as badly as she had feared, and her world
seemed shifted for it.  The only thing that hadn't been changed was her
mind.

"Perhaps it would be better if I didn't spend the night here."

"Don't be absurd," Jay Mac said brusquely.

"Of course you'll stay here.  This is still your home.  God knows your
room hasn't been changed in thirteen years and it's certainly ready for
you now."  He looked sideways at Moira.

"It's almost as if someone's been expecting you."

"I wouldn't put that construction on it," Mary said, coming to her
feet.  In spite of her best intentions her tone was caustic.

"It's more likely that Mama wanted to remind herself of the sacrifice
she made."

"Sacrifice?"

asked Jay Mac.  Moira stared at her oldest daughter.

"What sacrifice?"  Before Mary could help herself she said, "Me, Mama,
I'm the sacrifice.  You offered me up to the Church to atone for your
sins."  Jay Mac stayed Moira's hand, keeping her from striking Mary.

"I think you'd better go to your room, Mary.

Enough's been said here this evening."  For once Mary Francis Dennehy
had no argument with her father.  Fort Union, Arizona Territory The
ball was in full swing.  The officers' wives wore a brilliant array of
colors, taking this occasion to show off their finest gowns from back
East, or at least something they'd been able to order from San
Francisco.  The fabrics were satin and silk and taffeta, and their hues
covered the spectrum.  The wives looked especially bright against the
solid blue dress uniforms of their husbands.  Gold braid, white gloves,
and polished black boots, all of it so distinguished on the parade
ground, was now a mere background complement to a dizzying display of
crimson and sapphire, emerald and jade.  Not every officer had a wife,
and not every woman at the ball was married.  Several of the women were
mere girls, still fresh-faced from the schoolroom.  Others were in
their early twenties and of a single mind to leave the arid drabness of
Fort Union.  They were the daughters of commissioned and
noncommissioned officers alike, and their dance cards were eagerly
sought by the eligible bachelors.  It would have been unthinkable to
allow any one of them to go unaccompanied through a single dance,
especially when their fathers were taking notice.

Even eighty-year-old Florence Gardner did not want for partners.

The interest shown her was in part because she was shockingly free with
her opinions and always engaged in lively conversation, and in part
because she was the widowed mother of Fort Union's commander.

Although all the women were sought as partners, one particular woman
enjoyed a surfeit of attention and accepted it as her due.

Her presence was suffered by the officers' wives and despised by the
officers' daughters.  Florence Gardner was the only one who found
amusement from her presence at the fort, though she kept it to herself.
Anna Leigh Hamilton bore the stamp of Eastern sophistication that none
of the other women in the room could rival, except perhaps the
general's mother who didn't care to.  It was not that the wives and
daughters hadn't once enjoyed the same well-mannered polish Miss
Hamilton wore as regally as elbow-length gloves, it was simply that the
heat and hardships of the Arizona Territory, the daily threats of raids
and uprisings, had worn away the pretenses and conventions.
Practicalities were more important considerations in this harsh
environment than polish.  Anna Leigh Hamilton didn't expect to stay at
the desert fort long enough to lose the radiance and refinement that
drew so many covert glances in her direction.  She looked forward to
returning to San Francisco, then to Washington, with her widowed
father.  She would play hostess for him again, attend the theater and
the opera, and choose from among the most advantageous of the
invitations for dinner parties and carriage rides.  She would entertain
congressmen and judges and generals, sometimes in the parlor or dining
room of their grand Washington home, sometimes in the even more
intimate surroundings of her grand bed.  Ryder McKay casually flicked a
cigarette into the dirt when he heard someone approaching.  Turning, he
leaned negligently against the wagon wheel he had been inspecting
moments earlier.  The woman's silhouette was outlined by the bright
candlelight coming from the officers' hall behind her.  Ryder
recognized her immediately and his wary, guarded features faded.  The
posture that had looked relaxed now actually became so.

"Don't you have enough partners in there?"  he asked.  His raised chin
indicated the hall.

"You're not going to insist on making me do a with you?"  Florence
Gardner laughed gleefully.

"And get my toes trampled in three different places?  I don't think
I'll risk that."  She leaned a little heavily on her ebony cane as she
came closer to the wagon, and didn't offer any resistance when Ryder
picked her up by waist and set her on the back of the wagon bed.  her
It was very like him to notice her discomfort and act to relieve it.
Looking at him carefully, his strong features handsomely carved by star
shine and firelight, Florence was moved to sigh.  She tapped him on the
chest with the curved handle of her cane.

"If I were forty years younger..."  Ryder smiled at that.

"You'd still be old enough to be my big sister."

"Ill-mannered but," she said pleasantly.  She made it sound like a term
of endearment.

"Why aren't you inside filling dance cards?"  He didn't answer, turning
to his inspection of the wagon again.  It was a bone of contention
between them, and Florence Gardner knew precisely how he felt.  He
wasn't an officer.

That covered his end of the argument as far as he was concerned.

Given the opportunity, the general's mother would have pointed out that
neither was Ryder regular Army.  He had never been an enlisted man.
Though he preferred to think of himself as a scout, he was much more of
a special agent, contracted by the Army for very particular
assignments.  He had as much right to be in that room as the senator
from Massachusetts, the prospectors from the Holland Mines, or the
surveyors from the Office of Land Management.

"Humph."  Florence snorted when she couldn't get a rise out of him.

She smoothed the edges of her thick white hair where it had come loose
from its combs.  Her pale blue eyes sparkled a bit mischievously as she
said nonchalantly, "I thought you might be encouraged to take one turn
on the floor with the hussy."  Ryder's lean fingers paused on the
axle.

"I don't think I heard you correctly."  Florence rapped the cane on the
wagon bed several times.  The harsh tattoo made the wood vibrate.

"You know you heard very well.  There's nothing wrong with your ears.
I'm the one who's older than dirt here."  Ryder stood again and rested
one elbow against the side of the wagon.  He looked at her
consideringly.  She was a diminutive woman with pale skin and even
whiter hair.  Her mouth was too full and wide to ever be severe, but
she made an effort to clamp it down hard when she wanted to appear
disapproving.  In confidence she had once told Ryder that she had seen
too much in her lifetime to take anything too seriously.  As a result,
even at her most critical, most intolerant moments, Ryder saw through
the grimly set mouth to the youthful laughter in her heart and in her
eyes.  Sometimes, when no one else was looking, she even dared a wink
in his direction.  It was their shared secret.

"Well?"  she demanded with some asperity.

"Why aren't you-" Florence broke off as the double doors to the hall
opened and closed again.  Over Ryder's shoulder she saw the subject of
her question come into view.

"Don't look now, Ryder, but-" He nodded.

"I know.  I can smell her."  Florence knew Ryder was referring to Anna
Leigh's expensive Paris fragrance, but the fact that he gave it no more
due than smelling cattle droppings tickled her fancy.  She laughed so
hard tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.  Ryder reached in his
back pocket and extended his bandana.  The older woman took it
gratefully and dabbed at her eyes.  She stuffed it back in his hand
just as Anna Leigh came upon them.

"Help me down, Ryder," Florence said.

"I'll go back to the ball.  Even in this desert, three's a crowd."  She
smiled serenely at Anna Leigh as she was gently set down.  Her parting
smile for Ryder was a shade more coquettish.

"Behave yourself."  Not certain for whom the admonishment was meant,
both Ryder and Anna Leigh watched her go.  When Anna Leigh turned to
Ryder he was already engaged in his inspection of the wagon.

"Doesn't the Army have people who do that sort of thing?"  she asked.

"Yes," he said shortly.

"Me."  Anna Leigh laughed lightly.  It was a trilling sound, sweetly
melodious.  She couldn't know that it served to remind Ryder McKay of a
heartier, healthier laugh.

"I thought I would see you this evening," she said.  He didn't look at
her, giving his full attention to his work.

"You are."  She was more intrigued by his rudeness than offended by it.
She followed him as he walked around the wagon.

"My father thought you'd attend the ball.  It's in his honor, you
know."

"I know."

"You were invited, weren't you?"

"I was."

"Then why-"

"Personal."  As far as Ryder was concerned the subject was closed.  He
had no need to explain his reasons to Anna Leigh Hamilton or her father
for that matter.  Anna Leigh's bow mouth was pulled in an attractive
pout.  It was a practiced expression, one that she had mastered in
front of her vanity mirror.  One hundred strokes to her silky, butter
yellow hair, gave her ample time to rehearse the nuances of expression
that ran the entire emotional gamut from melancholia to madness.  She
had a slender face with high cheekbones, a wide brow, and clear blue
eyes that could be both winsome and worldly.  Her complexion was
creamy.  The few freckles on the bridge of her slim nose were due to
nightly applications of lemon juice and morning applications of rice
powder.  Among her other attributes she numbered an hourglass figure,
slender well-turned ankles, dainty feet, and delicate bones.  The
attention that Anna Leigh Hamilton accepted as her right was due in no
small measure to the fact that she was a beautiful young woman.  Most
of the time she was skillful enough to conceal the fact that she knew
it.

"Don't you think it's a bit insulting?"  she asked.

"Not to come inside?"

"You're not inside," he pointed out.  She smiled now and wished he
would turn in her direction to see it.  When he didn't she made certain
the smile could be heard in her voice.

"Touche'," she said.  Anna Leigh ran her hand across the rough wooden
edge of the wagon, following the path of Ryder's own fingers as he
rounded another corner.

"What exactly is it that you're doing?"  she asked, curiosity quelling
her impatience.

"It's a wagon, isn't it?  Four wheels?  A solid bottom?"  More or less
a solid bottom, he thought.

"It's a wagon," he said.

"One of the ones you're escorting to the train station in the morning?"
At first he was surprised that she knew about it, then he reasoned she
could have heard it anywhere.  The trip was hardly a secret among the
men.

Still, he didn't deny or confirm her suspicions or ask her what she
knew about it.

"I'm going along," she told him.  Ryder stopped his inspection and
turned on her.  The night air was dry and crisp.

The harsh lay of the land was no harsher than the taut features of
Ryder's face.

"No, you're not."  Anna Leigh warmed to the look, thrilled by his
concern.  At the same time, she wasn't used to being told no.

"Papa said I could."

"And I say you can't."  Her light brows rose a fraction.

"I don't think this is your decision."

"We'll see."  He wasn't going to barge into the ball now.  His argument
with the senator could wait until they could talk privately.

"Shouldn't you go back to the dancing?"  he asked.

She shrugged.  The movement raised the half moons of her breasts a
little higher.  Anna Leigh noticed the motion drew Ryder's attention
but did not hold it.

"Is it because you're an Indian?"

she asked.  His entire body was rigid.  It was an effort to be
polite.

"I'm not certain I follow."

"Is that why you aren't joining the party, because the other scouts
aren't invited and you're an Apache just like them?"

"That's an interesting conjecture."  Anna Leigh continued to stare at
him expectantly.

She only came to his shoulder, but she knew the angle at which she had
to look up showed her throat to its long, slender advantage.

"Who told you I was Apache?"  Anna Leigh shook her head slightly as if
she were protecting her source.

"It's true, isn't it?"

Ryder doubted that anyone had told her.  More likely, it was her own
assumption.  She had seen him in comfortable conversation with the
scouts, sharing a table with them in the mess hall, and had drawn her
own conclusions.  She was encouraged in her thinking by his physical
appearance: the sun-beaten color of his skin, the thick mane of glossy
black hair, his strongly carved features.  She had ignored, as others
had before her, that he stood six to eight inches taller than the other
scouts and that his eyes were the color of early morning frost, or she
had explained the anomalies away by further assuming his heritage was
mixed.  Ryder's smile was cold, his eyes penetrating.  Anna Leigh
didn't know enough to look away.  She was mesmerized.  Abruptly Ryder
came to a decision.  Taking her by the wrist he led the senator's
daughter away from the row of wagons, away from the music and lights of
the officers' hall, and toward the soldiers' barracks.  He didn't take
her inside, but skirted the adobe building until he had her at the
rear.  She made no move to resist him, not when he pulled her into the
shadows behind the barracks and not when he pressed her against the
rough mud wall.  Her breathing was light, a little unsteady, but she
was excited, not fearful.

"Is this why you came out here?"  he asked lowly, the line of his jaw
tense.

"Were you hoping to have the savages' hands on you this evening?"  He
pulled at the puffed sleeves of her satin gown so her bodice slipped
lower.  Anna Leigh looked down at herself.  Even in the shadows her
skin was still paler than the hands that were on it.  The contrast was
startling, and Anna Leigh was aroused by it.

"I've been watching you," she whispered huskily.  From the beginning,
she could have added.  He was standing on the porch of the officers'
quarters when the entourage from Washington had arrived.  One of his
shoulders had been braced against a timber that supported the overhang,
and it was his indifferent, casual posture that she had noticed first.
He didn't leap to attention or stiffen self-consciously as one about to
come under inspection.  Instead, he tugged on the brim of his hat to
shade his eyes and disappeared just as the wagons were being unloaded.
His insolence did not go unnoticed by other members of their party, but
rather than being insulted by it, Anna Leigh was intrigued.

"You're not like anyone else here," she told him.  Ryder was not
particularly flattered by her observation.  Not only did it have the
easy comfort of a prepared speech, but there were men at Fort Union he
admired.  Not being like anyone else wasn't always a compliment.  A
hoarse sound came from the back of his throat, part growl, part purr.
His hands slid across her bare shoulders to her neck.  The rough pad of
his thumb brushed the hollow of her throat.  He saw her mouth part and
felt the catch of her breath.  He lowered his head.

"How sure are you of that?"  he asked softly.

"I want the same thing from you that they do."  His mouth clamped over
hers as his entire body drove her flush to the wall.  Anna Leigh
welcomed the pressure of his mouth.  One of her legs rose against his
flanks.  Her body rubbed his.  The bodice of her gown was pushed lower
and her breasts would have been exposed to the cool air if it weren't
for the protection of Ryder's coarse woolen jacket.  Friction radiated
through her tender skin, hardening her nipples and sending charged
currents of heat from her breasts to her thighs.  She felt her gown
being raised and realized he was going to take her out in the open,
standing up, her back pressed to a wall of dried mud.  If she hadn't
been clutching his neck for support, her fingers threaded deeply in his
thick, inky hair, she would have lifted the gown herself.  Suddenly
Ryder stopped his assault on her mouth, raised his head, and let her
see the glimmer of a smile on his face.  It had the warmth of a sliver
of light on cold, hard steel.

"I'm as white as you are, Miss Hamilton," he whispered roughly.

"If you're looking for a scalp to hang in your bedroom, you'll have to
look-"

Anna Leigh reared back and slapped him.

"Bastard."

"Wrong again," Ryder said pleasantly.  He ignored the heat in his left
cheek and made a gesture near his head, tipping an invisible hat to
her.  It was an absurdly mannerly touch given his behavior, and she did
not miss the mockery in it or in his expression.

"They said you're a half-breed," she called after him as he turned to
go.  Her tone was accusing, as if she'd been betrayed--not by the ones
who told her but by him.  Ryder paused long enough to speak to her over
his shoulder.  Anna Leigh had managed to right her bodice and was
smoothing what had been a carefully coifed hairstyle.

"If they told you that," he said, conveying something of his disbelief,
"then it was because they were warning you away from me.  Around here
white women don't throw themselves at Indians or half-breeds."

Anna Leigh's eyes widened.

"What are you saying?  Those bitches were trying to protect you?  Save
you for themselves?"  Ryder almost laughed.  He hadn't thought of it
like that, but he supposed it could be true.  The mothers didn't seem
to know whether to be hopeful or fearful that he would turn his
attention to one of their daughters.

"I figure they're hedgin' their bets until I make up my mind.  Truth
is, though, I'm spoken for."

"Spoken for?"  she demanded crossly.  Ryder didn't miss a beat.

"Florence Gardner."

The following morning Ryder reflected on the exchange between himself
and Anna Leigh Hamilton as the company was preparing to depart.  She
hadn't been able to respond to his parting shot for almost a full
minute, but made up for it later with a foul harangue that would have
made the coarsest whore sit up and take notice.

She was looking very demure this morning, he observed as Corporal
Harding gave her a leg up on her mount.  She handled the unfamiliar
mare expertly, calming her quickly and demonstrating at the outset who
was in charge.  Ryder had never had any doubt that she could handle a
horse.  His objection to her joining the expedition had nothing to do
with her riding ability and everything to do with the element of
danger.  Anna Leigh had a sweet, saucy smile for each of the sixty men
accompanying the wagons, from the lowliest driver to the troop leader,
First Lieutenant Spencer Matheson.  It was calculated to brighten their
day, make them forget the miserable heat, and encourage them to
remember how she had looked the night before in her jade satin ball
gown.  Ryder McKay was not a recipient of that smile.  For the troop
scout, Anna Leigh reserved a look that was haughty and superior, a
pointed reminder that in spite of his attempt to humiliate her, she had
still won an important battle.  He could not have his way in all
things.  Ryder dismissed the look she cast in his direction by simply
ignoring it.

He had more important things on his mind than Anna Leigh's petty
retributions.  He didn't understand or agree with her father's decision
to allow her to accompany the wagons.  Senator Warren Hamilton had
explained it to him, of course, but to Ryder's way of thinking it
didn't make sense.  It didn't matter to Ryder that the senator had
already made a promise to his daughter, or that he thought Ryder was
exaggerating the danger; as far as Ryder was concerned, any danger at
all presented too great a risk.  As soon as he realized the argument
was lost, Ryder lodged a personal protest with the fort's commander.
General Gardner listened, made his own attempt to dissuade the senator,
and was met with the same stiff resistance.  Finally the general had no
choice but to order Ryder to take her along.

"It's his business," he said.

"And you're not the one in command."

"I haven't forgotten my place," Ryder said.

"But I'm the one charged with the safety of this expedition and I don't
like it.  She doesn't belong."  General Gardner had held up his hand in
a weary but firm gesture.  The subject was closed and Ryder McKay was
dismissed.  When First Lieutenant Matheson moved his company out, Ryder
stopped thinking about Anna Leigh and her powerful, but ill-advised,
father; and concentrated on his assignment.  As an Army scout Ryder
held no formal rank.  His pay amounted to a little more than a
captain's salary because his skills were in great demand.  He carried a
map of most of the great Southwest in his head.  On long expeditions
through rocky canyons or scrub desert, Ryder proved he could find
water, forage for food in the brush, or hunt game if called upon to do
so.  He did not expect to be asked to fill any of those roles this
time.  The troop was escorting four wagons to the rail line at Colter
Pass southwest of Fort Union.  They would be met by the patrol that had
been stationed there for the previous month.

Matheson's troop would stay, spread out along the rails; and the
relieved patrol would return to the fort for a well-deserved rest.

To all appearances the journey was business as usual.  The wagons
carried supplies for the new patrol, enough to last at least two months
in the event there was a problem relieving the men.  The greased axle
wheels still groaned under the heavy burden of the foodstuffs.  If ever
there was a soldier who thought the Army's biscuits could substitute
for cannon fodder in a pinch, here was proof; for the wagons scored the
ground with their weight.  They carried kegs of fresh water, tins of
coffee, canned peaches, corn, tomatoes, and milk.  Jerky and rice and
dried beans filled large burlap sacks.  Sweets would be provided by
molasses and raisins.

Flour and salt were staples, but butter in the field was made from a
combination of bacon grease, flour, and water and had the consistency
of gravy.  A clay crock held sourdough starter for fresh biscuits that
would be a touch lighter than the ones they were traveling with.  The
men going to take their turn at patrolling the rail line looked wistful
when they had their last glimpse of the fort.  Few of them were
thinking of wives or sweethearts.  Almost to a man they were thinking
of their stomachs.

Ryder had no difficulty outdistancing the first lieutenant's men.

His job could never be done beside the men in his safekeeping.

Sometimes he worked with a partner, one of the other scouts for whom
there was mutual respect if not friendship, but most often he worked
alone by his own choice.  The route to Colter Canyon was not unfamiliar
to any but the greenest of the recruits.  Ryder wasn't along to blaze a
trail.  He had one purpose, to find Apache.  Many of the Apache tribes
that populated the Southwest Territory had been rounded up by the Army
and forced to take up residence on government reservations.  In spite
of that there were still renegade bands that struck hard and fled fast,
causing damage to themselves and the settlers alike.  Ryder thought of
them as resistance fighters, men who thought their way of life, their
beliefs, and their families were all worth saving.  It was not a
popular view, and because of who Ryder McKay was, and because of how he
was raised, to state his thoughts aloud would have brought suspicion on
his head.  He was well aware that no matter how he proved himself he
was always going to be regarded with a certain lack of trust.  Walker
Caine was an exception to that rule.  So was General Thorn at West
Point.  In the Southwest he counted two men who had shown themselves to
be in the same vein.  One was General Mitchell Halstead, recently
retired from his thirty-year career with the Army, and living in
Flagstaff.  The other was Naiche, a Chiricahua warrior and blood
brother to Geronimo, both of whom were still at large.  Ryder did not
expect trouble on the journey, but he had to anticipate it.  The
foodstuffs they carried were especially appealing to Chiricahua raiders
who would be looking to feed themselves and their families.  Ryder
watched the ground closely.  Displaced rocks were clues of someone
passing on the land in front of him.  He knew how to determine how many
were in a raiding party, if they walked or were on horseback, how fast
they were traveling, and if there were women and children bringing up
the rear.  Nothing he saw indicated the Chiricahua were on the trail of
the wagons or the company's horseflesh.  Ryder circled around and back,
covering the company's left flank and rear.  He waited on the high
ground among the red rocks for Matheson's men to catch up to him. Along
the length of a nearby wash was a low-growing, spreading mesquite tree.
Saguaro cacti spotted the desert floor; bristling guards for the
unwary traveler.  A tiny elf owl, no bigger than a finch, had taken up
residence in one of the thick arms of a cactus, his home compliments of
a woodpecker who had deserted the hole.  Ryder felt the skin at the
back of his neck prickle.  He did not try to dismiss the feeling.  It
was more important to accept it and understand what it might mean.  In
the distance he could hear the approach of the company, the shuffled
cadence of men and horses, the creaking rhythm of wagons on the hard,
dry earth.  Ryder could not see the column as they wended their way
through the canyon, but he followed the fine cloud of dust that rose
high in the air above them like a morning mist.  By the time they
reached him he had formulated a plan.

Chapter Three

First Lieutenant Matheson listened gravely to Ryder's concerns.

Matheson was a graduate of West Point and a veteran of two Western
campaigns.  He had been a quick study in the classroom and in the
field, and it was generally agreed he was a young man with a future in
the Army.  One of the things he had learned was to trust his scout.
This time Ryder was making that difficult to do.

"Tell me again about this premonition," he said impatiently.  The heat
was battering them all in spite of the fact that it was not yet eight
o'clock.  He lifted his hat momentarily and wiped his brow.  The Army
issued the same navy blue wool sack coat, flannel shirt, and kersey
trousers to soldiers from the Northern Plains to the Southwest.  The
clothing was as ill suited for the bitter cold of Montana as it was for
the unrelenting heat of the Southwest Territory.  There was leeway
given to men in the field, especially among the privates.  First
Lieutenant Matheson was expected to adhere to regulation dress.  Now he
was baking in it.

"What signs have you seen?"  Ryder was honest.

"None.  There's danger anyway."  Matheson swore softly.

"Jesus, McKay.  What the hell are we supposed to do about that?"

"How many of your men are new recruits?"

"Half, maybe a little more."  Ryder didn't like those odds.  He had
trusted the makeup of the company to others and now he wished he
hadn't.  These men weren't seasoned to fight well in an ambush.

"Split the company in two," he said.

"Two wagons for each group.  Divide the greenhorns in half, they'll
need help if it comes to a hand-to-hand fight.  You lead half through
the canyon.

Sergeant Shipley can take half on the longer route around."

Matheson wasn't certain he liked it.  Splitting a fighting force,
especially one as small as a company, was always risky.  To do it all
because Ryder McKay had a "feeling" could cost him the lives of his men
and a promotion.  He looked around at his troop.

"What about her?"  he asked, his chin jutting in the direction of Anna
Leigh Hamilton.  She was sweet-talking Corporal Harding into giving her
a drink from his canteen.  An unconscionable flirt, he thought, since
she was carrying her own canteen.  Matheson sighed and returned his
full attention to Ryder.

"For two cents I'd send her back to--"

"I'd do it for a penny," Ryder offered.

"But for right now it'd be better if she stayed with you."  Matheson
shook his head.  He rubbed his chin with the back of his gloved hand.

"She's safer with you.  You'll be out ahead of the rest of us.  If
there's an ambush you'll have warning before we will."

Ryder didn't repeat that there was no one out there.  He saw that the
first lieutenant was having a difficult time accepting the reality of
impending danger.  To remind him that there were no signs on the trail
ahead would not support Ryder's own case.  The sensation that prickled
his skin earlier had not left him since.

"I'll take her," he said at last, weighing his options.

"I won't be able to move as fast, but I'll take her."  Matheson
nodded.

"I

knew you would."  He also knew Ryder McKay would go to his death
protecting the Hamilton woman, if it came to that.  The first
lieutenant called Sergeant Shipley over and rapped out his orders.

There was a murmur of surprise up and down the line, but it was quelled
quickly.  Ryder did not wait for the sergeant to split the company and
organize the departure along two different routes.  He nudged his horse
forward to Anna Leigh's side, took the reins from her hands, and began
leading her mount away.  She was almost unseated by the sudden jerk
forward, and she gave Ryder a hard stare after she caught herself.

"What's going on?"  she demanded.

She looked around for someone to help her, but everyone was busy
carrying out Matheson's orders.

"Where are you taking me?"  He didn't answer her.

"I can take the horse myself," she said, trying to grasp the reins
back.  Ryder didn't want her to have control until he was certain she
would stay with him and not return to the company.  He jerked on the
reins and the cinnamon mare followed dutifully, even when Anna Leigh
tried to dig her heels in and hold her mount back.  As they climbed
higher on the uneven, rocky ground Anna Leigh kept looking back and
below.  She could see the company reconfiguring to part ways.

"What are they doing down there?"  she asked.

"Why are they breaking up?"  Her questions were unimportant to Ryder,
and they weren't answered.

"Save your strength," he told her instead.

"We still have a long way to go, and this route is the hardest."  Even
as he said it, her horse stumbled.  Loose rock and gravel shot out from
under the mare's hooves and clattered down the canyon walls.

"Are you trying to get me killed?"  Anna Leigh snapped.

"I want to go back with the lieutenant."  She stared daggers at Ryder's
spine when he didn't respond.  It was too dangerous to fight him for
control of her animal, so she concentrated on staying in the saddle
until they reached the top and the land flattened out again.  In the
end she didn't have the opportunity to wrest back the reins because
Ryder tossed them negligently in her direction.

"Don't make the mistake of trying to return by the way we just came,"
he warned.

"Your mare can't do it, and you'll break your neck."  A single glance
down told her he was right.

"I'd have thought that would please you," she said tartly.  Ryder
merely shrugged.

"Let's go."

"Wait a minute," she protested.

"I'm thirsty."

"I just saw you get a drink from Harding's canteen.  You can't need
another one already.

C'mon."  Anna Leigh stubbornly held back.  Her broad-brimmed straw hat
shaded the upper part of her face from the sun, even so, her blue eyes
glittered with anger at Ryder's high-handedness.  She sat stiffly in
her saddle, refusing to move.  Ryder glanced over his shoulder.

"You can drink as you ride."  He kept going, expecting her to follow.
He had covered fifty yards before he realized she wasn't behind him.
When he looked back she was exactly where she'd been minutes earlier.
In this test of wills Ryder could see that as long as she was conscious
she had the upper hand.  As he reined his mount around he actually
considered knocking her out and throwing her over his saddle.  Only the
burden that would have put on his mare made him think better of it.
When he came upon her he didn't say anything.  His level gray stare
bore into her.  His mouth was expressionless.

"You needn't look at me like that," she said.

"I told you I was thirsty."

"And I told you to drink on the way."  Anna Leigh pointed to the
canteen she had strapped across her shoulder.  The leather strap had
left a light sweat stain on her white blouse where it slanted between
her breasts.

"There's something wrong with my water," she said.

"It doesn't taste right."

"It probably tastes like the canteen," he said.

"That happens in this heat.  There's nothing wrong with it."  Anna
Leigh's lower lip was thrust forward.  The saucy pout usually got her
what she wanted.  On this occasion she got what she wanted in spite of
it.

"Take mine," Ryder said, unstrapping it from his horse.  He held it out
to her.  Anna Leigh offered hers in exchange.  She unscrewed the top on
his canteen and drank her fill.  Droplets of water slid over her chin
and onto her blouse, flattening it against her skin.

"Easy," he said.

"You'll get a belly ache."  Lowering the canteen, Anna Leigh wiped the
bottom of her chin with a gloved hand, then plucked at her damp
blouse.

"Concern?  From you?"

"You can't ride if you're sick."

"Is that why you're not drinking?"  she asked.

"Or do you believe me that the water's bad?"  Obviously she required
some proof before she was willing to move on.  Ryder uncapped the
canteen she had given him and took several deep swallows.  It was no
different than he'd expected; it had the tinny taste of the
container.

"Satisfied?"

Anna Leigh wrinkled her nose and let her distaste show.

"I don't know how you drank that," she said a trifle breathlessly.  He
strapped the canteen in place and gave his mount a kick.

"Let's go."  This time they covered a distance just short of two miles
before Anna Leigh pulled up.  She watched Ryder move on ahead of her,
weaving unsteadily in his saddle.  His horse slowed, uncertain of where
to go with no firm direction.  Finally the mare halted, shifted her
weight restlessly, but could not be urged forward.

Anna Leigh's approach was cautious as Ryder remained slumped, but
essentially upright in the saddle.  He managed to lift his head as she
drew up beside him.  His pale gray eyes were glazed, unfocused.

This time it was Anna Leigh who took the reins.  She led the horses to
a squared-off section of boulders that formed a shallow cave.  There
would be shade, even when the sun reached its zenith.

It looked like a shelter Ryder would have chosen for himself.  By the
time they reached the rocks Ryder was no longer self-supporting.  Anna
Leigh had to ride closely abreast of him and lend her shoulder to hold
him in his saddle.  His dark head was unprotected by a hat, and his
black hair fell forward on either side of his neck.  The red bandana he
wore was soaked with his own sweat.  His head lolled and his chin
rested heavily against his chest.  When Anna Leigh withdrew her support
Ryder's slide from the saddle was ignominious at best.  She looked down
at his sprawled, unconscious body.  There was no remorse on her face or
in her voice.  As far as she was concerned, he deserved it.

"I told you the water was bad."  Her sentence was punctuated by the
first of a volley of shots echoing in the canyon below.  There was no
time to take cover.  Matheson's first indication that something was
wrong was the return of the split-off company.  No wagons accompanied
them and less than half the men who had gone formed the new column.
Sergeant Shipley was no longer in the lead.  They looked like troops
who had just engaged in combat yet Matheson hadn't heard a single shot.
Matheson motioned to his second lieutenant.  The man was a recent
arrival at Fort Union, trained at West Point but a virgin in the
field.

"Go back to that column and find out what the hell's going on," he
ordered.

"I want to know what's happened to Shipley and the wagons."  Matheson
looked up into the canyon rocks.  Ryder and Anna Leigh hadn't been
visible for the last half hour.  He added impatiently, a trace of alarm
in his gruff voice, "And see if Ryder circled 'round to their side and
saw something."  Second Lieutenant Davis Rivers lifted his hand as if
to make a smart salute.  Spencer Matheson went to his death with that
vision in his mind.  Ryder's vision was fuzzy when he woke.

His hearing was distorted.  He could hear shouting and shots and an
Apache war cry that instantly took him back twenty-three years.  He
tried to come to his feet.  He couldn't even lift his head.  Anna
Leigh's voice was soft and soothing.

"Here," she said encouragingly.

"Drink this."  She held a canteen to his lips.

Ryder used what remained of his strength to clamp his lips shut until
Anna Leigh laid her gloved hand over his nose.  When he sucked in his
next breath she trickled water down his throat.  He stared at her for a
long time.  Her eyes were not cruel, merely frank.  Looking into their
light blue gaze he felt as if his will were being leached, his energy
sapped.  He tried to speak, but in spite of the water she had given
him, his mouth was dry.  He felt her hand slide into his.  With her
free hand she was undoing the buttons of her blouse.  He shut his eyes
and slept.  Davis Rivers was in command now, and he rallied his men.
They fought hard and took the advantage.  The battle was a bitter one.
Many men died without clearly seeing the enemy.  Some scaled the rocks,
but there was no quarter given.  They were hunted down, and none of
them made it to the top of the canyon rim.  The battle was over by
noon.

Five of the surviving men set grimly about the task of collecting the
dead.  Others removed foodstuffs from one of the wagons to make room
for the bodies.  Second Lieutenant Rivers called in another group and
gave them specific instructions.  One soldier was sent back to the fort
for reinforcements.  Rivers assigned himself and a private to go in
search of Ryder McKay and the senator's daughter.

"That half-breed son of a bitch is going to have a lot to answer for,"
he told his men.  They kept on working--time was short--but they
exchanged knowing glances.  Private Patrick Carr was the first to spot
Anna Leigh.  She was hatless and walking away from a grouping of
boulders that would have afforded her some protection from the sun.
Carr and Rivers pushed their mounts hard to get to her.  They knew she
had seen them when she dropped to her knees in an attitude of prayer
and exhaustion.

Carr dismounted swiftly and knelt beside her.  His eyes grazed her
face, her hair, and her clothing.  The assessment only lasted a few
moments, but it was enough for the private to draw his conclusions.

From his saddle Rivers regarded Anna Leigh.  Her hair was disheveled,
matted to the crown of her head by a rivulet of blood.

Dust streaked her face.  The bridge of her nose and her cheeks were
sunburned.  Two buttons were missing from her blouse, and there was a
rent in the seam of the sleeve.  Even though her leather skirt was tan
and meant for traveling, it was covered by a film of dust.

Private Carr raised Anna Leigh's hands and examined them.  The
manicured nails were broken and bloody.  Carr glanced at Rivers.

"Looks like the son of a bitch has more to answer for than we thought."
Davis Rivers said nothing.

"Did he leave you here?"

he asked Anna Leigh.  Her sob was wretched, but she managed to shake
her head.  She let Private Carr help her to her feet and leaned heavily
against him.

"He's over there."  Anna Leigh pointed in the distance behind her.

"In those boulders.  He said they would shelter us."  Her pale eyes
darted pitifully between her rescuers.

"How did you get away from him?"  Rivers handed her his canteen.

"The shots... they distracted him.  I hit him with a rock."  She
shuddered delicately, causing Carr to hold her more tightly.

"I was afraid after that .. . My horse bolted and Ryder's mare wouldn't
let me mount.  I didn't know what to do.  I stayed there with him until
it got quiet again, then I came looking for someone."

"Good girl," Carr said.  He asked Rivers, "You want to stay with her
while I check out McKay?"  Rivers shook his head.

"I'll go.  Wait here.  We're going to need him to show us another way
down.  We'll never get these horses down by the route we took."

Anna Leigh nodded.

"He told me that.  He knows another route."

Second Lieutenant Rivers kicked his mount in the flanks.  His mare was
high-strung from combat, but she was still game.  She covered the
ground quickly in the direction of the shallow cave.  Ryder was lying
on his side, knees drawn toward his chest.  There was blood at the back
of his head and there were scratches on his face and neck.  His jacket
was lying on the floor of the cave, but he still wore his shirt.  It
was open at the throat, and where the second lieutenant could see
Ryder's skin, he saw evidence of claw marks.

"Looks like she got some of her own back," Rivers said with certain
satisfaction.  He saw Ryder move slightly.  Rivers grimaced, took him
by the wrist, and jerked him hard to his feet.

Ryder came up, staggered, and dropped to his knees like a felled tree.
Rivers yanked him up again, this time by a handful of Ryder's thick
hair.  Half-dragging, half-lifting, the second lieutenant got Ryder
McKay to his own mount.  Ryder's vision was clearing at the edges, but
his arms and legs still felt too heavy to move.  He was aware of Davis
Rivers, of the second lieutenant's intention to put him on his horse,
but he couldn't cooperate.  More importantly, he wasn't certain he
should.

"Where's Miss Hamilton?"

he asked.  The words were slurred, but Rivers was able to make them
out.

"Carr's got her.  She's going to be fine, no thanks to you."  Ryder
tried to think what that meant, but he needed his concentration to help
Rivers get him in the saddle.  There was no time to explain about Anna
Leigh and the canteens.  Ryder wanted to see Lieutenant Matheson and
warn him about the real danger.  He allowed himself to be pushed
unceremoniously into the saddle and registered some surprise when the
second lieutenant tied his wrists to the leather horn.

"What-"

"You can ride like that," Rivers said tersely.

"I've seen you sit a pony without any reins at all."

Ryder's struggle was to keep his head up.  He didn't know how he was
going to find the strength to guide his mare.  And now Rivers was
asking him a question about the route down to the canyon floor.

He tried to think.  It was important for him to get there.  He had to
tell Matheson... He had to--"

"Which route, McKay?"  Rivers demanded again.  Out of the corner of his
eye Ryder saw Rivers raise one arm and make a gesture to someone in the
distance.  Ryder turned his head slowly, careful not to lose his
balance, and saw Anna Leigh sharing a mount with one of the company
privates.  He said something unintelligible, but uncomplimentary, under
his breath and nodded to Rivers.

"This way," he rasped.  As he led them all by a longer, less dangerous
route to the canyon floor, Ryder began to consider what he'd say to
Matheson.  His foggy mind still couldn't make sense of the ropes around
his wrists when the one who deserved stringing up was Anna Leigh
Hamilton.  He planned to use words to that effect when he came
face-to-face with the first lieutenant.  By the time Ryder's mind
cleared enough for him to understand his predicament, he was already
chained and under guard and on his way back to Fort Union.  New York
City At the knock at her door, Mary looked up from her reading.

"Come in," she said quietly.  Twenty-four hours had passed since she'd
shared her news at dinner.  Her mother hadn't spoken to her in all that
time.  In fact, Moira hadn't come out of her room.  Mary knew who to
expect.  Jay Mac walked in carrying a tray.

"Disappointed?"

he asked.

"Disappointed?"

"In it being me here and not your mother."  Mary shook her head.  She
was wearing a nightshift and her robe.  Her legs were curled under her
on the chair.  She put down the book and made room on the small end
table for her father to set the tray down.

"I don't anticipate Mama will have a change of heart any time soon,"
she said.

"I'm quite happy to have you here."  Jay Mac took a seat in the large
Boston rocker while Mary poured tea for both of them.

"I've tried talking to her," he said.

"I know.  I don't think she's ready to hear."

"I've been thinking the same thing."  Mary handed him a cup of tea.

"You didn't go to work today."

"No.  I thought I should be here in case she needed me."

"You mean you stayed in case Mama and I argued again."  Jay Mac didn't
even try not to look guilty.  He sipped his tea and enjoyed the
peacefulness of Mary's company.

Even in the midst of her own troubles she had a calming presence he had
always appreciated.

"I had a telegram from Rennie and Jarret today.  A messenger brought it
over from the office."

"Business or family?"

"Business this time," Jay Mac acknowledged.

"I'm sure she has her hands full with the twins, but you'd never know
it from her work for Northeast Rail.  She says Jarret's midway through
the negotiations for a tract of land in Arizona."

"Arizona?

That's interesting.  Northeast Rail in the Southwest."  she mused.

"You might want to think of changing the name of the railroad, Jay Mac.
It hardly fits anymore."

"I'm aware of that," he said.

"But I'll keep the name just to remind myself what a small thinker I
can be at times."  Mary laughed.  Northeast Rail was all over the
country now, but in the beginning she knew her father hadn't had a plan
so grand as all that.  Northeast's expansion had been prompted in part
by the war.  The Union industrialists laid track at a rate they had
never dreamed possible.  After the war, some predicted there would be a
lull, even a decline.  If it had happened to Northeast, Mary wasn't
aware of it.  Jay Mac's railroad continued to supply low-cost
transportation for goods and people as the country's Western move
enjoyed a resurgence.  Northeast had made a specialty of providing for
small mining communities cheap methods of moving their ore.  Rennie had
been responsible for several sidelines in Colorado, and had linked
Denver with silver mines in Madison, Queen's Point, and most recently,
Cannon Mills.

Jay Mac had worked hard to keep Rennie out of the business, but in the
past few years he had grown quite fond of the taste of crow.

Her expertise at knowing where and how to lay a track, coupled with her
husband's ability to supervise the labor gangs and negotiate the deals,
had pushed Northeast's profit margins beyond even Jay Mac's
expectations.

"Are she and Jarret in Arizona now?"  asked Mary.

"I just sent her a letter yesterday, to Denver."

"Michael will send it on, but yes, that's where the telegram
originated.  I didn't know she was thinking about it.  There's been so
much trouble on and off with the Indians."

"Are the twins with her?"

Mary asked immediately.

"Are she and Jarret safe?"

"Yes and yes."  He chuckled.

"The Office of Land Management is conducting a survey for them now.
Somewhere southeast of Phoenix.  Fort Union, I think she called it. She
and Jarret are waiting for news in Phoenix and planning another trip to
the Holland Mines."  He saw that Mary was still frowning.  A small
vertical crease ran between her feathered brows.

"What's wrong?  What are you thinking?"

"I

don't know," she said.

"Nothing really."  But she was vaguely unsettled, and she felt her
father looking straight through her.

"There must be other places Rennie can go.  What sort of ore is mined
there anyway?"

"Gold."  He refreshed his tea and added a little to Mary's cup.

"Drink," he insisted.

"It's good for whatever ails you."  She smiled because she was meant
to, not because of any easing of her disquiet.

"Is it an old mine?"  she asked.  Perhaps there was a chance it would
play itself out before the negotiations were complete.  Jay Mac shook
his head.

"Your sister wouldn't be interested in it if that were the case, not
without an extensive geo survey.  Rennie's telegram indicates this
one's about six months old.  She must believe it will produce long
enough to turn a profit for the railroad."  Mary's hands tightened
slightly on her teacup before she set it aside.  She forced a lightness
into her voice that she didn't feel in her heart.

"You know, Jay Mac, this is all very interesting.

"How so?"

"Well, I was thinking of leaving New York myself soon."

"Mary!"  She ignored him.

"And I've considered Arizona."  Jay Mac had to use more than a little
selfcontrol to stay in the rocker.  What he wanted to do was leap out
of the chair, tower over his daughter, and shake a finger in her
face.

"What the hell do you think you're going to do in Arizona?"  he
demanded, red-faced.  Mary blinked once in reaction to Jay Mac's
blustering then drew calmness around her like a cloak.

"I thought I might teach."

"Teach?"  he said dismissively.

"You're not a teacher."  She went on as if he hadn't objected.

"There are missions in the southern part of the territory that are
always looking for help."

"You have no credentials."

"No one at the mission will care about that."

"But-"

"Jay Mac," she said firmly, meeting her father's probing eyes with a
steady, level stare of her own.

"I think I know enough to teach children how to read and write."  She
knows that and a lot more, Jay Mac thought.  Each of his daughters was
uniquely accomplished, but it was tacitly accepted by the family that
Mary's star shone brightest.  This was one of the reasons Jay Mac had
been so adamantly opposed to her taking vows as a nun.  To his way of
thinking she was burying her special gifts.

"I don't like it," he said.

"If you want to teach, then I'll send you to school as I did your
sisters.  You can get a position in one of the local colleges when
you're through.  You would be a good professor."  Mary didn't say
anything for a moment.  Her features never lost their trademark
serenity, but inside she was seething.  The effort not to scream showed
in her hands, twisted tightly together in her lap.

"I did not allow you to run my life when I was seventeen," she said
evenly.

"Why in the world would you think I'd give you permission now?"  Jay
Mac put his cup and saucer aside.

"Because," he said heavily, "you've finally realized I was right all
those years ago.

You should never have become a nun.  I told you from the first it was a
mistake."  If she was going to teach children, he thought, then they
damn well should be her own.  The vision of her father blurred as tears
welled in Mary's eyes.

"You still don't understand," she said quietly, sadly.

"I thought perhaps that by now you-"

"What?"  he interrupted tersely.  He thoroughly disliked the impression
that he was somehow being narrow minded or obtuse.  He hated it even
worse that his daughter was crying.

"What is it you think I don't understand?"  Mary used the cuff of her
nightgown to swipe at her tears.  The strain of remaining calm now took
its toll on her voice, which shook slightly as she spoke.

"It was never a mistake, Papa.  I don't regret what I've done with my
life.  The years I've been in God's service haven't been barren and
joyless.  I became His servant gladly.  That's what I don't think
you'll ever understand."  Mary's eyes were still awash with tears, and
her tone became more earnest, more convincing.

"But if I didn't leave now, that would be a mistake.  I don't know if
Mama will ever understand this."  Jay Mac thought about that.  For
once, he thought about it quietly.  Mary's distress was very real to
him, and he felt her pain as an ache in his own heart.  He valued his
daughter's courage in the face of his censure.  She had brought his
disapproval down on her head when she had joined the sisterhood, now
she had to cope with Moira's rejection as she was going to leave it.
Jay Mac firmly believed that he only wanted what was best for his
daughter--for any of his daughters.  How was it, he reflected, that
there could be so much disagreement surrounding what was best?  He
expelled a long sigh and saw a glimmer of a smile touch Mary's lips.
She knew he was done keeping his thoughts to himself.

"I don't suppose there's a husband in your future," he said.  She shook
her head slowly.

"Are you answering my question?"  he asked, trying to read the bemused
res pose

"Or telling me you can't believe I asked it."  Mary's smile became more
fulsome, and she dried the last of her tears.

"A

little of both, I suppose.  I'm not out of my habit yet and you're
thinking husbands."

"It's a reasonable question."  She leaned forward and tapped her father
on the knee.

"Only you would think so, Jay Mac."  Mary picked up her cup again.  The
tea was cool now but she didn't mind.  It soothed the back of her
throat where the uncomfortable, aching lump had been.

"Don't bother presenting me with a list of prospective husbands, and
don't consider for a moment that I'd let you do any sort of
matchmaking."

"Humph," he grunted softly, trying to look offended.

"I don't make matches.

I make deals."  Mary nearly choked on her mouthful of tea.

"Oh, God," she said feelingly.

"Truer words have never been spoken."

She pointed a finger at him meaningfully.

"And don't try to negotiate a husband for me.  If someone is of a mind
to ask me, I'll work out the terms with him."

"Then it's not out of the question?"  he asked hopefully.  Mary
realized she might as well have saved her breath.

"Everything's a possibility, Jay Mac.  I just don't imagine I'll be
meeting many prospects in a Southwest mission."  That reminder sobered
Jay Mac.

"You're not still serious about going to Arizona, are you?"  She simply
stared back at her father, letting him read what was in her eyes.

"Your mother's not going to like this."  That made Mary catch her
breath.

Sometimes Jay Mac didn't play fair.

"She doesn't like the decision I've made anyway," she said after a
moment.

"I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb."

"I don't like it either," he said.

"Rennie's there."

"She's with her husband so she has someone to protect her.  Don't
forget, a little while ago you were the one wondering about the danger.
Now you're talking about throwing yourself into the midst of it."

"I'm talking about going to teach at a mission," she said patiently.

"Not about laying rails down in the middle of Indian land."  Jay Mac's
dark green eyes narrowed.

"Was that a criticism?"  he demanded.  Now Mary was genuinely
bewildered.

"What do you mean?"

"If we lay down tracks it will be beeause Northeast owns the prperty.
It's not Apache land."

"Oh, Papa," Mary sighed.

"Do you really want to argue about whose land it is?"

"No," he said after a moment.  He repeated it again, more heavily this
time, and came to his feet.

"We're done arguing.  My mind's made up.  You're not going to Arizona,
at least not alone."  Before Mary could recover her wits to ask what he
meant by that, her father was gone.  Fort Union, Arizona Territory Like
most forts built after 1876, Fort Union was not enclosed by a fence
along its perimeter.  It was the prevailing thinking of the times that
a fort was better guarded by alert soldiers than by a barrier that gave
a false sense of security and encouraged sloth instead of vigilance.
Fort Union consisted of nine separate adobe buildings all a stone's
throw from one another.  There were quarters for the officers and their
wives, quarters for the bachelor officers, three garrisons for the
soldiers, a mess hall, offices for the staff, an infirmary, and a
stockade for prisoners.  Ryder McKay sat on the dirt floor of his cell,
his back against the wall, his knees bent, and idly manipulated a
silver dollar between his fingers, passing it back and forth across his
hand with such easy dexterity that it seemed to have the quickness of a
bead of mercury.  Second Lieutenant Davis Rivers had had Ryder placed
in the stockade immediately upon returning to the fort.  Except for his
brief interrogation by General Gardner in the general's office, Ryder
hadn't been outside the eight-by-eight room in thirty-six hours. Except
for his brief responses to the general's questions, Ryder hadn't spoken
in all that time.  In the beginning he believed his confinement would
end after the general heard him out.  It wasn't until he listened to
the tone and tenor of the questions put to him, that Ryder realized he
wasn't going to get an objective hearing.  The evidence against him was
already overwhelming.  Outside the stockade the moon was rising. Ryder
raised his eyes to catch the light and saw the moon's face was bisected
by the black iron bars that divided his window.  A moment's fantasy had
him believing the moon was the prisoner behind the bars and he was the
one who was free.  It lasted only until the moon continued its upward
path and slipped out of his line of vision.  Ryder went back to
studying the silver dollar in his hand, threading the coin from one
finger to the next as if his life depended upon doing just this task.
The commotion in the office area of the stockade made no impression on
Ryder.  He didn't hear the argument or the outcome or have any idea it
was all about him.  When the door to the cell area opened he wasn't
anticipating company.

"Get me a chair," Florence Gardner snapped at the hapless guard.

"If you won't let me in his cell, then the least you can do is provide
a chair here in the corridor."  In spite of Florence's tone the guard
still hesitated.

"Are you certain the general said it was all right?"  he asked.

"I have orders--" Florence drew herself up to her full height of
exactly five feet and brought the tip of her cane down hard on the
guard's instep to emphasize her point.

"Don't talk to me about your orders," she warned him.

"The general is my son, and he and I are quite clear about orders." The
guard swallowed hard.

"Very well, ma'am."  He felt the cane being removed from his boot and
offered a relieved smile.  Turning quickly before she could get him
again with it, he went to retrieve a chair.  Florence now applied her
cane to the bars of Ryder's cell, running it back and forth to get his
attention.

"You could say you're happy to see me," she said with some asperity.
Ryder came to his feet in a fluid motion, pocketing the dollar that had
provided him with his sole amusement until now.

"Here comes your chair, Flo."  He pointed to the guard who was trying
to bring it in quietly.  Florence turned on the fellow again.

"There's no need to sneak up on me, young man.  Give me an attack of
angina and my son will see you on kitchen duty for the rest of your
Army career."

"She means it, Harry," Ryder told the guard.

"Don't I know it," Harry muttered before he shuffled off.  Florence and
Ryder exchanged glances as Harry made a point of closing the door
between the cell area and the guard room.

"Does the general know you're here?"  Ryder asked.

"What do you think?"

"That he believes you retired early."  She gave Ryder a prim smile.

"Know-it-all."  She arranged the chair so it was close to the bars and
sat down.

"There's no need for you to stand."  she told him.  When he didn't
respond immediately she added brusquely, "Go on with you, you'll give
me a crick in my neck."  Ryder slowly sat down on the edge of the cot,
stunned by the fact that she was fighting tears.

"What are you doing here, Florence?"

"I had to see you for myself," she said, "though it pains me terribly
that you are here.  Are you being treated well?"

"Well enough."  She studied his face.  The single lantern in the
corridor shed enough light on him that she could see shades of bruising
on his cheek and temple.  One of his eyelids was slightly swollen.  If
these were the marks she could see, Florence wondered about the ones
she couldn't.

"My son didn't give orders for you to be beaten," she said.

"Joshua isn't like that."

"I know."  He shrugged.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters.  I'm going to tell-" She stopped, realizing that
she wasn't going to tell her son anything.

It would only go worse for Ryder if the men guarding him were
reprimanded, and then she would be forbidden from entering the stockade
again.

"Can I bring you anything next time?  Witch hazel?

Bandages?"

"You shouldn't come again."  She dismissed that with an unladylike
snort.

"You're in no position to tell me what I should and shouldn't do."

"Point taken."  He paused and absently rubbed the back of his head.

"Witch hazel, then."

"What happened to you there?"  Florence asked.  Ryder's hand dropped
away.

"It's not important.  I've got a gash and a lump, nothing I haven't had
before."  Florence's mouth thinned.  She hated the thought of Ryder
being mistreated under her very nose.

"No," he said.

"It's not what you think.  It didn't happen here.  When I came around
en route back to the fort I already had it."

"It happened in the fighting?"  Ryder didn't say anything for a time,
wondering what he could or should say.

"You must have heard that I wasn't part of the fighting," he said.
Florence Gardner's shoulders sagged a bit, and in spite of the fact
that she was sitting down, her hand rested more heavily on her cane.

"So it's true," she said with a certain unhappy finality.

"You were with her when the attack came."

"I was."

"Why?"  The only indication of Ryder's surprise was the fractional
narrowing of his pale gray eyes.  He didn't answer her question
directly.

"Haven't you heard the answer to that as well?"  The subtle accusation
in his tone got Florence's attention.  She pounded her cane once
against the floor where it made only a dull thud in the packed earth.

"Don't lump me with the rest of the idiots around here--my son
included.  I'll draw my own conclusions, thank you.  Now tell me why
you were with that baggage."

"Lieutenant Matheson and I agreed she needed to be away from the
company."  He added carelessly, "I lost the toss."

"Why did she need to be separated?"

"Her safety.  I suspected there was some danger."

"You knew the attack was coming?"  He shook his head.  It was no easier
to explain now than it had been then.

"No," he said.

"I knew there was danger but not the form it would take.  There were no
signs of Chiricahua anywhere in the area."

"Yet they attacked."

"So I've heard," he said without inflection.

"You didn't see any of the attack?"

"None."  Or the scene afterward.  Ryder only knew what he had been
told.  The company had literally been cut in half, men slaughtered
where they stood.

According to Rivers's account to the general, the enemy seemed to come
out of the stones themselves.  Florence tried to make sense of it.

"How can that be?"  she asked.

"You were only a few miles past the canyon rim.  I know you, Ryder. You
would have gone back at the first sound of gunfire."  Ryder only had a
fleeting recollection of the sound of a single shot.  He remembered
wanting to move, trying to move, and not being able to lift his head.

"Miss Hamilton was complaining about her canteen water," he told
Florence.

"I drank a few mouthfuls to show her there was nothing wrong with it."
His brief smile was humorless and self-mocking.

"That's just about the last thing I remember."

"The water was bad?"

"I know my horse and I didn't cover much ground before I keeled over in
the saddle.  Miss Hamilton managed to get me to a shallow cave of rocks
and let me fall.  The next thing I recall is being yanked awake by
Rivers and ordered to lead the way back to the canyon floor.  I was in
and out of consciousness most of the way back to the fort."  Florence
was interrupted by the guard poking his head into the corridor.

"You can only have a few more minutes," Harry said.

"I have to take the lantern for lights out."

He withdrew before he encountered Florence's verbal expression of wrath
or her cane tip.

"I've a good mind to change the duty roster myself," she said under her
breath.

"That boy should mind his manners."

"Don't be too hard on Harry, Flo.  He's all right.

Just doing his job."  Florence's mouth pursed to one side sourly.

"You're not taking this seriously, Ryder.  You're in a lot of trouble.
The only reason you haven't been summarily hanged is because you know a
few people in high places who think your scalp may be worth something
more than it would as a trophy."  No one had ever accused Florence
Gardner of not speaking her mind.

"Now suppose you tell me why Anna Leigh Hamilton wants everyone to know
you tried to rape her if it isn't so?"

"Revenge?"

"Is that a question or your answer?"  she asked with little patience.

"I

don't pretend to know what Miss Hamilton hopes to gain by telling her
tale," Ryder said.

"But I assure you, it's a tale."  Florence nodded her head once, an
emphatic gesture that indicated her satisfaction.

"I knew it."  she said.

"Why didn't you tell Joshua that she's lying?"

"I did tell the general."

"I see," she said slowly, unhappily.

"He didn't believe you."

"It's not difficult to understand why," Ryder said.

"Miss Hamilton looked pathetically ill used, and she had Rivers and
Private Carr to corroborate her story--at least as far as to how they
had found her wandering on the flats."  He rubbed the lump on his head
again.

"She says she hit me with a rock to get away."  Florence snorted, the
expression in her eyes patently disbelieving.

"Seems to me the last thing she wanted the night before was to get away
from you."

"That was before I showed her I wasn't interested in what she was
offering."

It began to make sense to Florence.

"Aaah," she said softly.

"So that's what you meant by revenge.  She saw an opportunity to turn
the tables on you and didn't hesitate to use it."  He shrugged.

"It appears that way."

"Did she know the company was under attack in the canyon?"

"I don't know," said Ryder.

"Probably."

"But doesn't she see how it looks?"  Florence demanded.

"Her tale is wagging the dog."  The attempted rape of the senator's
daughter was not the sole charge against Ryder.  He was being accused
of dereliction of duty for leaving the company with Anna Leigh.  What
he said he had done for reasons of safety now appeared more
suspiciously motivated.  His advice to First Lieutenant Matheson,
overheard by Rivers and a sergeant, to split the company, was viewed as
the strategy that led to the company's almost total demise.  Then there
was the matter of the gold.  The four wagons the company guarded were
not only loaded with foodstuffs for the future patrol.  Each wagon bed
had a false bottom which concealed gold ore ready for refining.  The
Army had an agreement with Holland Mines to provide armed escort to the
Waterhouse Station on the Southern Pacific rail line.  The plan had
been worked out in some detail over the past few months, and Ryder
McKay had been essential to its development and its follow-through.

There were very few people who knew about the contents of the wagons;
even the secondary officers of the escorting company didn't know what
they were carrying.  The loading had been done in secret, under Ryder's
strict supervision, and only a few men--all murdered in the
attack--were privy to the knowledge that they were escorting the mother
lode.  Now, with gold ore valued at over $100,000 in the hands of the
Chiricahua Apache, Ryder McKay stood charged with treason.  New York
City "I've made a decision," Jay Mac announced at breakfast.  He had
purposely delayed going to work so that he could speak to Moira and
Mary Francis at once.  Although neither of them looked up from their
food, Jay Mac knew he had their full attention.

"I've had quite enough of this silence."

Not only weren't his wife and his daughter speaking to each other,
neither was speaking to him.

"Nothing good can come of it, so I want it to cease."

"Very well," Mary said obediently.

"Mama, will you please pass the salt?"  Moira's reply was stiff but
perfectly audible.

"Of course, dear.  Would you care for anything else?"  Jay Mac was not
amused, but he managed to keep his expression just this side of
thunderous.  He cleared his throat to signal his disapproval.

"Suit yourselves, but it will be a long journey across the country if
that's the best you can manage."

"Journey?"  Moira asked, her head coming up.

"Across the country?"  Mary asked simultaneously.  Now that he had
their attention, John MacKenzie Worth allowed himself to bask in it. It
was very nearly impossible not to gloat.  It would not be so difficult
to get Moira and Mary to come to some understanding of their
differences, he thought.  His strategy was simple.  He would give them
both what they wanted, but together, and they would be forced to sort
it out from there.  The smile he turned in their direction was more
than a little self-congratulatory.

"I'm sending both of you to see Rennie," he said.

"Sending us?"  asked Moira.

"What exactly does that mean?"

"You're packing us off"' Mary answered flatly.

"Like baggage."  Jay Mac ignored that.

"I'm inviting both of you to take my private cars across the country.

You can visit Michael in Denver, Maggie at the Double H, and then
Rennie in whatever part of Arizona she's in at that point."  He didn't
add that he'd ship them both to China to see Skye if they hadn't come
to terms by then.

"You're not coming with us?"  Moira asked.

"I'll join you later; probably in Arizona.  I'd like to see the land
and the mine Rennie's talking about."  Mary studied her father with
more suspicion than affection.

"And you'd like to see the mission."

"Mission?"  Moira interrupted before Jay Mac could answer.

"This is the first I've heard of a mission."  Her hopes were just being
raised when Mary dashed them again.

"It doesn't mean I'm not firm in my decision, Mama.  I thought I might
like to teach, and there are missions in the Southwest that could use
teachers."  She watched her mother's eyes widen, then look to Jay Mac
for help.

"It's no good, Mama," she said with gentle resolve.

"Jay Mac already knows and he hasn't been able to talk me out of it."
Moira's confusion showed clearly in her eyes.  She placed her fork down
as her appetite deserted her.  If her daughter wanted to teach, then
she could do it closer to home.  If she wanted to do it at a mission,
she didn't have to leave the church.

"One or the other," Moira said, half pleading, half demanding.

"You have to choose one or the other.  Dear God, Mary, you can't have
it both ways.  You can't do it."  Mary's aching expression was framed
by the headdress of her habit.

"What can't I do?"

"You can't abandon us and abandon God."

Chapter Four December 1884, Arizona Territory There were still moments
when Mary did not recognize her own reflection.  It happened the first
time as she was packing her trunks in preparation to leave New York.

Passing the tall, narrow swivel mirror in her room, she had been taken
aback by the presence of a stranger.  She stopped in mid stride and
stared blankly at the person returning her gaze.  It was an odd,
disconcerting feeling to realize she was looking at herself.  Mary's
red-gold hair was still unfashionably short, but the new maid had
proven herself adept at making something out of nothing.  The cut had
been reshaped and smoothed to flatter Mary's face, and where her
headdress had once framed her features in severe black and white, they
were now offset by vibrant color.

Her manner of dress had given her pause as well.  Her traveling costume
featured a tight-fitting bodice with a narrow-banded collar and a
pleated overskirt which fully draped her hips.  The soft apricot color
tinted her complexion until the embarrassment of staring at herself
flushed her cheeks red.  It was at that point that Mary had jammed her
straw bonnet on her head hard enough to dislodge the apricot ribbon
trimmings.  In Denver it happened again, only this time Mary was
passing a dress shop with her sister beside her and her niece in tow.
Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Michael and young
Madison reflected in the glass, but she didn't immediately recognize
the woman who accompanied them.  As Michael paused to point out a gown
she had had her eye on, Mary came face to face with her faint image in
the store window.  With complete childish candor Madison had remarked,
"What's wrong, Aunt Mary?  You look like a ghost."  Michael had
corrected her daughter offhandedly--"She looks as if she's seen a
ghost, Madison"--before she realized the little girl's observation was
more accurate.  Mary dismissed her sister's concern and never explained
satisfactorily that it had been the unfamiliarity of her image that had
caused her momentary distress.  It wasn't only seeing herself that gave
her pause; it was seeing herself through the eyes of another.  In the
course of their travel across the country Mary had yet to feel her
mother's glance in her direction without it registering a small start
of surprise.  Michael, even though she was prepared to see Mary out of
her habit, had remarked on the fact a half-dozen times in the first
hour.  At the Double H where Maggie and her husband Connor lived, Mary
became aware that the attention she drew from the ranch hands was not
inspired by her habit.  They were still respectful, still polite, but
they didn't hold themselves at the same distance they might have had
she been Sister Mary and not simply Maggie's sister Mary.  Now, as the
train slowed on pulling into the station in Tucson, Mary wondered at
the reception she could expect from Rennie.  Michael and Maggie, while
accepting Mary's decision with more grace and encouragement than their
mother had shown, demonstrated their confusion in small ways.  They
would have sworn they had never treated Mary any differently because
she was a nun; they would have told anyone who cared to listen that
Mary had been their sister first.  Yet there was no mistaking the
subtle change in their manner toward her now that she was out of the
habit.  Mary had good reason to wonder how much she had been shielded
by her black gown and veil and how often she had been deferred to, not
because of whom she was, but because of what she was.  At the first
sign that the train was ready for boarding, Rennie Sullivan thrust the
daughter she was holding into her husband's free arm and began running
toward the private Northeast rail cars.  Jarret looked down at the twin
girls he held, both of them wriggling for all they were worth, shook
his head, chuckling, and followed his wife at a less frantic pace.  He
set both girls on the platform just as Moira stepped onto the balcony
of her car.  She saw Jarret first, his dark hair and easy smile drawing
her eyes immediately.  He was a handsome rogue, Moira thought, just as
she had the first time she had seen him.  And every bit the right match
for her fiery daughter Rennie.  Her smile was brilliant for him, and if
anything, it became even brighter as her eyes dropped to her twin
grandchildren.

Moira's hand went to her heart in a dramatic loving gesture that was
meant to signify breathlessness, surprise, and joy.

"My grand babies  she cried happily.  Mary Caitlin and Mary Lillian
gamely tried to climb aboard the train to get to their beloved
grandmother.  Their sturdy three-year-old bodies had enough strength
but not enough height.  Jarret scooped each of them up and set them
down behind him.  They stayed there long enough to allow him to help
Moira down to the platform.

"It's good to see you," he said sincerely, kissing her cheek.

"Rennie's been looking forward to this since we got your first telegram
in October.  Once she finally got your arrival date last week, she's
been impossible to contain."  Moira smiled at that.  Her gently lined
face was creased becomingly by her happiness.

"And how would that be any different than it usually is?"  Jarret
laughed.

"You're right.  It's not any different."  He looked over Moira's
feathery red bonnet as his children tugged on their grandmother's dust
cloak.  They were anxious for kisses and treats, knowing perfectly well
that Moira would have plenty of both.  Jarret's eyes scanned the
windows of Jay Mac's private car, but the sun's reflection on the glass
did not permit him to see inside.

"Rennie's in there with Mary Francis?"  he asked.  Moira nodded.

"Sure, and she practically knocked me over to get to her sister."

Jarret refrained from responding: Moira's tone was not especially
approving of Rennie's show of sisterly affection.  Jarret had been
warned through correspondence with Jay Mac that there was still
considerable tension between Moira and Mary.  Until just this moment,
when he experienced the coolness in Moira's lilting brogue, he had had
a hard time imagining it.  Now he was a believer.

Jarret lifted each of his little Marys in turn.  Cait had a hard hug
for her grandmother and a loud, wet kiss.  Lilly was more delicate in
her affections, laying her bright red head on Moira's shoulder and
fluttering her lashes coyly.  He marveled at how distinct the
personalities of his identical twins were, and how they blended so many
aspects of himself and Rennie to become unique unto themselves.  His
musings were interrupted by his wife's appearance on the balcony.  She
still had the power to take his breath away, he thought as his heart
slammed hard once in his chest then resumed its normal beat.  Her dark
auburn hair, widely spaced green eyes, and full, expressive mouth drew
his attention as easily as they had in the first moments of seeing her.
His eyes dropped to that mouth now as its seriously set shape was
transformed by a puckish, dimpled grin.  Rennie pulled Mary forward to
join her on the balcony.

"Isn't she surpassingly lovely?"  she asked Jarret.

Jarret wondered how he was supposed to answer that.  It was an
undeniable truth that Mary Francis Dennehy was beautiful, even when she
was looking mortified by her sister's outrageous question.

Jarret was aware that it was an expression he'd never glimpsed on her
face before.  A moment later he realized the faint blush tinting her
cheeks was also new.  He continued his scrutiny, his eyes grazing over
Mary's short curling crop of hair, the perfect oval of her face, the
long slender neck, and then ... His eyes flew back to meet hers, and
this time he found himself on familiar ground.  She was boring holes
into him with those fierce, forest green eyes, just daring him to make
a misstep so she could take him out at the knees.  Self-preservation
prompted Jarret to bound up the iron stairs of the rail car's balcony
and greet Mary Francis with a warm hug and dry humor.

"I almost didn't recognize you until I felt body parts being
threatened."  Mary's head tilted to one side as she looked at her
brother-in-law consideringly and with no lessening of the mock threat.
She had once, in all seriousness, threatened to break his knees if he
ever hurt her sister.

"Well, you shouldn't be looking at me as if I've grown another head,"
she said tartly.

"I know that look he gave you."  Rennie said mischievously, "and it had
nothing to do with growing another head."  She gave her husband a
knowing glance.

"He usually reserves that gleam for me."

"You asked a very particular question," Jarret reminded her
innocently.

"I was arriving at an opinion."

"And that is?"  asked Rennie.

"I don't want to hear this," said Mary.  Jarret laughed.

"My opinion is that my wife, as usual, is right.  She always said you
were the real beauty of the family, and I'm not going to argue with
her."  The perfect symmetry of Mary's features was broken as she
screwed her mouth to one side and rolled her eyes.  Rennie raised on
tiptoe and kissed her husband's cheek.

"I thought you were wonderfully diplomatic, dear.  It was a very nice
compliment to both of us."

"She would think that," Mary said dryly to Jarret.

"She'd rather be right than beautiful any day."

Over the top of Rennie's head, Jarret's response was a wink and a smug
smile.  They were all settled in the open carriage when Rennie
announced there had been a change of plans.

"We're being escorted by an Army patrol to Fort Union.  We've been
staying there for a week now, and the general gave approval for both of
you to be our guests."  Moira paused in the game of pat-a-cake she was
playing with Lilly.

"That's fine, Rennie, but why?"

"We moved from Phoenix to Tucson after the surveys were all complete.
Jarret and I thought it would be close enough to Holland Mines to
oversee the track construction, but it really isn't.  And the trip,
well, it can be--" she hesitated, looked at her daughters, then spelled
"d-a-n-g--"

"I think we get your point," Mary said, ruffling Caitlin's hair.  The
little girl held a parasol aloft to protect both of them from the
brutal midday sun.  Even in the middle of December the temperature at
noon was approaching ninety-five degrees.

"Here comes our escort."  Five men on horseback wearing blue Army
uniforms drew abreast of the carriage as it left the station area.  The
corporal took the lead while Lieutenant Rivers introduced himself to
Moira and Mary as he rode along beside them.

Three privates took up points at the rear.  Moira glanced around at
their escort.

"Is this really necessary, Rennie?"  Jarret answered, turning around
from his perch on the driver's board.

"It is, Moira."  Rennie reinforced her husband's comment.

"We stayed at Holland Mines for a while, living at the camp in a tent
with the miners and the rail laborers.  We decided to move to Fort
Union after the Chiricahua attacked a mining camp a little farther east
of here.  We still stay there when work warrants it, but without the
girls."  Mary was aware that Caitlin was watching her mother intently,
listening hard to every word.  Mary caught her sister's eye and gave a
quick shake of her head.  Rennie sighed, nodding in understanding.

"What one of them doesn't hear, the other one does," she said.

"It's hard.  You know I was never good at guarding my tongue."  Jarret
caught that comment and laughed.

"Well, it would take more than these five Army regulars to do it."

Reaching behind her, Rennie gave her husband a firm slap on the back.

"Mind your own business," she said, but there was no real sting in her
words.  Mary and Moira exchanged their first spontaneous smiles in over
two months and two thousand miles.

Rennie saw their shared laughter and was satisfied that the situation
was not quite as grim as Jay Mac would have had her believe.

"I think you'll both appreciate the accommodations at Fort Union.  A
number of the officers' wives have gone out of their way to make us
feel at home.  You'll be amazed at the collection of furniture and
carpets that's been hauled across country.  General Gardner's wife has
a baby grand piano in her parlor, and Captain Avril and his wife
practically have a library in their quarters."

Moira pointed to Lieutenant Rivers who had pulled ahead to converse
with Jarret.

"Does he have a wife?"  she asked, not bothering to lower her voice.
Rennie watched Mary's mouth tighten at their mother's less than subtle
interest.  She felt a tug of sympathy for her older sister's position.
She remembered too well what it was like when Jay Mac had tried to find
her a husband.

Rennie didn't doubt that Moira could be just as tenacious.

"No, Mama," she said, winking at Mary.

"Lieutenant Rivers isn't married."  Lieutenant Rivers heard the comment
as he was meant to do.  He acknowledged it by glancing over his
shoulder, smiling, and tipping his hat politely in Mary's direction.

"Oh, for God's sake," Mary said irritably, "I'm not looking for a
husband.  My mother is."  Rivers looked confused and turned away, while
Rennie laughed out loud.  Moira clucked her tongue disapprovingly and
cautioned both her daughters to mind their manners.  With some effort,
Rennie managed to become sober.  Mary, she noticed, was still looking
wonderfully militant.  It struck her that perhaps this was just the
right when for an officer's wife.  She couldn't resist extolling the
lieutenant's virtues.

"He's recently received a promotion," she told them.

"From second lieutenant to first.

That's because of his demonstration of considerable courage during the
Colter Canyon incident in September."

"Is that right, Lieutenant?"  Moira asked curiously.

"Mama," Rennie said flatly, "he's not going to blow his own trumpet.
That may be true Mary thought, but she noticed Lieutenant Rivers had
slowed his horse so he could listen to Rennie sing his praises.  That
didn't endear him in any way to Mary.  She thought he was handsome
enough in a soft, boyish sort of way.  He had the kind of features that
would dissolve into nondescript puffiness as he grew older, and would
only hint at his youthful zeal as a government warrior.  It was easy to
envision him as a beefy general with slack jowls and a double chin or a
high-ranking politician with great side-whiskers and a bald pate.  Lost
in her thoughts, it took Mary a few moments to realize she was smiling
vaguely in the lieutenant's direction and he had mistaken her
expression for interest.  His blue eyes were wandering over her raised
face, the tenor of his thoughts quite clear.  Mary turned her attention
back to Rennie.

"I'm sorry," she said politely.

"You were saying?"

Rennie snorted.

"I was saying that Lieutenant Rivers managed to hold off the
Chiricahua, though he and his men were beaten back into one of the
canyon's dead end passages.  While they were corralled, the gold ore
they'd had to abandon in the wagons was stolen."

"And you got a promotion for this?"  Mary asked dryly.

The lieutenant's youthful complexion became ruddy with color, but he
did not respond.  Rennie made a face at Mary.

"He got the promotion because he captured the scout who betrayed the
entire company and nearly caused their complete annihilation."

"Well then," Moira said, satisfied.

"That deserves recognition."

Rennie nodded.

"The story's been in all the local papers.  I've talked to people
who've been to San Francisco and Saint Louis who know about it.  The
Eastern papers are probably going to carry the story again now that the
traitor's due for sentencing today."

"Today?"  Moira asked.

"Do you mean it's happening at the fort now?"  Glancing at the watch
pinned to her blouse, Rennie nodded.

"It's already happened," she said.

"At noon."

"Oh, dear," Moira said weakly.

"I suppose they mean to hang him."  Rennie nodded.

"Well, I don't think we want to see that."  Lieutenant Rivers was
solicitous of Moira's feelings.

"It's not required, ma'am.  You can stay in your quarters."  Mary's
feathered brows rose slightly.

"That's a relief," she said caustically.

"I suppose you'll be at the forefront of the activity."  Rivers didn't
mince his words.

"I'd fasten the rope and pull the lever myself Miss Dennehy.  He
deserves exactly what he's going to get."  Mary was taken aback by the
cold virulence in the lieutenant's tone.  She reminded herself it was
not her place to pass judgment.  Had she lived through the same ordeal
as Davis Rivers she might be struggling now to find forgiveness for the
traitor, or she might be welcoming his death with the same bitter
hostility the lieutenant had demonstrated.

"The sentencing won't be carried out for a few days," Rennie said.

"At least that's what I've been given to understand by some of the
wives.  It seems the entire proceeding has taken a number of unusual
twists and turns."  She frowned, darting a glance from her mother to
her sister.

"Are you certain you didn't read about any of this?"  Moira shook her
head.

"I'm sure I didn't."  ww'Mama and I have been quite content to let
world events proceed without us," Mary said.

"I don't think I've picked up any paper except the one Michael works
for since we left New York."

"I suppose that explains it," said Rennie.

"The story was especially noteworthy because the traitor of Colter
Canyon is the nephew of Wilson Stillwell."  Moira's dark red brows drew
together as she tried to place the name.

"I know I've heard of him," she said, shaking her head as she struggled
for recognition.

"The senior senator from Ohio," Mary said.

"Jay Mac knows him.  He's the chairman of one of the prestigious
finance committees, or at least he was."

"He and Jay Mac are cordial at best," Rennie said.

"I've had more success in dealing with Senator Stillwell than Jay Mac
ever had."  Jarret twisted around long enough to add his two cents.

"That's because the senator appreciates beautiful women," he said.

"A trait his nephew apparently inherited," Lieutenant Rivers said
tersely.

Rennie shook her head.

"I wouldn't know about that, since the senator has always conducted
himself honorably."  Moira's interest was piqued, but Mary felt hers
wandering.  She didn't care about the senator, his nephew, or their
appreciation of women.  Taking the cream-colored parasol from her
niece's chubby hand, Mary shaded them both in a way that would help to
exclude them from the conversation.  She bent her head and blew softly
in Cait's ear, causing the little girl to giggle with delight.  Mary
pointed out the giant saguaro cactus, rising thirty feet tall, its
fluted columns so stately it might have been placed there solely as a
desert guardian.  She looked at the brown and barren ground around it
and wondered if she could live for any length of time in this land.
Hot, dry air seared one's lungs and scorched everything that was
unprotected.  The plants did not appear to bear fruit, and ribbons of
radiant heat absorbed even the suggestion of water.

Yet Mary was intrigued.  What kind of people called this place home,
and how did the land sustain them?  There was a kind of terrible beauty
in the harshness that made the terrain difficult to look upon and just
as difficult to ignore.  The sky was almost cloudless.  It stretched
out to the mountains and beyond, an infinite ceiling of subtle,
shimmering shades of blue.  If there were animals, Mary acknowledged
that she was not skilled enough to observe them.  But then, she
considered, perhaps some survival instinct kept them from traveling
over the parched mesa at midday.

There was more vegetation as they climbed into the foothills.

Scrub oaks and the occasional juniper tree marked the pale faces of the
rocks with splashes of gray and green.  They stopped once to rest the
horses and take a quick lunch.  The soldiers ate from their canvas bags
of field rations, while Mary and Moira shared the more appetizing meal
that Rennie had thought to pack.  Mary watched the Army men huddled
around an outcropping of rocks.  They didn't appear especially
vigilant, she thought, as they tucked into their food with relish.
Jarret interrupted Mary's musings.

"You look deep in thought," he said softly.

"Care to share it?"  Mary saw that Cait and Lilly were out of earshot,
occupied by their food and Moira's delightful retelling of some
incident on the trip West.

Rennie, she noticed, was equally enrapt.  She shrugged lightly.

"I

was wondering about the soldiers, why they're not a little more
watchful.  I mean, if there's so much danger of Indian attacks, then
why aren't they more on their guard?"

"Because we have a scout," he explained.  Mary's attention was captured
now.

"A

scout?"  she asked, pointing to the eating soldiers.

"One of them?"  She saw that she had amused Jarret, and her response
was defensive.

"Well?  How am I supposed to know?  I'm new to this country."

"And you fit right in," he said.

"As prickly as a cactus."  She eyed him levelly.

"I may not be wearing a habit any longer, but God is still on my side."
Mary smiled sweetly as Jarret's dark brows rose a fraction.

"It's something to think about, isn't it?"  There was a moment of
stunned silence, then his bark of laughter had everyone looking in his
direction.

"Are you flirting with my husband?"  Rennie called to her sister.
Jarret kept Mary from replying.

"She's threatening me again."

"Then I don't know why you're laughing," Rennie said seriously.

Unconcerned, she went back to helping her children with their meal and
listening to her mother's story.  Jarret was shaking his head
helplessly.

"You Marys know how to close ranks on an outsider."

Mary took pity on him, linking her arm through his and offering the
uneaten half of her sandwich.

"You're not an outsider, Jarret.

I'm mostly polite to them."  He took the sandwich, recognizing the
peace offering for what it was.

"Tell me about the scout," she said.

"Where is he?"

"Ahead of us, watching for signs."

"Signs?"

"Chiricahua signs.  They're the ones who have been doing all the
raiding."  His eyes were grave now.

"It's serious, Mary.

They're not taking prisoners these days and death is brutal at their
hands.  A ranching family was slain recently.  The five-year-old
daughter was left to die, hanging on a meat hook in the smokehouse."
Mary's complexion paled.  Her eyes went immediately to her nieces.

"Oh, that can't be true," she whispered.

"It is," Jarret said flatly.  His gaze had gone to his daughters as
well.  They were both laughing brightly, oblivious to the dangers.
Jarret already knew his children would die by his own hand before he'd
let them fall victim to Apache torture.  He turned to Mary and realized
she had divined his thoughts and wasn't horrified by them, only
heartsick.

"The Army's been going mad looking for Geronimo and his renegade
warriors.  Now that the Chiricahua have the gold ore from the Colter
Canyon raid, it's expected they'll get more guns and ammunition."

"Surely no one will sell them any."

"For a hundred thousand in gold?"  Jarret scoffed at Mary's naivete.

"The sellers are lining up all the time.  A detachment from Fort Union
confiscated a wagon load of Henry rifles and ammo just three weeks ago.
All of it was headed for Chiricahua country.

"What kind of men would-" She shook her head, realizing it was beyond
her sensibilities.

"Never mind.  I wouldn't understand."

"I'm not sure I do," he admitted.  And he had seen a lot more of the
world than his sister-in-law.  Mary's eyes were drawn to the rocky
cliffs around them again.

"So our scout's out there, watching over us like a guardian angel."

Jarret smiled at the image that presented.

"Something like that," he said.

"I hope he's a good one," she said.  She was unaware of her smile or
the fact that it was vaguely secretive.  Mary didn't realize her eyes
had taken on a faraway look as she thought of a certain Army scout
getting lost on his way from Baileyboro to the Granville mansion. There
was an edge of laughter in her voice when she added, "Not like Ryder
McKay."  Enjoying the otherworldly expression that had crossed Mary's
face, Jarret had felt a momentary lightness in his chest.  It passed
quickly when she spoke this name.  He frowned, confused.

"I thought I heard you tell Rennie you didn't know anything about the
attack on Colter Canyon.

"I don't."

"But you said--" Puzzled, Mary tilted her head to one side.

"What?"  she asked.

"What did I say?"

"Mary, Ryder McKay is the traitor the Army's preparing to hang."

"You're looking very pensive," Rennie said to her sister.  Rennie
smiled to herself.  Mary's thoughts were clearly elsewhere and had been
for some time.  Rennie had first noticed it not long after they'd
resumed their journey to the fort.  At first she had considered sheer
weariness the cause of Mary's uncharacteristic silence.  But there had
also been the tiniest indication of a frown between Mary's brows, and
she'd worried her lower lip in a way she only did when she was deeply
concentrating.  Rennie hadn't asked any questions then, nor as she
helped her mother and Mary settle into their quarters in the officers'
building.  Now that Moira was napping with her granddaughters and
Jarret was engaged in some business with the surveyors, Rennie realized
she had waited quite long enough.  She repeated her comment, more
loudly this time.

"You're looking very pensive."  Mary blinked, startled into awareness
by Rennie's raised voice.

"Was I?"  she asked.

Rennie's mouth screwed comically to one side, and she shook her head,
amused.

"Here," she said, holding out a cup of tea.

"I

made this for us while you were daydreaming."  Mary accepted the cup
and saucer that was thrust into her hands.  She was curled comfortably
in a large, overstuffed chair, her stockinged feet hidden beneath the
full skirt of her hunter green gown.  She watched Rennie settle
opposite her on the short sofa and draw her legs up in a similar
fashion.  Rennie's posture was relaxed, yet there was a certain
expectancy in her expression.  There is no pretense between us, Mary
thought.  There was something distinctly soothing about this, and
especially about Rennie's expression.

They could have been children again, preparing to share secrets in
their room long after they should have been asleep.

"So," Rennie prompted, "what have you been thinking?"

"Straight to the point as usual," said Mary.

"And absolutely no respect for the privacy of one's thoughts." Rennie's
response was cheerful.

"That's right."  When Mary still hesitated, Rennie asked, "Is it you
and Mama?  Is nothing changed between you?"  Mary's head was lowered as
she stared at her teacup.  That was why her sister didn't catch the
relief that passed quickly across her features.  When Mary lifted her
face it was stamped with its trademark serenity.

"Everything's changed between us," she said honestly.

"She won't accept my decision, and I can't accept that she won't accept
it."

Rennie nodded, understanding perfectly.

"Michael and Maggie couldn't help her see reason?"

"I didn't ask them to try."  She speared her sister with frank, warning
eyes.

"And I am not asking you to do it either.  It's not your place."

"I wouldn't know where to begin."  Not that it would have stopped her,
Rennie thought.  Mary's vaguely threatening glance, however, was giving
her pause.  Unconsciously Rennie found one of her hands going to her
hair in a protective gesture.  When they were growing up together Mary
thought nothing of yanking on Rennie's thick auburn braids to keep her
in line.  Rennie's hand fell away when she saw Mary's look of caution
fade and amusement take its place.  She stuck out her tongue.

"Well," Mary said dryly.

"That certainly cut me to the quick."  Rennie ignored her and asked
seriously, "Has there been no understanding at all on Mama's part?"

"I don't know.  She won't let me broach the subject."

"Oh, Mary," Rennie said sadly.  Mary pushed words past that hard,
aching lump that was forming at the back of her throat.

"We talked about incidental things on the journey from New York to
Denver.  The weather.  The scenery.  The people in the forward cars. We
shopped in various cities along the way for gifts for all the
grandchildren.  If I mentioned my desire to teach I was met with icy
silence.  If Mama saw me reading my Bible she began to cry."  Rennie
felt tears pressing at her own eyelids.

"How awful for you," she whispered.

"For both of us," Mary said.

"I don't believe for a moment that Mama wants it to be this way.  She
just doesn't know how to change it."  Mary raised her cup and sipped.
The tea was flavored with honey and it soothed her throat.

"I thought we were making some progress when we were at Maggie's.
Mama's mood was lighter.  She was tolerant of Maggie and me discussing
my decision to leave the order."  Mary's smile was wry.

"Or at least she didn't run from the room when the subject came up."

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Mary said.

"At least it was nothing that Mama did.  I suppose it was my attitude
that was altered then."  Seeing Rennie's puzzled expression, Mary
sighed.

"It was while we were preparing to leave the Double H. Mama and Maggie
were having a last-minute chat in the kitchen while I was finishing the
packing.  I found one of Mama's gowns still in the wardrobe so I opened
her trunk to put it away."  Mary was caught off guard by the sudden
welling of tears in her eyes.  Trying to compose herself, she ducked
her head.  The teacup and saucer rattled slightly, and she set them
aside.  She gave Rennie a watery smile as a handkerchief was pressed
into her hands.

"Thank you."  She swiped at her eyes, then crushed the handkerchief in
her fist.  Rennie knelt in front of the chair where Mary sat and placed
her hands over her sister's.

"What was in the trunk?"  she asked quietly.

"Mary?  What did you find in Mama's trunk?"  Mary had to draw a breath
before she could answer.

"A habit," she said, her voice low.

"I found a habit.  Mama's been carrying it across the country in her
trunk."  Rennie's shoulders sagged.  She didn't know for whom she felt
sorrier, Mary or her mother.

"Did she expect that you'd change your mind somewhere along the route?"
she asked.

"It's worse than that."

"Worse?"

"It isn't my habit."  Rennie's eyes widened.

"Not yours?"

"Not mine.  I think it was made for Mama."  Mary noticed that Rennie
looked as if she needed to sit down.  At a loss to understand herself,
Mary shrugged helplessly.

"It's hard to say how her life might have been different if she hadn't
come to America or met Jay Mac.  I don't know what went through her
mind when she packed it, but I know what went through mine when I saw
it.  It was a message meant for me."  The tightening of her jaw was
imperceptible at first; then, as memory and emotion swept through her,
it became so clenched that a muscle worked in her cheek.  She had been
nearly blind with rage.  Even now she could feel her heart accelerating
with the fierceness of her anger.  Afraid of what she might say, Mary
wouldn't give words to it now.  Rennie understood the reason for Mary's
silence.  She squeezed her sister's hands gently and remained at her
side for a few more minutes.  When she got to her feet she said softly,
"She hasn't stopped loving you, you know."

The knot in Mary's stomach was only slightly larger than the one in her
throat.  She looked away from Rennie's searching, knowing eyes.

It only feels that way, she thought.  Then again, as if to convince
herself, it only feels that way.  Harry Bishop set a chair in the
corridor just a foot from the iron bars of Ryder's cell.  Florence
thanked him curtly and sat down.  She used her cane as an extension of
her hand to shoo him away.  She didn't speak until the door to the
guardroom was firmly closed.

"Don't you have anything to say?"  she demanded when Ryder merely sat
on his cot facing the opposite wall.  He turned in her direction
slowly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well, that's a fine greeting."  Florence attempted to keep her voice
crisp, but anxiety threaded her voice.  It had been nearly nine hours
since the sentencing had been handed down at noon.  Ryder McKay had
less than forty-eight hours to live.

"I

mean it, Florence, you shouldn't be here.  If General Gardner finds
out-"

"Let me worry about my son."

"And there's Harry Bishop," Ryder said.

"He can't rely on the general's good graces."  Ryder knew Florence had
resorted to paying off the guard in order to continue her visits to the
stockade.  The arrangement had worked satisfactorily for months, but
there was always the risk of discovery.  Over time his protests had
become halfhearted but he made them because it was expected.  Florence
Gardner, he suspected, enjoyed the intrigue and secretly liked
pooh-poohing the danger.

"I didn't expect you'd come this evening," he said.

"I didn't see you after the sentencing."  Florence had stayed in her
room while sentence was being passed.  She couldn't join the officers'
wives who waited in the courtyard, eager for the final judgment.  Her
opinion that Ryder McKay was innocent of the charges was an unpopular
one, especially since there was no evidence to support it.  For
Florence, the fact that her son was handing down the sentence made the
proceedings intolerable.

"I didn't want to be there," she explained.  Now she came to the point
of her visit.

"Your uncle was present, though."

"I saw him."

"Oh?  He said you didn't glance in his direction."  Ryder's features
settled in a remote mask that shuttered his thoughts.  He continued to
look at Florence, but didn't respond.

"He wanted to see you this evening," she said.

"Joshua permitted it, but the senator told me you didn't want him
here."

"He came, but he left after a few minutes."

"And you never spoke to him."

"That's right."

Florence's lined face was grave, her eyes sad.

"Wilson Stillwell believes in you," she said.

"He came here because he wanted to help."  Ryder decided not to
disabuse her of the notion.

"Is that why you came tonight?"  he asked.

"To persuade me to see him again?"  She had enough good sense not to
lie.

"That was part of it."

"And the other part?"  Her throat began to close, but she continued to
look at Ryder steadily.  His cleanly defined features were calm, but
the light gray eyes were penetrating.

"To say good-bye.  I won't be coming again.  No one but officers and
clergy will be permitted to see you.  Harry warned me about the
order.

He won't make an exception this time.  He says even Senator Stillwell
won't get back here."  Ryder's slight smile was cool.

"The general's anticipating an escape attempt."  Florence nodded.

"He was brooding about it tonight at supper.  I think he's fearful that
the Chiricahua will try to rescue you."

It was interesting, Ryder thought, that the Army had so little
understanding of its enemy and made so little attempt to come by any.

"There's not going to be any rescue," he said.

"The Chiricahua aren't going to attack the fort.  They don't have the
numbers to do it, and they don't have the weapons."

"You forget that almost everyone here believes the Apache were able to
buy weapons after the Colter Canyon massacre."  Ryder didn't argue.

Instead he said, "The Chiricahua won't mount a rescue.  It's not their
way.  Even if I were highly regarded by them--which I'm not--they would
only seek retribution."

"So the fighting will come later," she said heavily.

"After you--" He finished the sentence she couldn't.

"After I'm hanged."  Florence gripped her cane more tightly.  Unable to
look at him, she stared at her hand, at the knuckles that were
thickened by a touch of rheumatism, at the thin parchmentlike skin that
made her veins so visible.  She should be contemplating her own death,
she thought.  Instead she was contemplating his.

"I could help you escape," she said.

Ryder came lightly to his feet and approached the bars.

"Listen to me, Florence."  He waited until she raised her face,
hardening his heart against her tears.  She had made the offer before,
and he had turned it down on every occasion.  She didn't fully
comprehend the wreck she would make of her son's military reputation
and career.

While Florence blamed her son for not looking beyond the evidence,
Ryder did not.  Presented with the testimony of the survivors of Colter
Canyon, General Gardner was acting in the only way he could.

"Don't think about it again, and don't act on it if you do."

"But-" He reached through the bars and laid a hand over hers.

"No."  Florence acquiesced with little grace.

"Very well," she said sourly.

"But I can tell you when it's my time I'm not going without a fight."
Ryder went to the far side of his cell and stood beside the small
window.  The evening air was cool, and he appreciated the fragrance of
the desert washing over his face.

"Is that what you think, Florence?  That I'm going without a fight?"

"Aren't you?"

"I told them I was innocent.  No one believed me."  He corrected
himself.

"No one save you."

"That's not true.  Your uncle lent his support, and General Halstead
came down from Flagstaff to speak in your favor."  Ryder was silent for
several moments.  He looked past the bars of his cell to the garrison.
Just at the periphery of his vision he could see the officers'
quarters.

"You should be going," he said.

"Before the general realizes you're not reading in your room."  She
waved aside his concern.

"I told him I was visiting the Sullivans.  Mrs.

Sullivan's sister and mother arrived this afternoon, and I made their
acquaintance at dinner.  Mrs.  Worth was quite pleasant, though I don't
know what to make of the other one.  Most times she looked a thousand
miles away.  Hardly said a word."  Ryder was barely listening.  Even
before his incarceration he hadn't been particularly curious about the
people who came and went from the fort.  Now his interest in them was
even less.  He couldn't recall who Florence had told him the Sullivans
were or what business they had at Fort Union.

"Is that so?"  Florence sniffed.

"You're putting me in mind of her this very minute," she said sharply,
tapping her cane for attention.

"You could at least pretend some regard for my conversation.  Miss
Dennehy perked right up when your name was mentioned, so I think you
could--" Florence broke off mid sentence, not because Ryder interrupted
but because she realized that she finally did have his full attention.
His entire posture was alert now, his frostlike eyes narrowed.  She had
the vaguely unsettling notion that he intended to pounce on her and the
fleeting thought that she was actually glad for the bars that separated
them.

"Why ever are you looking at me that way?"  His expression didn't
change.

"Did you say Dennehy?"

"Well, yes," she said slowly, in some confusion.

"She said I could call her Mary, but I thought in conversation it was
only polite to--" "Mary Dennehy?"  he asked.

"Mary Francis Dennehy?"

"I believe so."

"Sister Mary Francis?"  Florence wasn't certain what he was asking, but
she said, "Yes.  Rennie's sister."  He said the name almost under his
breath.

"Rennie."  Then, "Why didn't you tell me Mrs.  Sullivan was Rennie?"
Exasperated, Florence threw up her hands.  Her cane clattered against
the bars as it fell.

"I told you she was here with her husband.  I went on and on about her
darling little girls.  I said they were connected to the railroad."

She wagged an accusing finger.

"And you never showed the slightest recognition."  That's because he
hadn't known the most important thing.  It didn't matter now.  He
walked swiftly to the bars, reached through, and pulled Florence to her
feet.  She was close enough that he could have kissed her forehead.  He
didn't.  It wasn't thankfulness he felt right now, but urgency.

"I want to see her," he said.  His grip was tight, but Florence didn't
wince.

She was grateful for whatever had stirred him to life.

"Mrs.

Sullivan?"

"No.  Not her.  The sister.  Mary Francis."

"She won't be allowed in here, even if you request it.  I told you
Joshua has said only officers and--"

"The clergy.  She'll be allowed in."  And it would be his way out.
Ryder released Florence but kept his face close to the bars.

"Listen to me, Flo, if you still want to help, I have a plan." Florence
Gardner wasted no time.  She called on Mary the following morning after
breakfast, ostensibly for the purpose of having company on her daily
walk.  She extended her invitation to everyone and hoped for the best. 
Rennie excused herself because of her work.  Moira wanted to be with
her grandchildren.  Florence sensed that Mary would have refused if it
had not been left to her.

"It's good of you to humor an old lady," she said, as they left the
shaded porch of the officers' quarters.

"I know you really didn't want to come."  Mary considered making a
denial, then thought better of it.  She appreciated Florence's
directness too much to offer one.

The other woman would have seen right through it.  Florence raised her
parasol and encouraged Mary to do the same.

"You don't want to burn that fair skin of yours."

"The sun feels good," Mary said, raising her face to a clear blue
sky.

"It's hard to believe that Christmas is almost upon us."

"Spoken like a true Yankee," she said.

"I'm from Georgia.  Come Christmas Day what we got was mostly rain. The
air was so humid at times you could feel it like a blanket against your
skin.  I appreciate these arid climes, I can tell you."

"You've been here long?"

"My son was assigned here five years ago.  I came out with my
daughter-in-law and my grandchildren about six months later.  Joshua
wanted to be certain the Indian problem was in hand.  When most of the
hostiles were placed on reservations he thought it was safe enough for
us."

"And was he right?"  asked Mary.

"There's been trouble recently with the Chiricahua.  Geronimo led some
of his warriors and their families off the San Carlos reservation.
They've been raiding ranches and mines in and around Mexico."

"Colter Canyon?"

Florence had led Mary to the outside perimeter of the fort, taking her
behind the buildings to where they were seen by the patrolling guards
but still had considerable privacy.  She nodded politely to one of the
guards and then continued on, twirling her parasol with the flair of a
coquette.

"Colter Canyon," she mused, sparing Mary a swift glance.

"That depends on who you ask.  Me or everyone else."

"I'm asking you," Mary said bluntly.

"Then I don't know."  It wasn't the answer Mary was expecting.

"I don't understand," she said.

"Neither do I," Florence told her.

"That's my point.  Everyone else here thinks they have the answer.

I'm the only one who's certain there are things left unexplained."

She noticed that Mary was deep in thought now, mulling over the cryptic
reply.  A passing guard eyed the younger woman appreciatively and she
didn't even notice.  Florence waited for him to move out of earshot.
She halted Mary's progress by placing a hand on her forearm.

"He wants to see you," she said lowly.

"He's in a better position to explain than I am."  Mary's heart slammed
against her chest.  Her parasol began to slip through nerveless fingers
before she caught it.

"Mr.  McKay knows I'm here?"  Florence watched her reaction with
interest.  There was a light flush on Mary's cheeks that hadn't been
there a moment earlier.  The forest green eyes, so ineffably sad the
evening before, were bright now, alive with interest and
intelligence.

Ryder had been right about her, Florence thought, she would go to
him.

"He couldn't very well ask to see you if he didn't know you were here,
now could he?"  Mary's mouth flattened.  She deserved to be taken to
task for asking stupid questions, that didn't make it any easier to
hear.

"Can you arrange it?"  she asked.

"Or should I speak to the commander myself?"

"I'll arrange it, dear.

But it will have to be tonight.  My son's already out in the field, and
I don't expect him back until after dark."  Florence could see that
Mary was disappointed and that pleased her.  It was better that way.
Mary would be more eager then and perhaps less cautious.  Florence was
counting on that.

"Of course you'll have to wear your habit," she said offhandedly.  Mary
was taken aback.

"My habit?  But why?"  Florence frowned, "Is that a problem?

Ryder told me you're a nun.  I mentioned that you weren't wearing a
habit when I met you, but he said that wasn't unusual."  The rush of
heat to Mary's cheeks annoyed her.  She had no patience for her own
reaction to the memory of her meeting with Ryder.

"Did he tell you what I was wearing when I first saw him?"  she asked
stiffly.

"No," said Florence.

"But judging by the very pretty frnck you have on, I'd venture that it
was quite lovely."  Mary burst out laughing.  The hearty lively sound
fairly exploded from her.  When she saw Florence take a step back in
astonishment, she laughed even harder.  The patrolling guards paused in
their steps and sought out the source.  The sound was infectious, and
quite without knowing what was funny, they found themselves caught up
in it, smiling widely and chuckling under their breath.  Florence
discovered her own shoulders were shaking as she was swept up in Mary's
laughter.  Across the compound Ryder McKay stood by the window of his
cell, poised and patient, all of his senses alert.

The very air around him seemed rent by the vibration of Mary's clear
voice.  He felt the tide of her laughter washing over him.

His mouth parted as he sucked it in.  The sound had substance, and
where it touched his tongue he tasted freedom.

Chapter Five

Harry Bishop lost his balance.  The stool he was sitting on seemed to
slip out from under him when Sister Mary Francis walked into the
guardroom.  He grabbed it awkwardly before it hit the floor and managed
to come to his feet with a minimum of teetering.  The apologies that
were forming in his mind simply remained there because his gaping mouth
was incapable of speech.  Harry Bishop was a Boston native and a
parochial schoolboy for grades one through eight.  He considered the
years spent under the tutelage of Father O'Donnell and the Sisters to
have been his true introduction to Army discipline.

Sister Elizabeth in particular had a way of bringing a classroom to
order that would have done any sergeant proud.

"At ease," Mary said calmly.

"This uniform doesn't require a salute."  Harry blinked, realized his
hand was raised halfway to his head, and let it fall slowly.

"Habit," he said.

"Yes," she replied dryly.

"That's what I'm wearing."  Harry blinked again, this time collecting
his thoughts.

"No, I meant it was a habit to--" She cut him off.

"I was pulling your leg, private.  I know what you meant."  Shaking his
head slowly, Harry rubbed the underside of his chin.

"A Sister with a sense of humor," he said almost inaudibly.

"If that don't beat all."  His hand dropped away and he looked her over
from head to toe.

"You arrived yesterday with the Sullivans."

"That's right.  I'm Mrs.  Sullivan's sister."

"I

didn't know you were a nun."  Mary used one hand to gesture to her
habit.

"I think you can appreciate how ill-suited this manner of dress is to
this climate," she said.

"At least during the day.

With evening upon us I find it quite cool."

"That's a fact, Sister."

"Mary Francis," she said.

"Sister Mary Francis," he repeated obediently.  Harry had seen her
taking a walk with Florence Gardner that very morning.  Now he tried
not to recall the lusty thoughts that had entered his mind.  He
couldn't imagine the penance that would be imposed for wanting to have
carnal knowledge with a nun.  He could always plead ignorance of the
fact, he considered, but how much would that count for?  Better to make
personal amends while he could.  Unconsciously his body came to
attention again.

"What can I do for you, Sister?"  he asked in his best schoolboy
manner.

"I've come to see the prisoner," she said.

"I understand that it is permitted."  Harry had been warned to expect a
minister from Tucson, but Mary's presence was a surprise.

"You have this from the general himself?"  he asked.  From his mouth to
his mother's ear, Mary thought.  It was just as good.

"I

do," she said.  It didn't occur to Mary that Florence Gardner would
lie.  It didn't occur to Harry that Sister Mary Francis would.

"Very well," he said.  His eyes dropped to the valise that Mary was
carrying.

"What do you have in there?"  Mary crossed the room and set the valise
on Harry's desk.  She opened it for the private's inspection.  On top
was a Bible that Florence insisted she take to Ryder.  Beneath that was
a fresh change of clothes, boot polish, and a shaving kit.  Mary made
certain that Harry saw everything.

"No matter what the man's sins," she said, "he deserves to die with
dignity."  Harry nearly smiled.  How like a nun to think that a change
of clothes was essential to one's dignity.

"All right," he said.

"You can take this in, if McKay will even see you.  If he won't, I'll
make sure he gets it later."

"Thank you.  That's very kind of you."  Harry Bishop felt as if he'd
been blessed.

"This way, Sister Mary.  I'll take a chair in for you."  Mary smiled
serenely and followed Harry through the door to the cells.

Although there were three, only the middle one was occupied.  Her heart
raced as Harry went to stand in front of it.

"You have a visitor, McKay," he announced.  Ryder was lying on his cot,
his hands cradling his head.  His line of vision was toward the window
of his cell, not the entrance.  He made no move to rise or even look in
the direction of Harry Bishop and the visitor.

"D'you hear me, McKay?  Someone's come by to save your miserable
soul."

Harry positioned the chair in the corridor and placed the valise on the
floor.

"An angel by the name of Sister Mary Francis."  Ryder knew very well
who accompanied Harry into the cell area, but he was careful not to
show his hand.  He rose slowly, stretched, then let his feet fall to
the floor.  Finally his head swiveled in the direction of the iron bars
of the cell's door.  He looked directly at Private Bishop, not sparing
a glance for Mary.

"You can let her in, Harry.  She's not going to minister to my soul
through these bars."  Harry hesitated, his eyes darting from Ryder to
Mary.

"It's all right," Mary said encouragingly.

"I didn't expect to be kept in the corridor.  I'll be fine."

"Are you sure, Sister?  I mean, if you were a man and all I wouldn't be
asking."

Mary's tone changed, affecting complete confidence and authority now.

"I'm fully capable, Private, even if I'm not a man.  I appreciate your
concern, but it's misplaced.  Now, let me in to see this prisoner or
you will have to account for your actions to the general first and God
later."  Harry Bishop opened the door.  He set the chair and valise
inside and ushered Mary in.

"I'll check on you every few minutes," he said before he exited.

"Every fifteen or so will be quite enough," she said firmly.  Harry was
tempted to salute again.  He could not return to his station in the
guardroom quickly enough.  Neither Ryder nor Mary spoke immediately
once they were alone.  She was struck by the changes in him; the
sun-bronzed color had been washed out of his skin by months of
imprisonment, a harshness was in the lines of his face, a deep, abiding
coldness in his eyes.  There was nothing in his manner that welcomed
her; it was apparent that he resented her presence.  He found it
difficult to look at her and impossible to look away.  The lantern in
the corridor bathed her face in warm light, but it did not account for
her radiance.  That seemed to come from within Mary.  She was the sole
source of the aura which surrounded her.  Her beautiful features were
composed, and their perfect symmetry gave her an otherworldly
expression.  Compassion illuminated her forest green eyes but her
stance was faintly militant, her slender body rigid with the proud
defiance of a peaceful warrior.  She would not fight, he thought, but
she would not be moved.  He wished she had not come.  Now that she was
here, he wished there had been another way.

"Mrs.  Gardner said you wanted to see me," Mary said.  "it appears she
misunderstood."

"There was no mistake," Ryder said roughly.  He pointed to the chair
Harry left.

"Sit down."  Very much aware that it was an order, not an invitation,
Mary's mouth flattened stubbornly.

"Suit yourself," he said, shrugging.  He reached for the valise.

"Did Florence pack this for you?"  Mary nodded.

"She said it had everything you wanted."  She watched him as he sat on
the cot and opened the valise.

"I was surprised you asked for a Bible."

Ryder glanced up.

"Don't I impress you as a religious man?"  She didn't answer
immediately.  His question was tossed off with a certain sarcastic
intent that wasn't meant to elicit conversation.

Ryder had already returned his attention to the valise when Mary
responded.

"Not religious," she said.

"Spiritual."  Ryder raised his head slowly.  His narrowed glance wasn't
penetrating now, only impenetrable.

"Is that right?"  he asked.

"Yes."  Complete confidence was evoked in the single word.  On an equal
footing now, Mary Francis sat.

"Why did you ask for me?"

"I thought that was obvious."  He removed the Bible and the clothes
from the valise.  When it was empty his hand ran along the inside,
found the edge of the piece that had been laid across to create a false
bottom, and raised it.  The Colt .45 felt wonderfully familiar in the
palm of his hand.  He left it there for the time being and placed the
valise on the floor.

"I thought you might pray for me."

Mary didn't take issue with his lie.

"I've been praying since I learned you were here," she said simply.
Without conscious thought she sought out the rosary attached to her
waist.  Her fingers moved over the beads, calming her thoughts as she
looked around the cell.

"I don't understand what's happened here."

"Surely someone's told you of what I'm accused."

"I've learned things from a number of people.  My brother-in-law.  My
sister.  Lieutenant Rivers.  The general's mother.  I still don't
understand."

"You mean you don't understand why I betrayed the company?"

"No," she said.

"I don't understand why people believe you did."  It was not difficult
for Ryder to see that she was perfectly sincere.  He had done nothing
to justify that kind of faith, and he wanted to make certain she knew
it.

"You don't know me," he said.

"You don't know the man I am or what I'm capable of.  You only think
you do.  The little knowledge you have is dangerously incomplete.
You've underestimated me."  Mary took his words as a warning rather
than an explanation.  Initially there had been an urge to flinch.  She
had quelled it.

"You're right," she said quietly.

"I don't know you."  He was silent for almost an entire minute,
watching her.

She didn't turn away from his scrutiny but held his gaze squarely in
spite of her discomfort.  Ryder broke the contact when he started to
unbutton his shirt.

"What are you doing?"  she asked.

"Changing my clothes."

"That can wait until I'm gone."  He didn't explain that it couldn't.
Instead, Ryder came to his feet and placed the basin of water at the
foot of his bed on the cot.

There was a washcloth among the things Florence had provided.  He
picked it up, wet it, and bathed his face.

"I'm going to shave, too.  Turn around if it bothers you."

"This is ridiculous," Mary said sharply, coming to her feet.

"I'm calling Private Bishop."

She would never be able to say how it happened-Ryder's movements were
mostly a blur--but when his body stilled again Mary found herself
facing his steady arm and a Colt .45.  "Please," he said politely.

"Stay.  I'd like the company."  Mary sat.  She held her breath when
Ryder approached, but all he did was pick up the chair with her in it
and turn them both to face the wall.  He touched her shoulder lightly.
Her tension could be felt through the heavy fabric of her habit.

"You can breathe now," he said softly.

"And don't call for Harry.  You won't like the consequences."

"I don't care what you do to me," she said with foolish courage.

"I was thinking about Harry."  Knowing he had guaranteed her silence,
Ryder released Mary's shoulder.

"This won't take long."  Mary gritted her teeth.  Behind her, she could
hear him washing.  She recognized the scrape of the razor across his
face as he shed his shadow of a beard.  She enjoyed her petty
self-satisfaction when she heard him swear softly as he nicked
himself.

"It's not a fatal wound," he said, divining her thoughts.  Mary's smug
smile vanished.

"You used me," she said.

"Yes."  There was no apology.

He stripped out of his clothes, replacing one item at a time, and
dressed quickly.  He would not feel clean again until he left the cell
behind, but fresh clothes were a good beginning.  Ryder slipped on the
navy blue jacket over his crisp, white shirt and noticed Florence had
repaired one of the loose eagle-stamped brass buttons.  As he had
instructed, she had also added a captain's insignia.

"You can turn around," he said.  Mary didn't move.

"This view is just fine."

"Bullheaded, aren't you?"

"I prefer obstinate."  With little effort, Ryder turned her again.  He
cupped her chin and raised her face.

"When Harry comes back you'll need to follow my lead," he said.

"Do you understand?"

"You've made yourself quite clear."  She was no longer fingering her
rosary.

Her arms were crossed in front of her in a challenging posture.

"You shouldn't have used me," she said.

"You should have asked for my help."  Ryder let his hand drop away.  He
went back to the cot and began stuffing his old clothes in the valise.
When he was done he thrust it in Mary's direction.

"Are you saying you would have said yes?"  he asked.  She took the
valise and set it on her lap.

"I'm saying it would have been polite to ask.  Apparently Florence
Gardner had a choice.  You haven't given me one."  Ryder didn't
respond.  If he apologized for this he'd be apologizing at every turn.
The truth was, he wasn't sorry.  He picked up the Bible and opened it.
The book of Psalms was hollowed out.  Ryder removed an object and held
it up to Mary.

"The key to the kingdom."  Mary was past surprise.

"Small wonder my Bible wasn't good enough for the general's mother." He
nodded, palming the key.

"The Bible was Flo's inspiration.  Not mine."

"Then she's a volunteer.  You didn't have to threaten anyone to elicit
her cooperation."  Ryder realized he had said too much.  The less Mary
understood about Florence Gardner's role, the better.  He ignored her
comment, placed his hand through the bars, and inserted the key into
the lock.  It opened easily.  Ryder stepped out, pocketed the key, then
pulled out the Colt which had been placed in the waistband of his
trousers.  He had half expected Harry to have checked on them by now.
The private's inattention to his duty worked in Ryder's favor.

"You can call him in now," he said, closing the door.

"Be careful what you say."  While Mary turned, Ryder took his position
behind the door to the guardroom.  When Harry opened it the door would
offer Ryder cover.  By the time Harry realized Ryder wasn't in the
cell, it would be too late for him.  Ryder cocked one eyebrow when Mary
simply sat on her chair, her mouth set mutinously.  When that didn't
work, he cocked the Colt.  Mary's response was immediate.

"Private Bishop," she called.

"Will you come in here, please?  I'm ready to leave."

Still eager to make amends for his previous wayward thoughts, Harry
Bishop responded with alacrity.  He was just as quickly dispatched to
the floor as Ryder brought him down with the butt of his peacemaker.
Ryder shut the door so they wouldn't be surprised by anyone entering
the stockade and dragged Harry to the cell, then he pushed him inside.
He took the private's hat and placed it on his head, shoving some of
his own, longer hair under it.

"You can stop looking so stricken.  I didn't shoot him."

"He's still been injured on my account," she said.  Her eyes strayed
from the unconscious guard back to Ryder.

"Go on.  What are you waiting for?  You're free to leave."  She hadn't
expected to amuse him, but Mary was certain that was what she glimpsed
in the frost gray eyes.

"Not that it matters to me, but you're wasting time."  He gestured to
her with his index finger, crooking it to indicate she was to come
toward him.  Mary's dark red brows drew together.

"I'm fine just where I am, thank you."  Ryder raised his gun again.  He
didn't point it at Mary; he aimed at Harry Bishop's hapless head.

"It's not too late," he said.

"I can still kill him."  Mary's own head was beginning to clear, and
she had had time to take stock of the situation.  She was feeling
infinitely more confident than she had moments earlier.

"If you shoot you'll bring soldiers running.

I don't think you want that."  He didn't blink.

"They're going to hang me," he said steadily.

"I think I'll take my chances."  He pulled back the hammer.  Mary
stood.

"Bully."

"Bring the valise.  The Bible, too, if you want it."  She took it off
the cot and stepped over Harry's body to precede Ryder out of the cell.
He locked the door behind them and ushered her to the guardroom.  It
was still empty.  He motioned her through.

"Now what?"  she demanded stubbornly.  Ryder placed one hand at the
small of her back.  He noticed she responded as skittishly as if he'd
placed his gun there.

"Through those doors," he said softly, leaning close to her ear.

"And into the courtyard.  You know not to call attention to
yourself."

"I think you and the gun will do that nicely."

"It's dark," he said.

"The uniform I'm wearing has a captain's insignia--something Harry
didn't notice--and my gun is going to be under my jacket.  You walked
in with a valise, and you're walking out with one.  You're going to
slip your arm through mine and I'm going to escort you away from the
buildings and past the guards."

"To where your horse is waiting."  He didn't correct her.  His firm
prod was enough this time to get her moving.

When she opened the door to the stockade, Ryder followed her out into
the clear night air.  She didn't require a reminder to loop her arm
through his.  He adjusted his hat a notch lower and forced himself to
accept the unhurried pace she set.

"You must think you're very clever," she said through gritted teeth.

"It's going remarkably well," he replied pleasantly.  The common
grounds between the buildings weren't deserted, but Ryder only felt a
few glances in their direction.  Mary was targeted with looks more
often than he.  She felt it, too.

"Not many people have seen me in my habit," she explained softly. Ryder
nodded.

"I thought it might be something like--"

"Mary!"  It was Rennie's strident call from the long porch of the
officers' quarters that cut Ryder off.

"Mary!  What in the world are you--" Ryder didn't wait to hear more.

"Ignore her," he said.

"And move a little faster."

"One doesn't ignore Mary Renee," she said under her breath, but she
walked faster to stay with Ryder.  To her sister she called, "I'll be
there in a moment, Rennie.  I'll explain it all to you."  Moira joined
her daughter on the porch just then.

"Sure, and what are you girls yelling about?  I can hear you all the
way-" She broke off when she saw Mary's familiar shape crossing the
parade ground.

Moira's hand went to her heart.

"Oh, my God!  She's taken it up!

I prayed and prayed."  Rennie lifted her hand.  She didn't look at
Moira.  Her eyes were narrowed sharply in her sister's direction.

"No, Mama," she said softly, puzzled and disturbed.

"She hasn't.

I'd swear she hasn't.  Something's not right."  There was sudden
urgency in her voice as her vision expanded to include Mary's escort.

"Get Jarret out here, Mama!  Get him now!"  Moira didn't respond
quickly enough to suit Rennie.  She raised her voice so there was no
possibility that she could not be heard.

"Jarret!

Come here!  I need you!"  With Rennie's cry, Ryder knew he had been
discovered.  He grabbed Mary's arm and pulled her around the garrison.
She stumbled, but he helped her keep her balance and forced her to
match his long stride.

"You'd better go," she said, as they rounded the building and were
thrust into the shadows.

"Quickly."  Over his shoulder she could see a horse tied loosely to a
post about fifty yards away.  It moved, dropping its head to nose at
something in the dirt, and that's when Mary made out the shadow of the
second mount.  She raised her face to look at him, her normally serene
features stricken.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"You can't mean to--" There was no time to listen to her protests.
Ryder gripped her firmly and yanked her toward the mounts.  He could
have covered the ground more quickly alone, but he wouldn't have had
the same protection.  The shouts from the parade ground were louder
now, and he knew the alarm had been raised.

"Faster," he said tightly.

"Run with me."  Mary tried just once to dig in her heels, but he pulled
her so hard that she thought her shoulder would be dislocated.  She
thought she would have a chance to break away when they reached the
mounts, but Ryder practically threw her in the saddle.  She was so
winded by that, in the time it took her to catch her breath he had
released the reins and was mounting the other mare.  Glancing behind
her, Mary saw the first soldiers rounding the garrison.  There was no
moon, and they did not appear as individuals in her eyes.  They moved
as a shadowy tide, and the sharp angles protruding from their mass, she
recognized as raised weapons.

"For God's sake, don't shoot!"

Jarret called out.

"He has Mary with him!"

"At last," Ryder said under his breath.  "someone with sense."  He
kicked his horse and pulled on the reins of Mary's mount.

"Mary!"  It was her mother's voice, raised above all the others, that
Mary heard.  It traveled the distance more clearly than every other
frantic shout and barked order.  Mary squinted into the darkness and
tried to make out her mother's shape even as Ryder was drawing her
farther away.

"Mama!"  She did not mean to sound frightened or panicked, yet she did.
She heard that in her voice.

"Mama!"  she called again.

"I love you!"

"Mary!"  It was a forlorn cry, and it wrenched the heart of everyone
who heard it.  Ryder urged their horses into gallops to escape its
eerie echo.  At the outset she swore she wouldn't ask for any show of
kindness from him.  She had already broken that promise to herself
twice and she was fighting the urge now.  The word please was already
forming on her parched lips.  She was actually grateful for the dryness
in her throat that prevented her from giving sound to the word.  The
night was impossibly dark to Mary.  In New York there was always light,
even on a night with a new moon gas lamps illuminated the wide
thoroughfares.  Recently there was talk of adding electric lights.

It would be like having stars on the ground, she thought, and not such
a bad idea given her circumstances of the moment.  Heaven's bounty of
stars were not providing the trail of light she could have hoped for.
Ryder, she noticed, did not appear to have any difficulty finding his
way.  She knew he was more responsible for picking their way through
the rocks than the horses were.  There was virtually no hesitation on
his part that she could sense.

Except for the fact that he still commanded her mare's reins, Ryder
didn't seem at all aware of her presence.  He hadn't even spoken to her
since leaving the fort.  On the two occasions she had swallowed her
pride and asked for help, he had ignored her.  The pace he was able to
maintain was as steady as it was cruel.  Ryder was the only one who
showed no signs of tiring.  The mares were being run to the ground, and
Mary owed her own ability to stay in the saddle to sheer
bullheadedness.  She found no satisfaction in the thought that Ryder
might be right about her.

"If I had any sense I'd faint," she muttered.

"I'd faint dead away and make him stop or leave me where I lay."  She
glanced wearily at Ryder's back.  If he heard he'd given no indication
of it.  It fueled her anger.

"I

can't keep going like this," she warned him.  There was no part of her
body that didn't ache.  In some places she hurt so badly that thinking
about them brought tears to her eyes.  She swore she felt pain in the
roots of her hair.

"I can't, I tell you."  The second admission came out as no more than a
whisper.  Mary was humiliated by the pathetic sound of it, and she was
actually glad that Ryder didn't respond.  She thought about another
Mary, her namesake, and the perilous flight into Egypt to escape
Herod's wrath.

That Mary had ridden a donkey across miles of desert with her child,
and nowhere was it recorded that she nagged Joseph or complained to
God.  Even though the circumstances of her flight were quite different,
Mary drew upon that story for comfort and strength.  It supported her
well, giving her the stamina to go another two hours without a word to
Ryder.  When she finally spoke her words were preceded by a derisive
sound that came from the back of her throat.

"But no one abducted the Blessed Virgin," she said lowly, her voice
raspy.

"And I'll bet someone just left out the part where she complained." She
didn't care that Ryder wouldn't understand the wandering of her
thoughts; she wasn't speaking to him anyway.

"She probably didn't have to beg Joseph for water either.  He was kind
enough to take care of..."  When Mary fainted it wasn't as part of any
plan for revenge.  Ryder was unable to prevent her ignominious fall
from the saddle.  With no expression of remorse or frustration he
simply dismounted and knelt beside her.  Because the hard landing
hadn't jarred her to consciousness he slipped one arm under her
shoulders, another beneath her knees, and lifted her.  Like so much
baggage he laid her over her saddle, belly down.  After securing her so
she wouldn't slip off, he mounted again and resumed the hard pace he
had set.  When Mary woke she was immediately disoriented.  She knew her
view was that of the ground, but it didn't make any sense.  Her head
throbbed with the rush of blood, and her nostrils were filled with the
scent of horse sweat.  As her thoughts cleared and the truth of her
position became known to her, her face flamed with color.

"The lowest circle of hell is too good for you, Ryder McKay."

"You're probably right."  Several things struck her at once: she had
spoken her thought aloud, Ryder had replied, and his voice came from
very close to her.  She twisted awkwardly, trying to raise her head to
see where he was standing.

"Be still," he said.  In spite of Mary's wretched weariness the urge
was in her to fight his terse order.  That Ryder merely waited for her
struggle to end, and that he didn't have to wait long really defeated
Mary.  When he drew her off the saddle she sagged heavily against him.
The humiliating truth was that she couldn't stand without Ryder's
support.

"Shhh," he said softly.  Mary realized she was crying.

She felt an arm circle her shoulders, and she was secured now by his
embrace.  Tears streaked her face and wet his jacket, but he simply
held her until even crying was too great an expenditure of energy.

"I can't move," she said weakly.

"I know.  It's all right."  Ryder lifted her as he had done earlier,
but this time he didn't place her over the saddle.  He carried her
toward a dark, yawning gap in the face of the rock around them and
entered it.  He set her down when the complete absence of light
prevented him from making another step toward the interior of the
cavern.

"I have to see to the horses," he told her.

"You'll be safe here."  Mary could only make out his slim shadow as he
returned to the entrance of the cave.  She continued to stare in that
direction until her eyes could no longer focus.  With each blink it
became more difficult to raise her lids.  She promised herself she
would only sleep a moment.  Ryder dropped the valise, saddlebags, and
horse blankets near Mary's curled body.  Uncapping one of the canteens
he carried, he knelt beside her, raised her head, and let water trickle
over her lips.  Her mouth parted and she took it eagerly, raising her
hands to tip the canteen at a better angle.

"It's enough," he said, his voice low.  It would never be enough, she
thought.  She let him take back the canteen only because she couldn't
fight him for it.  She would have told him so, but there was no
strength in her to form the words.  Ryder slipped a blanket under
Mary's head as he lowered the canteen, then he stretched out beside
her.  He could feel her trembling, the effect of complete exhaustion.
She made no protest when he slid one arm around her middle and drew her
closer.  Outside the mouth of the cavern the first threads of sunlight
could be seen on the horizon as Ryder and Mary fell deeply asleep.  It
wasn't a dream.  That was Mary's first thought upon waking, and her
sore, aching limbs verified it.

Turning gingerly on her hip, she removed the pebble that had made a
dimple in her flesh and flicked it out of the way.  With some effort
Mary pushed herself to a sitting position, leaned back against a large
rock, and took stock of her situation.  At some point during her sleep
Ryder had abandoned her.  She vaguely remembered him dropping the
valise and pushing a blanket under her head.  Both were gone now as was
the canteen.  That made Mary wonder about the horses that he'd said he
had to "see to."  Had he left with both of them or was one waiting for
her?  Mary got to her feet, wobbled slightly, and picked her way among
the rocks to get to the mouth of the cave.  Sunlight blinded her
momentarily.

She raised a hand to shade her eyes before she stepped beyond the
shadowed entrance.  Nothing about her surroundings was familiar.

The harsh light of day brought the land into stark relief.  She had
known that they had been climbing throughout the night, but she was
unprepared for the towering pines that seemed to erupt from ground
wholly unable to support them.  The terrain was severe and hostile,
rocks rising at odd angles and sparse grass making up the ground cover.
The air was dry and the heat was already making a haze in the distance.
Mary could not see the horses nor could she find the trail Ryder had
used to come or go.

She didn't know if she were north or south of Fort Union, east or west
of the rail line.  She only knew she was higher than she had been
before and that there was higher ground around her to be covered.  The
mountains where she found herself were totally unknown to her.  It
occurred to Mary that she might easily walk for days and never come
across anything familiar or friendly.  She would have to be found, of
course.  Her survival depended upon that.  Thinking what she might do
to call attention to herself in this wilderness, Mary unfastened her
headdress and shook it out.

The black veil was coated with a fine layer of dust; the white wimple
was stained with dirt and perspiration.  Mary tiredly threaded her
fingers through her hair, plucking out the strands that lay flatly
against her temples.

"It's longer than I remember."  Mary spun around and faced the cave.
Ryder was on the lip of the entrance, half in its protective shadow,
half out.  She had to squint to see him clearly, and what she saw made
no sense.

He was as relaxed as she was tautly strung, as clean as she was
unkempt.  Mary's hand fell away from her hair.

"I thought you left."  His appearance alone stated the obvious.  Ryder
didn't waste words explaining that he hadn't.

"You have to come in here," he said.

"Out of the open."  Mary didn't move.

"I don't see the horses."

"I sent them away."

"Sent them?  But--"

"Come here."

Mary walked toward him slowly, painfully aware of her awkward stiffness
and of Ryder's flat appraisal.  When she was close to him he took her
arm and pulled her inside.

"I can manage," she said resentfully.

"I have so far."  He ignored that.

"You're not to step foot outside this cavern again.  Do you
understand?"

"I

understand what you're saying," she said, her tart spirit returning.

"I just don't understand why you're saying it."  His grip tightened
momentarily.

"I only care about the first.  You don't have to understand my reasons
to obey my orders."  Mary's mouth flattened mutinously.  Not for the
world would she have told him his fingers were bruising her skin.  With
mock civility she asked, "And what do you suggest I do about a call of
nature?"

"Answer it."  He released her arm.

"I'll show you where."  Ryder didn't lead her into the cave
immediately.  First he stepped out and quickly shinnied up one of the
pines, cutting a small branch from a point high enough so that it
wouldn't be noticed at ground level.  He used it to wipe away the trail
of his own footprints and then Mary's.  Even the telltale patterns of
her gown sweeping the ground were obliterated.  Ryder replaced a stone
her shoe had overturned so the sunbaked side was on top again. Watching
him, Mary understood why she couldn't find the trail.  More importantly
she understood the difficulty others would have finding it. Ryder was
leaving nothing to chance.

"No one's going to find us, are they?"  she asked when he joined her.
He shrugged.

"This way."

Without waiting to see if she followed, Ryder began walking.  When he
reached the point where they had slept the night before, he picked up a
lighted torch he had wedged between two rocks.

"Where did that come from?"  Mary asked.  Light flickered on the walls
of the cavern as he held it up.  She realized that his sudden
appearance at the cave's entrance had been possible because he had been
in the cavern all the time, not outside of it.  Now, when he held the
torch higher, she began to have some concept of the vastness of the
place to which he had brought her.  Just beyond the area where she had
slept, the cave opened up into an immense antechamber.  The torchlight
was not strong enough for Mary to make out more than a half-dozen
separate passages emanating from the area though she suspected there
were twice that many.  She knew enough about the interior of such a
cavern to understand there would be passages within each of the others,
literally hundreds of different routes along miles of corridors, all of
them leading somewhere or nowhere.  She could lose herself more easily
in the cavern than she could lose Ryder.

"You've been here before," she said.  There was accusation in her tone.
Ryder merely held out a hand to her to help her over the rocky ground.
When she refused it he shrugged and kept going, leading her through a
shallow wash of water by stepping on a series of well-placed stones.
The interior of the cavern was a cool and constant temperature, but the
air was clear, not damp or musty.  It seemed to Mary that Ryder chose
an opening completely at random yet she knew it couldn't be the case.

She tried to pay attention to the entrance, the shape of the smooth
rock, the formation of the stones leading up to it.  The wavering
torchlight played havoc with her perception, and it seemed to her that
Ryder juggled the torch purposely to keep her from seeing anything too
clearly.  The passage twisted and turned, narrowed and widened, and as
Mary had anticipated, there were more choices to be made along the
route.  After only a hundred yards, she was hopelessly disoriented. She
was about to ask him if he had forgotten about her physical needs,
which were now reaching the stage of urgency, when he pointed to a
narrow corridor and handed her the torch.

"Take the second opening on your right," he said.

"I'll wait here."

"Your manners leave me breathless," she simpered.  Her rolling eyes
supplied the sarcasm.  She took the torch and disappeared into the
corridor.

"There's nowhere you can go," he called after her.

"So don't bother trying.  The other passages are all dead ends."  He
watched her back stiffen and could imagine she was gritting her teeth
to bite off a retort.  Ryder permitted himself a small smile, a salute
of sorts to her astonishing resiliency.  He leaned back against the
cool walls of the cavern and waited in the darkness for her return.  As
always, waiting brought a pleasure of its own.  He savored the
anticipation of seeing her again.  She would be disheveled and cranky,
but her spirit would precede the torchlight.  He pushed away from the
wall as she approached and took the torch.

"It's only a little farther," he said.

"Will your legs carry you or do you want me to?"  Mary was disappointed
that she hadn't been able to conceal her limp.

"I'll be--"

"I don't know why I asked," he said.  Thrusting the torch back in her
hands, Ryder picked her up.

"Keep that thing high.  Don't burn my hair."  It was tempting, but Mary
did as he asked, raising it over their heads.  He carried her another
fifty yards, and she never sensed his breathing change.  His stamina
confounded her, but before she could comment on it he stopped on the
threshold of another chamber.

Mary's eyes widened as Ryder slowly turned to show her the interior of
the room.  Five lanterns hanging from hooks embedded in the stone
provided light.  There was a small pool of water to the left of where
they entered, and Mary could hear the faint trickle of the underground
stream providing the water and carrying the runoff.  Thick, colorful
blankets were laid out on a wide stone shelf which made a rocky loft of
a bed.  The chamber had no real corners, but one area that was more
angled than the other was the storage site for hundreds of cans of
food, also for dried meat and staples in kegs and sacks.  There were
cooking utensils, stoneware jugs, wooden buckets, baskets, and tin cups
stacked haphazardly among the foodstuffs.  Nearby, a crate of Henry
rifles and cases of ammunition rested beside a small unmarked trunk.

The chamber was not only well stocked, it was also furnished with a
rocker, a three-legged stool, a faded brocade wing chair, and a cherry
wood pie table.  While the mix of pieces was odd, Mary recognized the
quality.  She was as astonished as she was appalled.

"It's true, then," she said softly.

"What's true?"

Mary hadn't been aware she had spoken aloud.  She nudged Ryder's
shoulder, and he set her down.  When he would have supported her, she
took a step away from him.

"Is this where you've hidden the gold?"  she asked.  He came to
understand what she thought was true.  She believed the contents of the
chamber had something to do with the Colter Canyon raid.

"There's no gold here."  It was the only explanation he would make.
When it looked as if she wouldn't be satisfied with that, he pointed to
the well of water.

"It's cold, but you can wash there.  Bathe if you like.  I get our
drinking water from the source so you don't have to worry that it will
be contaminated.  There's soap in that trunk and liniment in my
saddlebags."  Mary looked longingly at the water, then back at Ryder,
less critically this time.  There was no gold here, he'd said.  Did she
dare believe him?  Did she dare not?

"I'd like a bath," she said quietly.

"And perhaps I could wash my habit."

From beneath her wide sleeve she pulled out her dusty veil and
wimple.

"And these."

"Whatever you like."

"Are there towels?"

"This isn't a hotel."

"I'm not likely to make that mistake.  I just thought-" She glanced
around the room.

"It seems you have all the important amenities."  He took pity on her.
Her eyes were large and impossibly green, and for just a moment she had
been uncertain.

"In the trunk with the soap.  I'll get them both for you."  Mary
exchanged the torch she was holding for the soap when

Ryder brought it.  She eased herself carefully onto the flat stones
that ringed the small pool and took off her shoes and stockings.
Looking sideways at Ryder, she raised her black skirt slightly and
massaged her calves.

"You already bathed," she said.

"Alone."  It wasn't a question; it was a hint.  Ryder hesitated.

"There's no way out," she said.

"I'm not going anywhere."  His eyes narrowed on her face a moment
longer.

"Very well," he said at last.

"There are things I can do elsewhere."  Ryder picked up one of the
wooden buckets and a ladle.  Still carrying the torch, he left the
chamber.  Mary waited, wanting to be certain Ryder was really gone
before she stripped out of her habit and undergarments.

When his light footfalls receded completely she believed she was safe.
The pile of clothing she intended to wash was forgotten as she took
stock of her bruised and battered body.  There were large
discolorations on her shoulder, upper arm, and hip and it wasn't until
she recalled fainting that she understood their origin.  The small,
tender blisters on her palms and fingertips were easier to explain. She
remembered the tight grip she had had on her saddle because Ryder
wouldn't give her the reins.  Mary explored lower, touching her ribs,
her flat belly, the faint outline of her hipbone.  Where she had
controlled her mount with her inner thighs, the soft skin was burned
from the constant rubbing.  Touching herself gingerly now, Mary winced.
It would take more than liniment to ease her pain there.  Mary dipped
her toes in the water, just skimming the surface.  Ryder had
understated the fact when he'd said it was cold.  It was icy.  She sat
on the stones again and eased herself carefully into the pool until she
touched bottom.  The water cupped the lower curve of her breasts, and
her nipples became almost painfully hard with the frigid temperature.

In the beginning it was difficult to breathe.  Mary was tempted to haul
herself out, but it would have taken more strength than she could
immediately muster.  The current tugged on her at the level of her
ankles and feet as the underground stream rushed past.  The deeper
water was even colder than the surface, so Mary made no attempt to dunk
herself entirely.  That is, until Ryder reappeared.  She had soap in
one hand and a scrap of linen in the other.  She held both aloft as she
sank into the water as far as her chin.

"What are you doing here?"  she demanded.  Ryder didn't miss that her
tone was as icy as the water.

"I didn't hear any splashing," he explained calmly.

"I wanted to be sure you hadn't drowned."  Mary made a sound that was
both derisive and impatient.

"You couldn't be that lucky."  His pale gray eyes widened
fractionally.

"It didn't take you long to recover your sass."

She wasn't certain she heard him correctly.

"What did you say?"

"I said you were sassy."  It was a word that had never been applied to
Mary before.  Tart.  Blunt.  Sarcastic.  Those were descriptions she
had heard.  Sassy was girlish, a little flirty.

It made her feel gauche, youthful in a way that she'd never been, even
when she was young.  Embarrassed, Mary lowered her hands and crossed
them in front of her breasts under the water.  Some of the heat drained
from her face.  Ryder watched her thoughtfully and revealed nothing. He
approached the pool slowly until he could hunker at the edge.

"This seems familiar," he said quietly.

Mary was thinking the same thing.  Except for the cold.  That would
fade in time, she thought.  Soon she would be mercifully numb to it and
the humiliation of her predicament.  Mustering what dignity her
situation allowed, she stared back at Ryder and waited for him to move
away.  When he didn't she said, "You might demonstrate some decency."

"Do you need help?"  he asked politely.  It seemed the decent thing to
do.  He watched her lips flatten with exasperation, and one corner of
his mouth lifted in an arch smile.

"I've riled you again, haven't I?"  Mary didn't know which she disliked
more, the fact that he could get a response from her so easily or the
fact that he seemed to enjoy it.

"Will you please leave?"  she asked.

"You only had to ask."  Still watching her from behind a mask of
impenetrable calm, Ryder rose slowly.  The stiffness that plagued all
of Mary's movements was noticeably absent from his.  He didn't know it,
but that did as much to fire her anger as his careless reply.  As soon
as his back was turned she pitched the bar of soap at him hard.  It
caught Ryder squarely between his shoulder blades before it thudded to
the ground.  He spun around.  Whatever retribution he planned in that
brief span of time was aborted when he saw Mary's shoulder.  She had
risen far enough out of the water for him to clearly see the large
bruise.

"Did that happen when you fell?"  he asked.  She followed his gaze to
her shoulder, glanced at the blossoming discoloration on her pale
skin.

"Unless you beat me while I slept," she said.  Mary almost regretted
the flippant remark when his eyes pinned her where she stood.

"Yes," she said.

"When I fainted."

"Are there more?"  She hesitated.

"I'll drag you out of there and see for myself."  Mary raised her arm
and showed him the one there.

"There's another on my hip," she said.

When he merely stared at her, trying to gauge her truthfulness, she
added, "That's all."  Ryder nodded.  His saddlebag was lying on the
spread of blankets.  He dumped the contents and spread them out.  A
brown bottle of Dr.  Horace White's liniment was among the items
Florence had packed for him.  Ryder set it down beside the pool.

"Compliments of Flo," he said.

"She thought of everything."  Mary didn't try to reach it, nor did she
thank him for it.  As far as she was concerned the general's mother had
a great deal to answer for.

"May I have the soap?"  she asked.  He handed it to her.

"You'll be all right?"  She nodded.

"Yes," she said.

"Of course."  Watching him, seeing a thread of tension leave his
features and a certain remoteness return to his eyes, Mary realized
there was no "of course" about it.  Ryder really had come back because
he was concerned something had happened to her.  She wanted to tell him
that he should have thought of that before he forced her to leave with
him.  The moment to say it passed as Ryder picked up his torch at the
entrance and disappeared into the corridor.  There would be other
opportunities, she reflected, glancing around the room.  Her eyes
landed on the box of Henry rifles and the cases of shells, and she
smiled.  Opportunities could be made if one was resourceful.

Ryder leaned his torch against some rocks in the spring room.  He
filled the bucket with fresh water, took a few deep sips from the
ladle, then set it aside.  He would give Mary ten minutes to finish
bathing and no longer.  The water was too cold for her to be safe any
longer than that.  Her strength had already been pushed to the limit.
He could still feel the spot on his back where she had caught him with
the corner of that bar of soap.  She was at the end of her emotional
endurance as well.  He could only guess at the lengths she would go to
to be rid of him and the methods she might use.  He would have to make
certain she understood there was no escape from the cavern.  Otherwise
Ryder was very much afraid Mary would die trying.  He mulled over the
things he might say to her, testing them in his mind before he tested
them on his tongue, and at the end of ten minutes he retraced his steps
to the lighted chamber.

All of his carefully considered phrases were left unsaid.  Mary Francis
met him at the entrance wearing nothing but a blanket and a feral
smile.  She was also silent.  The Henry rifle she aimed at Ryder's
chest spoke for her.

Chapter Six

"I know how to use this," Mary said, raising the rifle a notch.  Ryder
nodded.

"That's important information for me to have," he said.

"Thank you."  Mary's forest green eyes flashed, set off by the hint of
amusement she thought she heard in Ryder's tone.

"You might want to know this also," she told him.

"I will use it."

"I didn't think you'd pick it up otherwise."  This time she was
satisfied with his sincerity.

"You can put down the torch," she said.

"And the bucket.  Then I'd like you to remove your gun."  Her eyes
dropped momentarily to the weapon Ryder had tucked in his pants.

"You can put it on the ground and kick it toward me."  Ryder dropped
the torch and bucket.  He raised his right hand slowly and took the
Colt out.  He was careful not to indicate in any way that he might turn
the tables on her.  The Henry rifle had a quick trigger and deadly
accuracy.  At her present range, she could hardly miss.  Even if her
intention was only to wing him, the wound could prove fatal.

Ryder knew she hadn't entirely considered the consequences of killing
him.  If he died she had only the slimmest chance of finding her way
out of the cavern.  That still left her to face the mountains.  She had
even less chance of surviving in them.  Ryder carefully placed the Colt
on the cavern's rock floor and kicked it in Mary's direction.

"Now what?"  Mary's chin jerked briefly in the direction of the odd
assortment of chairs.

"You may have a seat," she said.

"Your choice."  He took the stool.  Mary followed but didn't sit. Ryder
watched her heft the rifle again, and knew it was getting heavy for
her.

"Your blanket's slipping."  She shook her head.

"I won't be so easily taken in."

"All right," he said, his eyes dropping to the upper curves of her
breasts.

"Then you won't mind if I enjoy the view."  Mary considered shooting
him just to shake his imperturbable calm.

"Where are we?"  she asked.

"You don't have to point a rifle at me to get an answer to that."

"Apparently I do.  You haven't answered it yet."

"This is the Cavern of Lost Souls."  How fitting, she thought.

"A burial ground?"

"At one time.  It hasn't been used for that for centuries.  There are
chambers within the cavern with human remains.  It's still a sacred
place to the Apache."

"Particularly the Chiricahua?"

"Then the cavern is well known."  He shrugged.

"It's drawn up on all the geological surveys of the area."  He was
being purposely and maddeningly obtuse, she thought.  And he was still
staring at her breasts.  It was very tempting to look down to ascertain
what he could see, but Mary resisted.  The blanket was heavy wool, and
she could feel the weight of it against her skin.

She was still modestly covered even if he pretended to see right
through her.

"Will the search party know to look here?"

"We spent most of the night laying down false trails," he said.

"This isn't the first place they'll come."

"I see."

"And if they do, it's doubtful they'll find this chamber."  Mary almost
told him about her brother-in-law.  Jarret Sullivan had made a good
living bounty hunting before he'd married Rennie.  She quelled the urge
to be smug and said instead, "The Army has scouts as clever as you."

"More clever," he said modestly.

"But at Fort Union they're all Apache."

"They might lead the Army to Lost Souls if they pick up a trail, but
not one of them will enter."

"Because it's sacred ground?"  He nodded.

"The Apache are superstitious about the dead, even fearful.  They won't
come in here."

"But you did."

Now Ryder raised his eyes and regarded her frankly.

"I'm not Apache."  Mary felt the pull of his pale, frost gray eyes.

"Not half?"

"By blood, not a quarter.  Not even an eighth.

Scots-Irish on my father's side, French on my mother's.  And that's
generations ago.  My parents were born and raised in Ohio."

Mary's weight shifted from one foot to the other.  She wished she could
shift the rifle with as much ease.  He was an enigma to her, raising
more questions in her mind than he was answering, and she was already
tiring.  Mary backed up to the wing chair and stepped behind it.  The
high back gave her support for the rifle and steadied her aim.  It also
provided adequate cover.  If the blanket slipped now, she would be the
only one who knew it.

"People at the fort think you're a friend of the Chiricahua."

"That's probably because it's true," he said "Did that make you assume
I was one of them?"

"I .. . I don't know.  I suppose I thought it would explain some of
your actions."  Ryder's features remained impassive, but tension was
tightening his jaw line.  A tiny muscle began to tic in his cheek.

"What do you know about my actions?"

"I know you abducted me," she said.  He dismissed that with an abrupt
slash of his hand.

"Before you came to see me in my cell," he said tersely, "what did you
know of my actions?"

"I thought you were honorable," she said.

"And perhaps you still are, but I don't know who you honor any longer.
If the Colter Canyon raid was your doing it may be that in order to
honor your friends you had to betray your country."

"I seem to remember you saying something about helping me if I had
asked.  If you believe I had a part in the raid, then wouldn't you be
betraying your country?"

How was it possible that she had the gun and he still had the upper
hand?

"If I thought you were responsible for the raid I wouldn't have offered
my help."

"Exactly."  His logic confounded her.

"That was then," she said.

"I don't know what I think about your notions of honor now.  You
haven't behaved honorably toward me."

Ryder didn't deny it.

"No," he said.

"I haven't."  Mary hadn't expected his easy admission.  Her brows drew
together as she studied him.

"Then why-"

"I sacrificed you to protect Florence.

I suppose you would see that as more proof of my divided loyalties."
Ryder leaned forward on the stool, resting his forearms on his knees.
His posture was relaxed, casual.

"I'd rather you put the rifle down, Mary.  I don't mind explaining
things to you, but not this way."  She was struck by the fact that he
had used her name.  She couldn't recall that he had done so before, and
now he did it with a certain deliberateness, as if there were meaning
and some expectation attached to its use.

"Just tell me this," she said.

"Would this rifle be enough incentive for you to lead me out of
here?"

"No," he said quietly.

"But I think you already know that."  Mary sighed and lowered the
weapon.

She let Ryder take it and return it to the crate with the others.

"I didn't like holding it on you," she said.

"I didn't imagine you did."  He picked up his Colt and placed it on top
of a flour keg.

"And I don't think I'll need this.  Why don't you sit down?"

Mary adjusted the blanket, giving it a yank upward before she rounded
the wing chair.  She thought she saw Ryder smirk, but the expression
was so brief and so faint that she warned herself she could have
imagined it.

"I could have shot you," she told him.

"I was convinced."  She sat in the wing chair, drawing her legs under
her.  When her thighs rubbed, she winced and sipped the air to catch
her breath.

"What is it?"  he asked.

"Nothing."  It was such an obvious lie that Ryder's lip curled
derisively.

"Should I get the gun?"

"Oh, if you must know," she said impatiently, "I'm tender from riding
all night."

"Tender?"

Mary's mouth flattened.  Just how plain did he want her to speak?

"It feels as if someone's set fire to my thighs."  Ryder watched as
Mary's complexion suffused with enough color to rival the red-gold in
her hair.  She was staring hard at him, daring him to mention it.

"I'll make a salve for you."  Ryder didn't tell her it would mean
leaving the cavern.  He would have to do it while she slept, but
judging by the faint drooping of her eyelids, he wouldn't have to wait
long.

"It will help."  She didn't thank him for his offer.

"What did you mean about Florence Gardner?"  she asked.

"About sacrificing me to help her?"

"I thought you understood her part in the escape."

"I understand she arranged for me to see you, hid the key in her Bible,
hid a gun in the valise, and saw to it that you had fresh horses."

"That's right.

You know that because you were there.  How do you suppose it looks to
everyone back at Fort Union?"  Mary considered that for all of a
second.

"But you abducted me!"

"Really?"  he asked calmly.

"Or did you come willingly?  Harry Bishop will have no record of
receiving an order from General Gardner for your admission into the
stockade.  He let you in because you're a nun.  Florence herself
couldn't have gained entry that night.  You were the one who carried in
the valise, which we have with us, so who's to say it wasn't yours? You
didn't call out for the guard while I changed into uniform, and you
didn't try to warn him when he walked into the cell area."

"But you-"

"I know," he said.

"That's the point.  I know."  He saw her shoulders slump as she pressed
one hand to her forehead.

"You escorted me across the parade ground, and when your sister called
to you, you told her you'd explain everything later.  You didn't ask
for help, and when we ran, we ran together.  There were two mounts
waiting for us, not one.  Both were saddled, so there's no suspicion
that I wanted one for riding and a fresher one for later.  For all
intents and purposes this was no spur of the moment abduction.  Some
people are probably already questioning your timely arrival at the
fort, wondering if this wasn't arranged weeks ago."

"I never told anyone I knew you," Mary said.  But she was frowning,
recalling that it wasn't quite the truth.  She had mentioned his name
to Jarret.

"Florence knows we've met before, and she'll make certain others find
out.  She'll be reluctant to tell, of course, because everyone knows
she's my strongest advocate, but her hesitation will only make her more
likely to be believed."  Mary rubbed her temples, trying to think.

"And if I hadn't come to the fort?"  she asked.

"What was your plan then?"

"There was no plan."  Her hand dropped away from her face.

"No plan?"  He shrugged.

"I would have hanged."  Ryder picked up the liniment at the pool's edge
and held it up.

"Did you use any of this?"

"There wasn't time."

"Too busy thinking about Henry rifles."  He approached the wing chair,
pulling the stool along as he went.

"Sit up," he said.  It wasn't until his terse command that Mary
realized how small she had become in the chair.

With her long legs curled under her, her head bent, her shoulders
hunched in defeat, she had finally taken on all the attributes of
surrender.  Rallying, she straightened.

"What are you going to do?"  she demanded.  Ryder was pouring liniment
in his palm.  He corked the bottle, set it down, and rubbed his hands
together.  The friction heated the oil so that when he placed his palms
on Mary's bare shoulder warmth penetrated skin to bone.  He watched her
close her eyes with the pure relief of it.  Her lashes fluttered
briefly, then lay still, fanning out to cover the shadows beneath her
eyes.

Except for those shadows her skin was pale.  She leaned her head back
and exposed the long line of her throat.  Ryder could make out the
pulse in her neck, the faint evidence of her heartbeat.  His hands
moved gently to her upper arm and massaged the liniment in there.  She
didn't attempt to move away from him.  Ryder poured more of the oil in
his palm, rubbed, then settled his hands on her uninjured shoulder.
This time she actually sighed.

"Give me your hands," he said.  Mary raised them limply, too exhausted
to worry or wonder at the ease with which she was being manipulated.
His hands slipped along her fingers with tender regard for her
blistered flesh.  His touch was light, deft; and she was warmed by it.
As he massaged oil into the centers of her palms, she felt the
sensation throughout her body, tingling and tightening her skin.

An unfamiliar sound rose at the back of Mary's throat and she realized
she was hearing the hum of her own pleasure.  She forced her eyes open,
but her gaze was sleepy and slightly unfocused.

"I think that's enough."  There was no force to her words, no real threat
in them.

"You should ......"  Her voice trailed off as his hands moved over her
wrists then her forearms.  Mary closed her eyes again and just allowed
herself to feel.  Every sensation was a novel one.  There was steady
thrumming to her heartbeat now and a gentle roaring in her ears.  Ryder
had moved from the stool to the arm of the chair.  He was close enough
that his breath shifted silky strands of her hair against her temple.
When he picked her up her head lolled against his shoulder.  Her lips
parted but there was no protest.  He carried her to the wide stone
shelf where blankets had been laid out and put her down.  She turned on
her side, knees drawn up like a child, one hand under her head, the
other near her mouth.  The blanket over her slipped from her hip, and
he saw the bruise from her fall.  For the last time he applied liniment
to his hands, rubbed hard, and laid them on her skin.  She didn't stir.
Ryder couldn't say the same thing for himself.  He finished the massage
quickly and covered her hip.  When the blanket slipped again he covered
her with another.  Kneeling beside the pool, Ryder washed his hands,
then washed Mary's clothes.  The sooner he put her back in her habit,
the better.  When Mary woke she was alone.  In the cavern there was no
possibility of understanding day or night.  She felt surprisingly
rested so she imagined she had been asleep for several hours, perhaps
longer.

The lanterns were still lighted, but upon inspection she saw their oil
had been replenished.  Ryder, it seemed' thought of everything.

He hadn't known how long he would be gone, and he hadn't wanted her to
wake up in the dark.  Mary's clothes were hanging on a rope that Ryder
had strung from one wall of the chamber to the other.

The rope was secured by spikes he had driven into the stone.  Mary
didn't have to feel her habit to know it was still wet.  Water dripped
from the material and landed heavily on the cool floor.

Only her white cotton shift was dry enough to put on.  Mary slipped it
over her head.  Her feet were cold, and when she went looking for a
pair of socks among Ryder's things, she also found a clean shirt.  She
put both on, rolling up the sleeves to her elbows and turning down the
cuffs of the socks so they warmed her ankles.

Mary ran her fingers through her hair several times to separate the
flattened curls.  She was thirsty and hungry, and she had no idea
whether Ryder intended to feed her anytime soon.  Her eyes fell on the
bucket of water and ladle he had carried in earlier.  Not bothering to
get one of the tin cups, she drank from the ladle, sipping first to
make sure the water wasn't briny, then taking large gulps when she
realized it was fresh, clear, and cold.  With her thirst slaked, Mary
turned to the problem of hunger.  It was not going to be so easily
satisfied.  There were tins of meat, tomatoes, and corn, but nothing to
open them with.  She investigated several sacks until she found one
filled with jerky.

Mary was unfamiliar with the dried meat, but she was game.  With her
first bite she discovered it was as pleasurable to eat as salted wood
and wasn't likely to become an acquired taste.  Still, her stomach
pangs began easing as soon as she swallowed.  She tore off another
piece and chewed hard.  As she ate Mary wandered around the chamber,
taking note of its contents more closely.  The blankets where she had
been lying were not all Army issue.  Among the layers she found a quilt
with a complicated double wedding-ring pattern that had been stitched
by many busy hands.  There were several blankets with satin edging and
one cover that was supposed to hold a feather comforter.  A second
survey of the larder showed it to be a curious mixture of foodstuffs.
One of the boxes carried a date that revealed it originated during the
Civil War, another appeared to be as recently crated as August.  The
tin cups looked as if they came from a standard Army mess kit, but the
plates were china.  Mary recognized Wedgwood and Royal Doulton among
the mismatched dinnerware.  The collection of books intrigued Mary.

They were a varied lot, and their frontispiece usually bore an
inscription.  Dumas's The Count of Monte Cristo was a gift to someone
named Anne from her loving husband Jackson.  A Christmas Carol was
given for 'all the Christmases yet to come" and signed Mother and
Father.  The inscription in Whitman's Leaves of Grass had faded after
repeated readings.  There was no writing to indicate their owner's
opinion of Mill's essay On Liberty or Darwin's On the Origin of Species
by Means of Natural Selection, only a number of dog-eared pages and
frayed edges to suggest both books had been catalysts for a great deal
of contemplation.  Slim volumes on mathematics and heavy tomes on
agriculture and mining appeared to have been frequently consulted.  One
book on geology also looked particularly well used.  Mary had all the
books piled beside her, ready to be replaced, when she noticed the
basket.  She picked it up, placed it on her lap, and turned it slowly
so she could inspect the work.  It was exquisitely made and brightly
colored.  She couldn't identify the fibers and stems that made each
coil, but some had been dyed to weave in bands of red, black, and
yellow.

"It's Chiricahua," Ryder said from behind her.  The basket flew out of
Mary's hands as she cried out and came up on her knees.  Her head
twisted around in Ryder's direction.

"I should have shot you before," she snapped.

"Just because you're aggravating."  She reached for the basket and
turned to face Ryder, holding it before her like a shield.

"Do you have to sneak up on me that way?  Can't you... can't you
knock?"  Ryder hadn't thought he was being especially quiet.  His steps
had seemed to echo in the corridor.

"You must have been deep in thought."  he said.  She glared.

"So it's my fault.  How convenient for you."

He stared at her, fascinated.

"Why you've got more fangs than a cholla."

"What's that?"  she asked suspiciously.

"A desert thorn bush."

"Oh."  She was somewhat appeased.

"I thought it might be an animal."

"It may as well be, the way it attacks if you're fool enough to brush
past it."  Mary's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"So you're saying I'm a cholla and you're a fool."

Ryder's glance was caught on the shifting flames of color in Mary's
hair.  He nodded slowly.

"I suppose I am," he said.  Her unexpected laughter rocked him back on
his heels.  It was as cleansing as his earlier dip in the well and just
as welcome.  She pressed her lips together to stifle her laughter, then
used her hand for good measure.  Mary caught her breath with some
difficulty.

"Don't stop on my account," he said.  His comment had the opposite
effect.  Mary sobered immediately.

"Where have you been?"  She set the basket down and began filling it
with books.

"I told you I would make a salve."

"You did that already?  But where--" She stopped, realizing the
truth.

"You went out, didn't you?"  He nodded.

"It would have been too difficult to take you."

"That didn't stop you from bringing me here.  Are you afraid I might
learn my way back out?"

"Only that you might gather the false confidence to try."

"You don't think I could do it?"

"I wasn't issuing a challenge," he said quietly.  The wind rushed out
of Mary's sails.  She bent her head and went back to her task.

"You're welcome to read those if you'd like.  There're a few more in
the trunk."

"I've already read the nov--" She stopped, knowing she was being
churlish.

"Thank you," she said.

"That would pass the time."  Ryder set the mortar and pestle he was
holding beside the makeshift bed.

"The salve's in there when you want it," he said.

"Use it sparingly.  There's enough to last for several days."

Mary nodded.  At least there had been no mention that he wanted to
apply it himself.  She laid the last book in the basket and got to her
feet.

"Was it still daylight outside?"  she asked.

"Sunset."  She'd slept most of the day away, then.

"Was it beautiful?"  Ryder had walked over to the cache of foodstuffs
and was picking through the cans.  He murmured absently in agreement.

Mary sat down in the rocking chair.  She raised her legs so that her
knees were near her chin and locked her arms around them.

"Tell me about it," she said.  Now Ryder glanced in her direction, his
dark brows drawn together.  He raked back his inky black hair and said
slowly, "Red......... threads of copper and orange and bronze."  Mary
felt his gray eyes in an odd way, as if they were capable of touching
her.

"Then it was lovely," she said wistfully.

"Yes."  But he hadn't been describing the sunset.  Mary's hair was all
those colors and a score of shades in between that he had no name
for.

"Yes," he repeated.

"Lovely."  Mary ducked her head and rubbed her nose as he continued to
stare at her.  When she looked up again he was studying the cans and
the moment had passed.

"Are we going to eat?"  she asked.

"I had some jerky, but it wasn't very filling."

"We can't cook," he explained.

"There's nowhere to vent the smoke and if we could--"

"It could be seen," she said.

"It's all right.  I understand.  Canned anything is fine with me." Mary
waited to see how he would open them.  He made it look easy as he took
up a finely honed knife from the utensils and pounded it sharply into
the tops of the cans.

"I suppose there's something to be said for brute strength."  Ryder
glanced over his shoulder.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."  Shrugging, he began emptying the cans onto two china
plates.  There was pressed meat, potatoes, stewed tomatoes, and corn.
He handed her a plate and a fork, and sat in the wing chair, propping
his legs on one rung of the stool.

"You're going to be sick of this soon so enjoy it now," he said.

"There's plenty to eat but not much variety.."  Mary didn't care.  She
would have eaten most anything he'd placed in front of her.  Bowing her
head, she said grace softly.  When she looked up, Ryder was watching
her.  She couldn't make out the expression in his eyes, but she refused
to let him know his scrutiny bothered her.  Indicating the furnishings
with a wave of her hand, Mary asked, "How did all of this come to be
here?"  The watchfulness of his gaze faded as Ryder tucked into his
meal.

"I

brought it in a little at a time."

"Then you didn't find it here?"

"No."

"So this chamber's a secret even if the cavern isn't."  Now he
understood what she was getting at.

"That's right.  No one else knows about it."  Mary considered that. Her
situation didn't have to be hopeless, she thought.

Ryder had found a way to this chamber; that meant Jarret had a chance.
He could practically hear her thoughts, her eyes were so expressive.

"I didn't find this chamber entirely on my own," he told her.

"A prospector showed me the way more than fifteen years ago.  Joe
Panama hid out here after I helped him escape a Chiricahua raiding
party."  She brightened a little, thinking about that prospector.

"He died years ago," Ryder told her flatly.

"Oh," she said softly, disappointed.  Jarret's chances suddenly seemed
remote.

"Then I'm not going anywhere."

"That's right.  Not until I say so."  Mary bent her head and continued
eating even though she could no longer taste her food.  She was silent,
thinking.

"How long will that be?"  she asked finally.

"I don't know."

"What are your intentions?"

"Intentions?  What do you mean?"

"Toward me," she said.

"Do you intend to kill me?"

Ryder's look was a considering one.

"I may," he said deeply.

"If you ask another stupid question."  Mary bristled.

"It wasn't stupid.  How am I supposed to know?  You dragged me all over
God's creation last night.  You wouldn't let me stop to drink or
rest.

You wouldn't explain--" His voice was calm.

"There was no time," he said.

"Resting would have delayed us, and I didn't know if you could have
continued.  It would have been hard for me, probably impossible for
you."  It was his small admission that he had been tired that intrigued
Mary.  All through the night she had wondered if he were even human.
There had never been any indication on the trail that he had suffered
as she had from exhaustion and thirst.

"So you ignored me until I fainted."  He would always count it as one
of the most difficult things he had ever done.  All he said was,
"Yes."

"Then threw me over my horse like a sack of--" "Yes."  He was
unapologetic.  Mary sighed.

"You could have left me," she said.

"I could have."  Ryder finished the last of his meal.

"But you would have helped them find my trail again."  Her denial was
emphatic.

"I wouldn't have!  I never would-"

"Your body would have."  The forest green eyes were wide in her oval
face.  She couldn't think of anything to say to that.  Ryder leaned
forward and took Mary's plate from her nerveless fingers.

"I'll put this over here," he said, getting up and pointing toward the
larder.

"You may want something later."  She couldn't imagine that she would,
but she didn't argue.

"What happens now?"  she asked.

"We wait."

"Hours?  Days?"  He shrugged.  Ignoring her, he hunkered beside the
pool to rinse his plate and utensils.

Frustrated, Mary came to her feet.  At her sides, her hands were
clenched.  Even her toes were curled inside Ryder's thick woolen
socks.

"That's no answer," she said, her eyes fierce.

"When can I expect to see sunshine again?  When will I see my mother?
My family?"  Ryder paused and glanced over his shoulder.  In her cotton
shift and his flannel shirt, with her stubborn, angry eyes and clenched
fists, Mary was an odd combination of warrior and waif.

"Do you want to be reassured with a lie or unsettled with the truth?"

"I don't want to be patronized," she said flatly.

"Tell me the truth."

"Then the truth is, I don't know."  Ryder returned to his work, dipping
the plate in the cold water again, then shaking it off.  He was
unprepared for the two hands that were placed solidly on his back or
the strength behind them as he was pushed forward.  Ryder plunged head
first into the well of icy water and when he came up, Mary paused long
enough at the edge to wipe her hands clean of him before she calmly
began walking out of the chamber.  Ryder hauled himself out of the
water.  He called to her once, but she had already disappeared into the
corridor.  His clothes dripped water on the stone floor, leaving a
trail as he picked up a lantern and left the chamber.  She was not in
sight when he turned the corner.  There were three immediate passages
she could have taken.  Without a light Ryder concluded she had to be
following the contours of the cool cavern walls.  That would have led
her to the very first passage.  His approach was far from silent.  To
Ryder's way of thinking it had all the earmarks of a one-man band.
Water was squeezed between his toes and through his socks and boots
with every step.  It splattered loudly from the tails of his shirt and
the ends of his dark, thick hair.  A droplet found its way through a
seam in the lantern and sizzled when it touched the flame.  And for
good measure, he sneezed.  Mary had not gone far into the corridor.
Ryder raised the lantern when its light caught a glimpse of her cotton
shift.  She was leaning against the cavern wall, one shoulder pressed
to the stone, her back to him.

"Go away," she said.  He was close enough that she didn't have to raise
her voice.  His light stretched past her and cast a shadow where there
had only been darkness before.

"Come back with me."  Mary's arms were crossed in front of her, warding
off the cold and the abject misery that wanted to be her companion.

She shook her head.

"There's nowhere for me to go.  I can't see my hand in front of my face
without a lantern."  Ryder stepped closer and saw Mary's entire body go
rigid.  She still refused to turn and look at him.

"You don't want to stay here," he said.  One of her hands came up and
she quickly dashed a tear from her eye.

"You're right.  So let me go.  Take me out to the mouth of this cavern
and let me find my own way back to the fort."

"You'd die out there."  She sniffed and angrily brushed away another
tear.

"I know," she said impatiently.

"And my body would attract vultures and the vultures would attract the
searchers and they'd find you because one of my bony fingers would be
pointing directly at this cavern."

"Something like that," he said dryly.  He raised a hand to place it on
her shoulder, but she sensed the movement and flinched, drawing more
into herself.  He was quiet for several minutes.  The only sounds in
the corridor were the occasional staccato drip of water from Ryder's
clothes and the muffled, throaty sob Mary couldn't suppress.

"Let's go," he said finally, quietly.  This time she came, turning, not
looking at him, her shoulders hunched and head bent.  He noticed she
made certain she didn't touch him.

"I think I could learn to hate you," she said without inflection. Ryder
let that pass without comment, but his eyes followed her as she stepped
around him and preceded him out of the passage.  As soon as they were
back in the chamber Mary sat in the rocker and picked up a book.  She
held it up in front of her face as Ryder stripped out of his sopping
wet clothes.  She couldn't concentrate on the words in front of her. 
What she heard was the sound of Ryder rooting through the trunk for dry
things to wear.  What she saw in her mind's eye was the splendid
breadth of his naked shoulders and the smooth line of his back.  Mary
looked up when his shadow crossed her light.  She lowered the book
after he placed his index finger on the edge of the spine and pushed
down.  He was still naked to the waist.  His dark, damp hair was tied
back with a leather thong, but tiny beads of water still lay glistening
on his shoulders.  There was an odd, unsettling flutter in Mary's
stomach.  Nonetheless she raised her eyes calmly to his.

"Yes?"

"You're wearing the only other clean shirt I have."  She looked down at
herself.  The shirt was soft and comfortable, and it was warm.  She
glanced at the clothes on the line.  Her habit was only a little less
damp than the items Ryder had just added.

"May I have a blanket?"  she asked, putting aside her book.  When Ryder
took one of the woolen blankets off the bed and gave it to her, she
shrugged out of the shirt, handed it to him, and pulled the blanket
around her shoulders.

"Your habit will be dry tomorrow," he said, putting on the shirt.  It
was warm from her body and, disconcertingly, held her fragrance.  Ryder
buttoned it and tucked the tails into his trousers.  He watched Mary
draw the blanket more closely about her.

"Maybe you'll think twice before you toss me in the drink again."

"If all it costs me is a warm shirt, I'll gladly pay the price."  She
picked up her book, opened it, and effectively shut him out, though he
was still blocking her light.

Her breathing didn't settle into its normal cadence, however, until he
moved out of the way.  Mary had no idea how much time passed.

She read two chapters of An Investigation of the Laws of Thought, on
Which Are Founded the Mathematical Theories of Logic and Probability.
It was slow going, but it engaged her mind fully and for a few hours
she didn't dwell on her situation.  It was a call of nature that
finally made her rise from the rocker and stretch.

Ryder was sitting cross-legged on top of the blankets when Mary got to
her feet.  He put down the gun he was cleaning as she picked up a
lantern.

"Where are you going?"

"The water closet," she said primly.

"That is allowed, isn't it?"

"It's allowed."  He came to his feet.

"With an escort."

"Oh, for God's-" She clamped her teeth tightly and left the remainder
of her thoughts unspoken.

Ryder noticed that Mary had no difficulty finding the route back to
what she euphemistically called the water closet.  Her sense of
direction was as good as he feared it might be.  He let her take the
lantern in with her, but when she returned he took it from her and made
her wait in the dark passage until he finished.  She was waiting in the
exact spot in which he left her when he got back, seemingly paralyzed
by the un penetrable blackness that had surrounded her.  She blinked
several times with the introduction of his lantern light.  The blanket
had slipped over her left shoulder.

Ryder lifted it to cover her again, then placed his hand at the small
of her back and nudged her forward.  Mary sat back in the rocker, but
she hadn't had a chance to pick up the book before Ryder was towering
over her.  She raised her chin defiantly.

"What is it now?"

"Give me your hand," he said.

"Why do you-"

"Give me your hand."

"Right or left?"  she asked sharply.  He grabbed her wrists and
squeezed until her fingers uncurled.  Her left hand was empty.  In her
right one was a small, sharp stone.  He picked it out of her palm
before her fingers could close over it, held it up to examine it.  The
sharpest point of it was shiny and warm where it had been rubbed
against another stone.  Ryder didn't need to return to the passage to
know that Mary had used the stone to mark the cavern wall.  He tossed
the stone out of the entrance to the chamber.  It ricocheted in the
corridor before it landed on the floor.

"You're determined to give me trouble, aren't you?"  Mary didn't deny
it.

"Let me go," she said, massaging her wrists.

"Take me to a place where I can be found.  I won't tell anyone where
you are."  In answer, Ryder pulled a length of rope out of his back
pocket.

"Right hand," he said.

"What are you-" He took her right hand and secured the rope around the
wrist.

Instead of tying her other hand with it, he attached the free end to
his own wrist.  When Mary jerked against her bonds she immediately
tightened the knots.  She tried to slip the rope off, but it wouldn't
go over the ball of her hand.  Her struggle made the blanket fall off
her shoulders.  She couldn't even reach it without pulling him with
her.  Pride made her stop.  A physical fight with Ryder wasn't
dignified, and more importantly, she had no chance of winning it.

"I suppose you think you have a reason for doing this," she said.

"I'm tired," he said.

"I want to sleep.

And I don't trust you."

He bent, picked up the blanket, and gave it to her.

"We're going to lie down, then I'm going to get some rest.  I don't
care if you do or not, but while I'm sleepinng you'll stay by my
side."

"This is ridiculous," she said, very low.  She tried to hold her ground
when he moved toward the designated bed, but he dragged her along with
little effort, blowing out the lanterns along the way.  Only one was
left lit and he placed it on the slab of stone just above the blankets
before he lay down.  Mary was crouched uncomfortably beside him.

"I don't want to sleep here."

"Then stay awake," he said.

"You can sleep anywhere you want after I've had some rest."

Ryder turned on his side.  The movement of his arm forced her closer.
Mary was cold.  She couldn't even rub her bare arms without disturbing
him.

"All right," she said with little grace, "but I need a blanket over me.
I'm freezing."  Ryder sat up long enough to fix the blankets so some
were under them and some could serve as cover.  This time when he lay
down it was so he could place his arm around Mary's waist.  He felt her
stiffen, but she didn't pull away, not even when he fit himself to the
contours of her curved body.

"Warmer?"  he asked.  Mary couldn't find her voice.  Aware of him to
the point where she could be aware of nothing else, Mary could only
nod.  Her limbs ached with rigidity, but she couldn't make herself
relax, couldn't imagine that she would be able to fall asleep.

"You have a great deal of courage," he said.  His voice was thick,
husky, just a shade louder than a whisper.  His breath was warm, and it
touched the back of her neck.

"Perhaps too much."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Too much courage can make you foolish.  Trying to mark the passage
with a stone .. . that was foolish.  And earlier.... with the Henry
rifle... that was foolish."

"I suppose it seems that way to you."  He wanted to shake her, make her
see sense, but he was too tired.  Except for the few hours of rest he'd
grabbed when they'd first reached the cavern, Ryder had had almost no
sleep in more than two days.  Waiting for his sentence, then waiting
for it to be carried out, had not been the stuff of dreams.

"I don't want to hurt you, Mary," he said quietly.

"I don't want to be responsible for your getting hurt."

"You're threatening me."  Ryder echoed her earlier words as he closed
his eyes.

"I suppose it seems that way to you."  Mary woke thirsty.  She sat up
and scooted forward before she felt the pull of the hateful tether.
Ryder was still sleeping and didn't appear to be aware of the tug on
the rope they shared.

Mary looked at him, her smile scornful.  She'd hardly dared move
because he'd made her believe he'd know it right away.  The truth was a
little bit different than that.  Asleep, he wasn't nearly so
intimidating.  His strong profile had softened.  The lips, slightly
parted, and the thick sweep of lashes made him seem young, even
vulnerable.  His dark hair had dried.  An inky strand of it had escaped
the thong and lay across his cheek.  Mary was tempted to touch it, to
push it aside.

She resisted.  Instead she bent her head close to her wrist and began
working the knots with her teeth.  Not wanting to take unnecessary
chances, she was careful not to disturb Ryder by pulling too hard on
the rope.  The knots were tight, but Mary was able to work them loose
gradually.  Eventually the loop around her wrist was large enough for
her to slip her hand through.  She rubbed her wrist where the rope had
burned her skin, then slid to the edge of the stone loft and eased
herself down soundlessly.  The bucket of fresh drinking water was near
all the other foodstuffs.

She dipped the ladle and drank from it.  The water was cool and
refreshing.  A few droplets slipped past her lips to her chin.  She
wiped them away with the back of her hand.  Her eyes fell on Ryder's
saddlebags.  Putting down the ladle, she reached for them.

She sifted through the contents.  Liniment.  A small pouch of tobacco.
A deck of playing cards.  Peppermint sticks.  A sewing kit.  Comb.
Brush.  A flask of alcohol.  Three carefully folded bandanas.  Mary
took everything out and began packing the bags with jerky.  She filled
his canteen with water and set a sack of dried navy beans beside it.
After taking off the thick woolen socks she was wearing, she pulled on
her stockings, then her shoes.  When she took clothing from the line,
it wasn't her habit she removed but Ryder's damp shirt and pants.  They
were ridiculously large for her slender frame, so Mary determinedly
rolled up the sleeves and the bottoms of the trousers.  She knotted two
of Ryder's bandanas together to make a belt for herself.  The third
bandana she wrapped around her head.  Mary then checked the lanterns,
taking oil from several of them to fill one completely.  She lighted it
and immediately extingnished the lantern that Ryder had left burning.

Hefting the saddlebags over her shoulder and carrying the lantern and
the sack of navy beans, Mary walked boldly out of the chamber, plunging
it into darkness.  Ryder couldn't see anything when he opened his eyes.
The blackness of the chamber was total.  Without light there was no
chance that his eyes could adjust; there was nothing to reflect color
or shape.  He sat up and felt the blankets around him.  Shaking his
head to clear it, he swore softly when he realized Mary was gone. There
was nothing attached to the rope.

It dangled uselessly from his wrist.  Ryder tore it off and tossed it
aside.  He'd been more tired than he knew.  Mary shouldn't have been
able to get away from him, yet she had.  He was soft, he thought.
Months of confinement in the stockade had dulled his senses, and he
hadn't counted on Mary's single-minded desire to escape him.  At best
he had considered her anger would become resignation.  He wondered what
prompted her to take so many risks.

Coming to his feet, he decided it was something to think about.

Feeling around in the dark' Ryder finally put his hands on one of the
lanterns.  It took him long minutes to find the supplies and even
longer to find matches.  The sudden flare of light almost blinded him.
There was enough oil left in the lantern to give him thirty minutes. To
be safe he added more from a container hidden among the supplies.
Barefoot, carrying only the lantern, Ryder left the chamber in search
of Mary.  He didn't bother with any of the immediate side passages.  He
was confident she could get as far as the water closet without any
difficulty.  How she would go on from there, he wasn't as certain.  She
would have had to make a choice in another thirty yards and when Ryder
came to the juncture he paused, looking for signs.  He lowered the
lantern when something near the edge of the passage caught his eye.
Ryder hunkered down and ran his fingers along the oddly shaped pebbles
that were clustered together.  They were all small, smooth, and
similarly contoured.  He picked one up and rolled it back and forth
between his fingers.

"I'll be damnned," he said softly.

"Beans."

It was easy after that.  Mary's trail was clearly marked.  Ryder knew
she had done it so she could retrace her own steps if necessary.  It
was good thinking except for the fact that she was being followed.  He
collected the beans as he went, filling his pockets.

He was amazed at the number of times she chose the right route.

Ryder's map was in his head and in the nearly imperceptible markings on
the stone walls.  He had also been through the corridors hundreds of
times over the years and was familiar with the pattern of twists and
turns.  Mary, on the other hand, was just plain lucky.  Following at a
safe distance, Ryder waited for her luck to run out.  When he saw the
choice she had made after the long serpentine passage, he knew it had
finally happened.  He picked up the mound of navy beans at the entance
and went inside.

The tunnel narrowed and angled upward.  It was not dissimilar to the
passage that ran parallel to it, but it would end abruptly in a
spacious chamber with a single inaccessible exit that opened fifty feet
overhead.  The diameter of the opening was less than twelve inches.  On
the surface it appeared as a shadow among some rocks.  From inside the
chamber it seemed no larger than a saucer in the daylight; at night it
was all but invisible.

Mary was moving carefully among the rocks in the chamber, looking for a
way out, when Ryder appeared at the entrance.  He glanced at the
vaulted ceiling.  It was night now.  A lone star pinpointed the
opening.

"Mary."  He said her name softly, but it was enough.  He saw her
stiffen then stop in her tracks.

"Come here."  She turned slowly and shook her head.

"There's no way out."  Even though his voice was a mere whisper she
could hear him clearly.  She opened her mouth to tell him he could go
to hell.  Ryder placed a finger on his lips then pointed upward.  Mary
glanced overhead and her breath caught in her throat.  The roof of the
chamber was alive with movement.  Her knees threatened to give way as
she realized what she was seeing.  Bats.  Hundreds of them.  Mary
dropped the sack of beans and raised her hand to stifle a scream.

She needn't have bothered.  The worn, threadbare sack broke and the
beans tumbled out, rolling along the rocks with the clatter of spilled
coins in a banker's vault.  There was a flurry of movement and a
high-pitched squealing like nothing Mary had ever heard.

Something fluttered in front of her face and then again at the
periphery of her vision.  She dropped to her knees as the bats soared
and dove and whistled around her head.  Some bats took flight through
the opening in the chamber.  Dozens more flew past Ryder's head and out
the passage.  Ryder crouched, shielding his face and hair, then went
for Mary.  She was frightened but uninjured.  He picked up her lantern,
protected her with his body, and herded her out of the chamber.  A
frenzied tornado of bats swirled around them.  They dipped and rushed.
Their thin wings beat the air frantically.  One flew past Mary's mouth.
She cried out and held onto Ryder tightly.  He half dragged, half
carried her to the entrance, where he picked up the second lantern and
led her quickly through the tunnel.  Mary had no opportunity to catch
her breath or whisper her thanks.  Ryder's features bore no
expression.

Only his gray eyes were stormy as he gripped her hand and led her
swiftly through the passages back to their chamber.  Once there he
practically flung her inside.  Mary stared at him, waiting for the
force of his anger, steeling herself to give as good as she got.

He set the lanterns down, then turned to Mary.  He studied her raised
chin, the fiercely defiant eyes.  She had pulled the bandana off her
head and was twisting it between her hands.  It was the only sign that
she had more fright in her than fight.  He wondered what she expected
from him.  He spoke calmly, deliberately.

"Take off your clothes."

Chapter Seven

Though he had said them quietly, Ryder's words seemed to echo in the
chamber.  Take off your clothes... your clothes... your clothes... Mary
stared at him, not moving.

Ryder took a step toward her.  There was nothing menacing or
threatening in his approach, yet it prompted Mary to throw out a
question as her first defense.

"Why?"  she demanded.  His approach halted.  He stared at her for a
long moment.  Her complexion was markedly paler now, and her hands had
stopped twisting the bandana.  Tension kept her body rigid and rooted
to her spot.

"I believe I've already told you that you don't have to understand my
orders to obey them."  Mary sucked in a breath as if she'd been
slapped.  The first wave of anger had to pass before she trusted
herself to speak.

"There's something you should understand about me, Mr.  McKay," she
said quietly.

"I obey no man unquestioningly.  Blind obedience is for my God alone."
Ryder felt heat rush into his face as Mary's green eyes narrowed on him
coldly.  Mary was satisfied with his reaction.

"Now tell me why I should take off my clothes."  He held up a hand and
began ticking off the reasons.

"They're damp.  They're mine.  They don't fit you.  They look
ridiculous."

Mary stared at his hand.  Four fingers had already come up and now the
thumb was slowly being raised.

"And?"  she asked, her eyes going from his hand to his face.

"And I want you naked."  She blinked.  Astonishment silenced her.

"You wanted to know," he said simply.  As Ryder took another step
toward her, Mary's hands flew to the first button of her shirt.  He was
careful not to smile as he walked past her.  Mary watched Ryder go to
the clothesline and begin removing her habit and shift.  She expected
him to toss the items in her direction, even held out her hand to catch
them.

Out of the corner of his eye Ryder saw the movement.  He turned, his
arms full, and looked at her outstretched hand questioningly.

"Yes?"  Confusion showed in Mary's drawn brows.

"Aren't you going to give me those?"  she asked.  Ryder raised one
thumb and wiggled it.

"Reason number five.  I want you naked."  She gaped at him.

Ignoring her, Ryder opened the trunk and tossed in her habit and shift.
He plucked the towels off the line, folded them, and laid them on top.
He found the valise, removed the clothes he had worn in the stockade,
and added them to the items in the trunk.

Glancing around the chamber, he saw a few more items that Mary might
make use of and put them away as well.  When he had gathered everything
he closed the lid and sat on it.  He looked in Mary's direction, his
arms folded in front of him, his expression expectant.  Her hand was
still closed over the upper-most button of her shirt, and there was a
dazed look to her luminous green eyes.

"Mary," he said calmly.

"I want you to remove your clothes."

What was it, she wondered, about the way he said her name that was so
compelling?  She actually had to think about what he was asking before
she could respond.

"You have to give me something," she said.

"Let me wear the shirt."  He shook his head.

"It's still damp.  I don't need you getting sick on me."

"My shift."  Mary closed her eyes for a moment.

"A blanket at least," she said.

"Please, Ryder."  He pretended to think it over.  He had always
intended to give her one, but he needed her cowed first.  Ryder didn't
like himself much for doing this, but he didn't regret it either.

"A blanket," he said, as if granting a great boon.

"Now get undressed."  Mary nodded slowly.  She had undone two buttons
and the bandana belt around her waist when Ryder interrupted.

"Are you doing this show for my benefit?"  he asked.  She frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, this isn't a Chicago stage.  Throw a blanket over the line and
get undressed behind it."  His comments had the desired effect.  He
watched Mary flush to the roots of her fiery hair, confused, off
balance, and embarrassed.

"Go on," he said.  He left the trunk, picked up a blanket from the bed
and tossed it to her.

"Use this."  Mary's hands tightened around the blanket.  She glared at
him, but kept her jaw clamped and her thoughts mostly to herself.  He
was welcome to interpret the expression on her face in any way he
wanted.  Ryder sat in the wing chair, his long legs stretched casually
in front of him, while Mary fixed the blanket over the line.  Her head
was visible to him as were her legs from knee to ankle, but Ryder
didn't bother looking in her direction.  Instead he leaned his head
back and closed his eyes.  As she undressed Mary looked over the rim of
the sagging line at Ryder.  He wasn't gloating.  There was no smirk to
wipe off his face, no gleam to cast out of his eyes.  He merely looked
bone weary.  It moved her in a way that was as unexpected as it was
unwelcome.  Compassion for her captor made no sense, yet it was the
emotion that tugged at her thoughts, clouding them.

"I'm finished," she said.  Ryder opened his eyes and raised his head
slowly.  Sleep had been a very near companion, but he was alert now,
watchful.  Mary was standing in front of him, wearing the blanket that
had been slung over the line and carrying an armload of his clothes.
Ryder stood and took them from her.

"Go lie down," he said.

"I'll join you in a moment."  She sat on the edge of the stone bed, her
feet dangling over the side while Ryder put the clothes away.  There
was no key to lock the trunk, but he effectively sealed it by placing
the case of Henry rifles on top.

Mary saw the effort he exerted to lift the case and knew she could
never remove it, at least not quietly and quickly.  Ryder blew out one
of the two lighted lanterns and carried the other to their bed.

"I said lie down."  Mary eased herself back on the blankets, her body
stiff.

"Are you going to tie me again?"  she whispered.

"It didn't work the first time."  He put the lantern beside where he
would lie and stretched out himself.

"That's why you don't have any clothes now."  Turning on his side, he
drew Mary close to him and slipped an arm across her waist.  He could
feel her breathing quicken as her body was brought flush to his.  When
his hushed voice came again it was close to her ear.

"If you try to escape again I won't even give you a blanket."

"If you catch me."  He wouldn't permit her small show of bravado.

"I'll catch you, Mary," he said.

"I'll always catch you."  She fell asleep wondering why she heard those
words more as a promise than threat.  He let her have her clothes when
he woke.  It was a pattern that was repeated over days that were
maddening in their sameness.  There was neither morning nor night in
the chamber.  They slept when they were tired and rose when they were
rested.  Their inner clocks didn't always work in concert, but Mary was
forced to follow Ryder.  Anytime he was ready to sleep she was made to
undress and lie beside him.  Her clothes were placed out of her reach
in the trunk, and he always slipped one arm around her waist before he
closed his eyes.  She told herself she should fight against sleep on
the principle of having no choice as to when or how she took it.  She
never did though.  When his arm stole around her middle she accepted
it, drew comfort from it, and, in her secret heart, began to look
forward to it.  During what passed for their days Mary read.  Sometimes
Ryder would disappear for hours, but she never tried to follow him.

There was only one way out of the cavern from their chamber so their
paths would have crossed.  She envied him for being able to take his
fill of sunshine and starlight, but she never asked to accompany him.
She couldn't bring herself to make the request and have it refused.
Mary suspected that Ryder's reasons for leaving the cavern had to do
with watching for search parties and gauging the safety of their
position, but he never volunteered any information and it was again a
matter of pride to her to remain silent on that.  He always returned
with something for her.  The gifts were usually laid in her lap like an
offering.  She would lower her book and try not to look too pleased,
but she was largely unsuccessful.  He brought her a handful of nuts one
time, small sweet berries at another.  On a third occasion he gave her
a rough piece of turquoise which he later polished into a smooth stone
half the size of her thumbnail.  When she thought herself unobserved
Mary would take the stone out and study it, not certain what to make of
Ryder's odd thoughtfulness.  He let her explore some of the deeper
recesses of the cavern with him.  Routes that led in the opposite
direction from the entrance were open to her as long as he was with
her.  She knelt at the source of the spring that supplied their
chamber's cold water and drank from her cupped hands.  He showed her
another chamber where at the very center her own whispered voice would
echo hollowly in her ears.  Mary would hike up her skirts and clamber
over rocks and tenuous stone bridges while Ryder followed with a raised
lantern.  It was an unusual prison, she thought.  Spacious beyond
belief, yet more confining than the convent.  Sometimes when she first
woke it was difficult to breathe.  For other reasons she had that
sensation now.  The weight of Ryder's arm pressed the rough blanket to
her skin.  He drew her closer as he prepared to sleep.

"What is it?"  he asked.

She was not prepared for the question.  By some mutual, though
unspoken, agreement, they rarely exchanged words once they were sharing
the bed.  It seemed that speech was too intimate, too penetrating and
personal.  It was better to save it for the waking hours when they had
all their faculties and defenses.  Mary continued to stare at the play
of shadows on the chamber wall and didn't answer.  She wasn't relaxing
beside him as she usually did.

Ryder raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her.  She was
staring, dry-eyed and vaguely anxious, at the far wall.

"Your heart's racing like a rabbit's," he said.

"Give me a moment," she said quietly.

"I'll be all right."  Ryder lifted the arm that was around her waist.
The touch of his fingers on her cheek, then her forehead, was light and
tentative.  Her skin warmed under his fingertips.  He shouldn't touch
me, she thought.  It isn't fair.

She spoke because words right now would be less of an invasion than his
touch.

"How long have we been here?"  she asked.

Ryder's fingers slipped away from Mary's face.  They dragged lightly
through her silky hair before his palm came to rest on the curve of her
hip.  Mary's breath caught in her throat, but she didn't ask him to
remove his hand.  For his part he didn't seem to be aware of its
position; for Mary's, she could be aware of nothing else.

"How long?"  she asked again.

"Twelve days," Ryder said.

"So long," she said more to herself than to him.  Mary sighed.

"Christmas came and went.  Did you know that?"  He had known.  He had
brought her the turquoise.

"I didn't realize."  She merely shrugged as if it weren't important,
but tears gathered in her eyes.

"Mary?"  She wished he wouldn't say her name.  It always seemed to
prompt the response he wanted even when she wanted a different one.

"It isn't fair," she said finally.

"It isn't fair that my family doesn't know I'm safe, that they spent
Christmas wondering about me, worrying.  Isn't there some way you could
let them--"

"No," he said.

"There's no way."

"And the new year.

We'll spend it here and they won't have any idea that I'm not
injured... not dead."

"No."  Ryder removed his hand from her hip and let his arm fall around
her waist.

"But you're right.  It's not fair."  She hadn't expected that.  His
admission didn't change anything, not really.  The fact that it made
her feel better was troubling in its own right.

"You could let me go," she said.  He didn't bother responding to
that.

"Go to sleep."  Ryder stretched his other arm out above his head and
lay down.

"I want to see the sun again," she said softly.  Ryder didn't answer,
but he was awake a lot longer than Mary, thinking about it.

"Do you want to come with me?"  Ryder paused in the stone archway as he
spoke.  He had not planned to ask.  It was not like him, but the words
were simply there, on the tip of his tongue, and then they were given
sound.  He could not call them back.  He only hoped she had not heard
him.  Mary lowered her book.  Ryder was not even looking at her, and
she suspected the invitation was reluctantly offered and already
regretted.  That didn't bother her.  She didn't ask him to repeat
himself or wonder aloud if he was serious.  Dropping her book into the
basket, Mary came to her feet.

"Yes," she said.

"I'd like that."  By the time she reached the exit, Ryder was already
striding down the corridor.  Lantern light made a slow sweep of the
walls as the lamp swung in his hand.  Mary stayed close enough to
follow the light, but didn't try to come abreast of him.  He was making
it patently obvious that he didn't want the company.  She was so intent
on following that light that when Ryder stopped she almost ran into his
back.  Glancing around, she saw they hadn't come very far.  The
corridor forked and to the right was the chamber used for nature's
calls.  Mary's disappointment was deep.  She was certain he had
intended something else when he'd made his offer.  She had expected a
trip to the outside, not a trip to the privy.  Ryder placed the lantern
on the ground and turned to Mary.

"You'll have to wear this," he said.

She looked at him in confusion until he raised one of his bandanas in
front of her eyes.

"A blindfold?"  she asked.  He nodded.

"Do you agree?"

"Yes," she said quickly.

"Oh, yes."  The alacrity of her reply, the eagerness in her voice,
struck Ryder like a physical blow.  Her face was raised to him, and her
eyes were already closed in a gesture of offering.  Long lashes fanned
the curves of her lids.  Her mouth was set in a faint smile,
anticipation warring with impatience.  She had the ripe, expectant
expression of a woman inviting a kiss, not a blindfold.  Ryder's head
bent.  Mary opened her eyes.  They stared, hardly breathing.

Time passed.  An eternity, a few heartbeats.  It was all the same.

Ryder drew back first.  Mary swayed slightly, her slender body pulled
forward by his withdrawal.  He steadied her with firm hands;

then he put the blindfold around her eyes, picked up the lantern, and
took her hand.

"This way," he said.  His voice was a little rough, a little husky, and
it vibrated through Mary, unsettling but not unpleasant.  She gripped
Ryder's hand.

"You won't go too fast?"  she asked.

"No, Mary.  Not too fast."  At the entrance to the cavern Ryder finally
let Mary remove the blindfold.  She tore it off quickly, squinting as
she anticipated the sunlight that would shower her face.  Her eyes
widened slowly, and she was horrified by the depth of her
disappointment.

"It's night," she said.  And not just any night, she thought, but one
so thick with clouds that starlight and moonshine couldn't penetrate.
Ryder tucked one end of the bandana into his waistband, then moved to
stand behind Mary.  He nudged her closer to the lip of the cavern,
resting his hands on her upper arms.

"Give it time," he said quietly.

"Night doesn't last forever."  When she nodded he could feel strands of
her silky hair brush his chin.  If they had been intimate he would have
kissed the crown of her head then or lowered his mouth to her ear.  His
eyes fell instead to the habit's collar which framed her slender neck
and the black fabric that shrouded her shoulders.  A gentle breeze
swept the mouth of the cavern and lifted the fragrance of her hair to
his nostrils.  Ryder breathed deeply.  She never wore the veil and
wimple anymore; she hadn't since the day they'd arrived at the cavern.
He'd never wondered about it.  Now, with the subtle fragrance of Mary's
soft hair filling his senses he had cause.

"You don't weaar your veil," he said.  In an immediate, self-conscious
gesture, Mary's hand went to her hair.  She tugged at the curl near her
temple and tucked it behind her ear.  Ryder's hand closed over hers and
drew it away.

He let her hand fall, then again placed his own on her upper arm.

"There's nothing wrong with your hair."  Quite the opposite.

"I

just wondered about the veil."  She shrugged.

"It seemed too much," she said vaguely.  His palms were warm on her
arms, and where her back touched his chest she could feel his heat.
Mary crossed her arms in front of her as another breeze eddied through
the entrance, whistling in the chamber behind her and raising a soft
sighing sound from the pine trees ahead.

"You're cold," said Ryder.

"A little."  He rubbed her arms lightly.

"I should have brought a blanket."

"No, it's all right."  She turned her head to the side, raising it
slightly to see him better.

"This is enough," she said.

"To smell the ....... the fresh air... even if there's no--" Mary broke
off as a crescent of light appeared on the horizon.  Almost immediately
there were bands of mauve and deep lilac running along the underbelly
of the clouds.  The vision blurred as tears washed Mary's eyes.
Sunshine scattered its bright light across the plateaus and mountain
peaks and carved out an arc that crossed the mouth of the cavern.  Mary
and Ryder stood in the center of it.  Her solemn face was raised in
greeting, in thankfulness.  He was watching her.  Ryder handed Mary the
bandana.  She stared at it, stricken.

"Already?"  she asked hoarsely.

"Can't we stay-"

"For your tears."  he said.

"We can stay."  Mary gave him a discomfited, watery smile but her eyes
radiated her pleasure.

"Thank you."  Ryder took his bandana back and wiped her tears himself.
The backs of his fingers brushed her cheek when his hand fell away.  He
turned her around to face the sun before her pleasure prompted promises
from him that he shouldn't make and couldn't keep.  The clouds lifted,
spread, and claimed the sky like a sheer white shroud floating in a
cerulean sea.  The first rays of heat had just radiated from the ground
outside the cavern when Ryder touched Mary's shoulder lightly and said
it was time to go.  She nodded in understanding, but she didn't move
and Ryder didn't force the issue.

"The Apache call this time of year ghost face," he told her.

"Ghost face," she nepeated softly.  It fit.  Sunshine was falling on a
mostly barren land.  Evergreens brought color to the landscape, but the
shrubs were bare and the low vegetation was brown and scrubby.

"That's a proper name for winter in this part of the country."

"Not winter exactly.  The Apache divide the year into six seasons, not
four.  We've just finished earth-is-reddish-brown."

"Autumn," she said.

"Late fall," he corrected her.

"When your survival depends on the availability of wild plants you're
particular about naming your seasons."

"And spring?"

"Little eagles is March and April; many leaves is May and June."

"How do you say those names in the Apache tongue?"  she asked.  Ryder
told her.  Mary listened to the unfamiliar language, trying to catch
its cadence and intonation.

"What do they call summer?"

"Large leaves."  He gave her the Apache word and smiled at her attempt
to repeat it.

"Early fall is the season of large fruit.  The Apache reckon a month as
a moon and a year as one harvest.  There are thirteen moons to one
harvest and six seasons."

"How is it that you know so much, know the language, yet aren't one of
them?"  Ryder's long fingers raked his dark hair.  He looked over the
top of Mary's head at the vastness of the land beyond the cavern's
mouth.

"I never said I wasn't one of them," he said finally.

Mary turned, frowning.

"But you said-"

"I said I wasn't Apache, not by blood or birth."  His pale gray eyes
watched her carefully, gauging her reaction.

"I'm Chiricahua," he said, "by choice."

The subject had been closed and remained so.  Dozens of questions had
come to Mary's mind and all of them were unasked.  Ryder had placed the
blindfold around her eyes and led her back to the chamber, his manner
less solicitous than it had been on the outgoing journey, his tone more
brusque.  Mary did not know what she had done to elicit this response,
yet it was clear to her that Ryder thought she had done something.  She
wondered about it throughout the day, but any overture she made was
summarily rebuffed.  Mary couldn't know that it was merely her
acceptance of Ryder's disclosure that had brought about the change.
Confusion warred with the mask of calm indifference he usually wore
like a mantle.  He had expected distaste, even shock.  It wasn't an
unfamiliar response to his words, and he knew how to deal with it.

If she had been fascinated as someone of Anna Leigh Hamilton's ilk
might have been, he'd have known how to brush her aside.  Mary wasn't
even accusing.  His admission could have prompted her to rethink her
position on the Colter Canyon raid, could have swayed her opinion of
his guilt or innocence.  Instead she hadn't judged him.  Her clear,
intelligent eyes were curious, not condemning; and her lovely face held
the placid purity of an angel's.  In spite of her habit, Mary Francis
Dennehy was a very dangerous woman.  That night when Ryder lay down
beside her he didn't put his arm around her.  Mary missed it
immediately, missed the weight and security, the way he bound her to
him with the proprietary embrace.  She told herself she shouldn't be so
aware of him, that she shouldn't listen for the sounds of his even
breathing or the hushed words that sometimes escaped his lips as he
slept.  She shouldn't care if he slept or not, shouldn't concern
herself with his thoughts or his displeasure, shouldn't wonder if he
didn't trust himself to touch her or if he just didn't want to.  Mary
turned on her side to face him.  His eyes were closed and his cheek
rested on an outstretched arm.  The lantern had been turned back so
that only a thin layer of light marked his profile.  His lashes and
brows were every bit as dark as his hair which was pulled back in a
leather thong.  His features were strong, almost predatory, and the
illusion of sleep softened them only by the narrowest margin.  Months
in the stockade and almost two weeks in the cavern had leached color
from his skin.

Even so, he was still darker than she, and when he was able to bathe in
sunshine again he would be as bronze as he had been on the occasion of
their first meeting.

"I know you're not sleeping," she said.  When he didn't open his eyes
she went on.

"I've been lying beside you these past thirteen nights.  I think I know
when you're sleeping."  His pale gray eyes opened, their expression
steady yet watchful.

"I'd think you'd know when I want to sleep."

"I do," she said.

"And right now you only want to ignore me.

Some people might take the hint."  Ryder's sigh was telling.

"Obviously you're not one of them," he said dryly.

"Obviously not."  She hesitated.  Now that she had his attention she
wasn't certain what she wanted to do with it.

"I don't know why you're angry with me," she said at last.

"I don't know what I've done."

"I'm not angry with you."  Mary studied his face, the enigmatic gray
eyes, the impenetrable calm he wore like armor.  She had penetrated it
at least once, she thought, no matter that he had drawn it on again.

"But you're angry," she said, then reconsidered.

"At least you were."

"So it had to be about you."  He made her sound very self-centered, and
that didn't set well with Mary.

"Doesn't it?"

she asked.  Ryder raised himself on one elbow.

"There are two of us here.  It could be about me.  Don't you ever get
angry with yourself?"

"Well, yes, but-" He leaned forward, placed a finger on her lips and
stopped her objection.

"Enough.  Go to sleep."

Mary waited for him to remove his finger.

"I can't."

"Can't.  Or won't?"

"I say what I mean," she said tartly.

"I can't and neither can you."  She didn't tell him why.  Mary simply
turned over, her back to him again, and reached behind her for his
arm.

She brought it across her waist then adjusted her position in a way
that had become familiar to her over the last thirteen days.

"Mary."  He said her name like a warning.

"It's all right," she said.

"We both can sleep now."  Fifteen minutes later, when Mary was
breathing quietly and evenly, Ryder realized she was half right.

"What do you mean you're not going to wear it?"  Ryder asked.  He was
holding her habit out to her, but she continued to let it dangle at the
end of his hand.

"Just what I said."  Mary's voice was flat, stubborn.

"There's nothing wrong with your hearing."

"Well, you can't go around all day in that blanket."  By his count she
had adjusted it four times across her breasts, and it was in danger of
slipping again.  They had been awake less than an hour.  One misstep on
the trailing hem and she was likely to lose the entire thing.

"Why can't I?"  she demanded.

"You think it's good enough for me to sleep in."

"It's supposed to deter you from sneaking out while I'm sleeping."

"Maybe that was your original aim, but I don't think it's true any
longer."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I think you really do want me naked."  Ryder stared at her.
Her bold words were at odds with her flushed face, a flush, he could
see now, that started just below the edge of the blanket cutting across
her breasts.

"I'm trying to give you your clothes," he said.

"So that argument doesn't-" Mary stamped her foot.  Her toes caught the
hem of the blanket and it was tugged lower.  She managed to catch it
before the tips of her breasts were exposed, but it was a narrow
save.

Though her flush deepened, she held her ground.

"I'm tired of suffering alone, Ryder McKay."  He regarded her
curiously, his head tilted to one side.  Still holding the habit, he
sat down slowly on the trunk lid.

"Perhaps you'd better explain.  I wasn't aware you were suffering."
Some of Mary's bravado faded at his calm request for an explanation.
Was the man as stoic as he would have her believe?  Or merely bluffing?
Hands down Mary Francis was the best poker player in her family and her
edge had always been the serenity of her expression.  Now watching
Ryder McKay's carefully guarded features, Mary considered she might
finally have met her match.  And wasn't that just the point?

"Perhaps suffering is overstating it a bit," she admitted slowly.  She
bit her lower lip, thinking.

"Uncomfortable would be more accurate.

It isn't right that I'm the only one who has to be uncomfortable with
this arrangement."  Ryder glanced around.

"Not what you're used to certainly, but--" He was deliberately
misunderstanding her.

"That's not what I'm talking about," she said.

"I'm talking about sleeping next to you, your arm around me, your lips
against my hair, your-"

"Mary."  The caution was back in his voice.  She ignored it.

"And none of it seeming to matter to you while it cannot help but
unsettle me."  She pointed to the habit he still held.

"Do you think that makes me less of a woman, that somehow I have no
woman's needs or desires?  Do you think you can touch me with no
consequence to my mind or my body?"  Mary saw that she had engaged his
complete attention.

"And you," she added, scoffing, "now, you hide behind it, thinking
yourself quite safe because there will be no response from me.  You
believe nothing can come of it so you find it all very easy to torment
me.  Well, I'm not going to make this easy for you.  I'm not wearing
that habit any longer."

Ryder's gaze dropped from Mary's face to the habit.  He stared at it,
thinking about her last words, wondering that derision and triumph both
edged her tone.  He got to his feet and came to stand in front of her.
He held the habit out to her again.

"Last night it was you who forced closeness on us," he reminded her.

"Take this.  I wouldn't have you break your vows on my account."

"You think too highly of yourself," Mary said.  He understood little
about her vows and nothing about her.  She took the habit and promptly
tossed it aside.

"You don't mean so much to me.  It's not my heart you've engaged" Her
green eyes flashed, and her stance was challenging.  She could hardly
speak any plainer.  Ryder's hand went to the bridge of his nose.  He
closed his eyes a moment as he massaged away the beginning of a
headache and tried to remember how the argument had begun.  He could
hear her saying "I won't wear it" when he handed her the habit.  Why
hadn't he said, Suit yourself?  Why had he let her draw him in?  All
Ryder had to do was open his eyes.  The answer was there in the bare
curve of her shoulder, in the length of calf opened by a split in the
blanket, and in the eyes that seared him with their brilliance.

The habit protected her.  She was right about that.  It protected her
from him, and it protected her from herself.

"Why are you telling me this?"  he asked quietly.  A strand of red-gold
hair had fallen across Mary's cheek.  She brushed it back
impatiently.

"Because you can no longer depend on me to be the conscience for both
of us."  She tugged at the blanket again, raising it a notch and trying
to secure it better; then she turned her attention back to him.

"I just thought you should know."

"I

wasn't aware I had asked you to be my conscience."

"You didn't."

She pointed to the discarded habit.

"You expected that to stand for something.  It doesn't.  Not anymore."
Ryder glanced at the habit, then back at Mary, his dark brows drawn.

"What do you mean?"  Mary raised her chin and faced him squarely.
Against her will she felt her breathing quicken.

"I left the order in September," she said.

"I'm no longer a nun.  I haven't been one for months."  The silence was
powerful.  For long moments Ryder only stared at her.  The word "liar"
lay on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't like the taste of it.  As
far as he could see there was nothing for her to gain by lying to him
and perhaps a great deal to lose.

"You deceived me," he said deeply.  She tried to shrug it off, but her
cheeks were warmer than they had been a moment ago.

"For the second time," he added.  Now Mary's eyes dropped away.

"I remember," she said.

"Did you think I wouldn't mention it?"  he asked.

"You took some pleasure in pretending to be something other than you
were the first time we met."

"I took some pleasure in being mistaken for being me," she corrected
softly.  Mary glanced at him.

"I don't expect you to understand, but it's the truth."  Honesty
compelled her to add, "And yes, I did enjoy your discomfort when you
found out what I was."  Ryder remembered that quite clearly.  If he
closed his eyes he could see her sitting on the warm rock by the
watering hole, clutching her knees to her chest, her posture protective
but her smile completely smug.  Uncertain of his reaction, she was not
looking quite so confident now.  Her bright eyes were faintly anxious,
and there was no smile.  Only the way her arms were crossed in front of
her was familiar.

"Find something to wear," he said finally.

"I don't care what."  He turned, picked up a lantern, and left the
chamber.

Mary stared after him, unable to call him back, uncertain if she wanted
to.  When his light vanished in the corridor, Mary bent slowly and
picked up her habit.  She folded it carefully and placed it in the
trunk.  Her clothing options were limited.  She had the cotton shift
and undergarments she had worn beneath her habit and she had his extra
shirts and pants.  Mary slipped the shift over her head and pulled on
the drawers.  She used one of Ryder's heavier shirts as a jacket,
rolling up the sleeves until the cuffs rested partway between her wrist
and elbow.  Her stockings and shoes were not as warm on her feet as
Ryder's socks, but Mary decided the less she wore of his, the better.
His curt order that she should get dressed hadn't precisely been an
invitation to share his belongings.  Mary shook out the blanket she had
worn and laid it over the other blankets on the bed.  She smoothed the
edges and pressed out the wrinkles with her hand.  She wondered if he
would make her wear it when they slept again.  Her hand trembled
slightly.  Perhaps this would be the night he would tell her to sleep
in nothing at all.  Mary yawned widely.  Belatedly she raised her hand
to cover her mouth.  The book she had been pretending to read slipped
from her other hand and fell closed in her lap.

"Perhaps you should lie down," Ryder said.  He was sitting
ccross-legged on the floor of the chamber, several maps from the trunk
unrolled in front of him.  He hadn't bothered looking up.

"Aren't you tired?"  she asked.  It was impossible to know the passing
of time with any certainty, but Mary suspected it was already very late
in a day that had been interminably long.

Ryder had stayed away for most of it, and though Mary didn't know what
business he had had outside the cavern, she had felt as if she were
being punished.  She was tempted to say as much when he finally
returned, but nothing in his manner invited conversation or comment. He
had eaten his meal in silence.  Afterward he had knelt in front of the
trunk, emptying it of everything until he could lift the false bottom
and retrieve the maps.  He hadn't even glanced in Mary's direction to
see if she was interested or irritated by the trunk's hidden treasure. 
It was as if she had ceased to exist in any way that was important to
him.  It didn't make sense.  Mary dropped her book back in the basket
and stifled another yawn.  She stood, her fingers and toes curling as
she tried to stretch without bringing attention to herself.  She was
careful not to disturb Ryder's maps as she stepped around them, but the
hem of her shift slid across his knee when she passed.  The tug on her
shift stopped her in her tracks.  She turned and looked down.

Ryder was holding a handful of her shift in his fist.

"Yes?"  she asked.  The contrast of his skin against the white fabric,
the intensity of his grip, held her focus.  Suddenly Mary found it
difficult to draw a breath.  He didn't say anything, but the pull on
her was inexorable, as real as if his hand had twisted in her shift and
yanked her down.  She felt her knees give way and then she was sitting
beside him.  His gaze shifted from his hand to her face, and the cool
gray eyes studied her with a predator's awareness.  Mary held herself
very still.  Even when his hand released her shift, she felt very much
his captive.

"I'm not tired," he said lowly.

"Oh."  Mary had forgotten that she'd asked.

"I wanted to be."  His hand was raised, and it now rested on the curve
of her neck.  When his thumb made a slow pass across her skin, her
pulse jumped beneath it.

"Why did you tell me, Mary?"  She swallowed.  His fingers lifted and
drifted across her cheek.  He touched her ear and tested the texture of
her hair at her temple.

"Is this what you wanted?"  When she didn't say anything, his hand
closed over the back of her neck and he drew her closer.

"Or this?"  His head bent and his mouth touched hers, lightly at first,
a mere whisper of warmth against her lips.

"This, then."  The pressure this time was more deliberate.  His hand
tightened, held her steady, and his mouth closed over hers.

He felt her try to draw in a breath, but it was his air she drank.

Her lips were soft, the space between them narrow.  He widened it with
his tongue, the touch tentative, a mere taste.  The sound she made was
small, almost a whimper.  Ryder did not mistake her response for
arousal alone.  He could sense her fear.  Instead of withdrawing, he
deepened the kiss.  His fingers wound around her hair and kept her
close while his tongue explored the sweet recesses of her mouth.  He
leaned his weight into her gradually so that she was eased to the cool
stone floor with hardly any awareness of how she had gotten there.  His
body unfolded beside her, stretching until one of his legs had captured
hers.  It was only then that he raised his mouth.  The centers of her
eyes were dark and vaguely unfocused.  Her lips were parted and faintly
swollen, richer in color than they had been before the kiss.

"My God," he said huskily.

"You've never even been kissed before."

Mary was surprised by her own indignation.

"Yes, I have," she said a little sharply.

"Oh?"  He kissed the corner of her mouth, nibbled along the length of
it.  Her lips parted again, and he teased her with his tongue before he
asked, "Who?"

"Jordan Reilly."  Her answer had come too quickly to be a lie, yet
Ryder suspected there was something she wasn't sharing.  He lowered his
head and kissed her hard, wringing an arching response from her.

Her breathing was quick and shallow when he drew back, and of their own
accord, her hands had come to rest lightly on his shoulders.

"He was eight," she admitted after a moment.

"I was only-" She never finished.  Ryder's mouth slanted across hers
and Mary felt his urgency whip through her, lashing her with his heat
and hunger.

There was anger as well, and it was less easy to understand.  Her
fingers tightened on his shoulders.  The weight of his body against her
was unfamiliar, but she accepted it.  Her arms eased around him and her
fingers threaded in his thick, inky hair.  Ryder broke off suddenly. He
pulled away from Mary's grasp and sat up.

"You'd let me, wouldn't you?"  he said harshly.  Mary sat up.  Confused
by the accusation in his tone and a little wounded, she flushed.

Still, it was not in her to deny the truth.

"Yes," she said simply.

"I would."

"Why?"  She didn't answer the question.

Instead she asked, "Why does it make you angry?"  Ryder's smile was
grim and humorless.

"I didn't know you realized I was."

"I could .. ."  She hesitated.

"I could feel it in your kisses. I'm inexperienced.  Not naive."  She drew in her breath and said again, "So why are you angry?"  Sighing, Ryder got to his feet.

He ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm not angry with you," he said.

"You haven't done anything except make me want you, and you did that a
long time ago."  He shook his head slowly.

"I shouldn't have brought you with me.  It was a mistake to think I could
keep my hands off you."  Mary stood.  Ryder was already turning from
her when she asked quietly, "Why do you want to?"

"One doesn't miss what one hasn't had."

"That isn't true," she said.

"I know."  Ryder turned around.

"We're not talking about the same thing," he said.

"Not at all."  She wanted to satisiy her curiosity.  She had no idea of
the need that was driving him.

"Go to sleep now.  I have work to do."  She almost reached for him, but
she sensed he would push her away.  She walked past him, careful not to
brush him, and went to the bed.  Drawing off three of the blankets, she
tossed them in Ryder's direction; then she lay down.  He put out all
the lanterns except the one he needed for reading the maps.

"I still have all my clothes on," she told him a shade defiantly. Ryder
leaned over the maps.  Without looking at her he said pleasantly, "Shut
up, Mary."  Knowing only that something had changed, he came awake
suddenly.  He was on his feet in the next moment as he sensed Mary's
absence from the chamber.

She stood in the arched entrance holding a bucket of spring water in
one hand and a lantern in the other.

"Did you think I left?" she asked curiously.  Ryder raised one hand to the back of his neck and rubbed.  Tension seeped out of him slowly.

"You did leave."

"Only to get some water."  She hung the lantern inside the entrance and
carried the bucket over to him.

"You were sleeping very soundly.  I made a racket and you didn't stir
once."

"Liar."

It wasn't said unkindly, and Mary didn't take offense.

"All right," she admitted.

"I was quiet, but you have to admit you only just missed me.  I've been
gone at least two minutes."

"So long," he said dryly.  It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
If she had wanted to, she could have gone quite a distance in two
minutes.

"Why didn't you try leaving?  Aren't you still anxious to get away from
here?"  Mary set down the bucket.

"I thought about it," she said.

"I think about it a lot.  But I find myself in something of a
predicament.  If I try to go you'll probably drag me back and then
you'd make me sleep in only a blanket again, right next to you, and
then we'd both have a hard time sleeping.

Probably we would kiss, and maybe even more than that would happen, and
you would blame me for that, thinking I planned it all, Heaven knows,
I've given you good reason to think that--so it didn't seem to me I'd
be able to convince you otherwise and" She paused to take a breath.

"And there you have it.  There just wasn't any sense in trying to get
away."  He was staring at her, fascinated.  She was laughing at him, he
knew she was, but there was no smile on her lips and only innocence in
her forest green eyes.

"Is that right?"  he said softly.

She nodded serenely and turned to go.

"Would you like some breakfast?"  she asked.

"I thought I'd-" Ryder caught her hand and pulled her back.  She was
brought flush to his body in a swift movement.  His arms circled her
waist quickly, trapping her.

"What if I changed my mind?"  he asked.

"I did a lot of thinking, too."

Mary blinked.  Her face was tilted toward his, and it seemed his mouth
was very close.

"You did?"  He nodded and bent his head.

His lips touched her just beneath her ear.

"I've decided.."

Ryder's mouth grazed her cheek" the next time ..."  he kissed her
temple.  "you leave this chamber"-he traced the edges of her parted
lips with his tongue.

"I'll drive a spike in the stone and chain you to it."  His hands
closed around her waist as he set her from him.  Mary was still feeling
the edge of his tongue on her mouth.  The words registered slowly.  She
wavered on her feet a little unsteadily as a sweet ache swept through
her.

"Now don't flirt with me anymore," he said.

"I can make you hurt a lot worse than you can make me."  Ryder only
hoped she would believe him.

It was something of a standoff for two more days.  Ryder spent very
little time inside the chamber, and he never offered to take Mary out
again.  When they were together their conversation was cool and polite.
They studiously avoided any subject that could be construed as personal
and were careful not to touch.  Mary slept alone on the stone pallet of
blankets while Ryder made his bed on the floor.  It was a satisfactory
arrangement for neither of them.

On the third morning Ryder was finally prepared to announce there would
be a change.  He placed his hand on Mary's shoulder and shook her
awake.

"Go away," she said sleepily.

"Get up."

"Why?"  It was a good question, she thought.  Why bother getting up at
all when there was little to make one day different from another.

Ryder almost repeated what he thought about her taking issue with his
orders, then thought better of it.

"Because we're leaving."

That got Mary's attention.

"Leaving?"  She sat up and threw her legs over the side of the stone
loft.

"Leaving the cavern, you mean?"  she asked eagerly.  He nodded and let
his hand drift away from her shoulder.

"Where are we going?"

"A day's walk from here."

"That doesn't tell me anything."

"I could tell you the name of the place, but it wouldn't mean anything
to you."  He pointed to the pair of trousers he had laid across the
back of the wing chair.

"Get out of your shift and put those on.  You can wear my shirt and my
hat.  You won't be able to tolerate the sun without one."

"Aren't we taking anything with us?"  she asked.

"Water and jerky.  It will be enough."

"All right," she said.

"I trust you."  He didn't let that touch his conscience too deeply.

"Get dressed," he said.

"I'll wait for you in the corridor."  Mary was ready quickly.  She gave
a soft gasp of surprise when Ryder held up a bandana intended to cover
her eyes.

"What does it matter if I see the way out?  We're not coming back."
Ryder tied the blindfold tightly.

"I never said that," he said.

"But-" When she tried to tear at the bandana he caught her hands.

"What are you-" A rope was twisted around her wrists until they were
bound securely in front of her.

"I don't want to fight with you, Mary.  Not today."  Her struggle was
with tears, not with her bonds.

"I'm not fighting you," she protested.

"You will."  He could have pulled her along by the leading string he
had tied to the ropes, but he dropped it and looped his arm in hers
instead.

"I expect you'll fight me most of the way."

"Why?  Why would I do that?"  She could feel herself holding back
already, stiff and unyielding as he tried to urge her forward.

"What are you going to do to me?"  Ryder surprised her by simply taking
her in his arms and holding her until she calmed.  She felt his breath
on her face a moment before his mouth closed over hers.

The kiss was warm and gentle and sweet.

"I'm going to marry you," he said.

Chapter Eight

John MacKenzie Worth found he could tolerate the ignominy of his
position.  What he could not tolerate was being ignored.  Moira tried
to calm him.

"Perhaps none among them speaks any English," she said quietly.  Her
eyes darted from her husband to the Chiricahua warrior guarding them.
She absently massaged the chafed skin of her wrists.  The leather
thongs that had bound her on the journey to the Apache encampment had
left their mark on her delicate skin.  Smiling tentatively at the
guard, she was met with a blank stare.

"They don't appear to want to communicate with us at all," she told Jay
Mac.

"And I don't like it," he blustered.  In frustration he tried to free
his wrists.

There was no give in the leather, and his attempt merely restricted the
circulation in his hands.  Being bound was doubly frustrating because
he only had himself to blame.  Given the choice between cooperation and
conflict, Jay Mac had chosen the latter.  He wriggled his bound feet
and found the result the same.

"Lean against me," said Moira.

"It will ease the strain in your back."

When Jay Mac stubbornly refused to move, Moira scooted closer and
leaned into him.

"Then let me lean on you," she said, linking her arm through his.
Although Jay Mac knew precisely what she was doing, he was placated. He
turned his head.  Threads of gray mingled with the deep red strands of
Moira's hair, and a fine layer of dust from their harrowing ride
covered all like a veil.  He placed a kiss on the crown of her head.

"I love you, Moira."  The edges of her mouth lifted, and she gave his
arm a gentle squeeze.

Her calm fascinated her husband.  He had always known she was possessed
of strong character, but the well of peace she was drawing upon now was
deeper than he had ever suspected.

"I wish I hadn't let you accompany me this morning," he said.

"I could have inspected the progress on the line alone."

"Don't be absurd.

Where would I rather be than with you?  If you had been captured
without me I wouldn't know that you were safe.  Think about Rennie and
Jarret and the babies.  Would you really want me to be going through
the agony of not knowing as they're doing now?"  She closed her eyes
momentarily, and her voice lowered to a whisper.

"As we've all done since our Mary was taken?"  Jay Mac wished he could
put his arms around her.  The catch in her voice that she hoped he
wouldn't notice wrenched his heart.

"I should not have been attending to business," he said, determined to
lay blame for their predicament on his shoulders alone.

"I should have remained at the fort with you and Rennie, waiting for
Jarret to return."

"Jay Mac-"

"At least I should have accepted an Army escort."

"Should.  Should.  Should."  Moira sighed.

"You should have been a priest, and none of this would ever have come
about."

"But I'm a Presbyterian."

"My point exactly," she said with a note of triumph.

"You are what you are.  And I love you for it."  Moira's gaze wandered
around the Chiricahua encampment as she spoke.  Two women had leaped to
help a fallen child.  Another, with a cradle board on her back, looked
on fondly as the child hugged the skirt of one of her rescuers.  It was
human nature to protect one's own, she thought, and the knowledge of
this bond she shared with her captors gave Moira an extra measure of
peace.

"You dropped everything in New York to come out here when you received
our telegram.  And you've rattled every official and every commander
you could think of to elicit some help in finding Mary.  You did what
you could, Jay Mac.  It's the waiting around that you're no good at.  I
was relieved when you decided to go out to the line and look at the
construction Rennie's put together.  And, yes, I was quite happy to be
asked to go along, because I'm no better at waiting than you are.  I'm
only more quiet about it."  That raised a faint smile.

"You're good for me, Moira Mary," he said softly.

"Of course I am."  She snuggled closer, wishing he could put his arms
around her.

"What do you think they intend to do with us?"

she asked, surveying the encampment again.  There was a lot of activity
among their captors.  Everyone in the camp seemed bent on some purpose.
Even the conversation had an air of excitement about it.

"Hold us for ransom probably," Jay Mac said.

"Exchange us for guns or money for guns."

"That doesn't make sense," Moira reasoned.

"If the charges against Ryder McKay are true, they should be well
armed."  Jay Mac had thought about that, too.  But if he and Moira
weren't being held for ransom, then .. . It wasn't a train of thought
he wanted to pursue.

"Perhaps this isn't the band that got the gold from the Colter Canyon
raid.  Or perhaps they don't want us to see their store of rifles and
ammunition."

Moira didn't know what to think about that.  She watched a group of
women in consultation with one another over a meal preparation.

Their congenial arguing dissolved into giggles as one of them looked
toward Moira and Jay Mac and made some comment.

"You don't think they're having us for dinner, do you?"  she asked. Jay
Mac saw the unmistakable crooked smile on the mouth of their guard
though it was quickly erased.  Jay Mac no longer harbored any doubts
that at least one of their captors understood English.

That smile was not in response to the Apache woman's jest, but to
Moira's interpretation.

"No, dear, I don't think they plan to have us for dinner, at least not
the way you're thinking.  But it's clear they're preparing something."
Jay Mac took the count of the encampment to be one hundred, give or
take a dozen.  The site they had chosen was protected by a natural
fortress of pale pink rock.

Although the rocky walls were high, they had not boxed themselves in a
dead end canyon, and lookouts had been posted above the camp to raise
the alarm if the band was threatened.  Although the Chiricahua looked
settled, Jay Mac had learned enough from General Gardner to know that
the bands moved quickly and easily from one location to another.  In
the years before the Spanish and the English had come, the Chiricahua
moved in concert with their six seasons, going where the plants and
game were most plentiful.  Now they moved to flee an enemy as well.
Moira thought about what Jay Mac had said.

"I think you're partially right, dear."

"How's that?"

"They're not preparing something."  The purposeful ness of the activity
caught her attention again: the briskness of a warrior's stride, the
discussion among the elders, the busy hands working beads into a
fringed leather skirt.  A joyous anticipation hung in the air and was
given sound by fits of high-pitched laughter from the children.

"They're preparing for something."

Ryder did not remove Mary's blindfold until they had walked from the
cavern for two hours.  The going had been slow, as much because Mary's
steps were necessarily halting as because of the terrain.

Covering their trail had slowed their progress also.  In all that time
Mary had said nothing.  When Ryder had announced his proposal he had
effectively rendered her speechless, and she had remained that way
throughout the first leg of their journey.  It had occurred to her not
to cooperate, to fight him just as he supposed she would, but
perversely she didn't want to give him what he expected.  Ryder took
the blindfold and tied it around his forehead.  His dark hair was free
of the thong, and it fell loosely past his shoulders.  He watched as
Mary squinted under the sudden glare of light.  He shielded her face
with his hands, protecting her eyes.  It was the most natural gesture
in the world to place his lips softly on her brow.  He drew back after
a moment.

"Are you never going to talk to me again?"

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," she said.  Her voice sounded
unfamiliar to her own ears, and the words fairly stuck in her throat.
Ryder stared back solemnly, then raised a canteen to her lips.  He
didn't need to persuade her to drink.  She took the water with the
youthful greediness of a child.  When she had had her fill he let the
canteen fall to his side and wiped her damp mouth with the pad of his
thumb.  Mary pursed her lips and thrust her bound hands forward into
Ryder's hard, flat belly.  He raised both eyebrows at the force of the
blow, but she knew he wasn't hurt.  Ramming her fists into his abdomen
was like punching a brick wall, she was more jarred by the impact than
he was.

"You can remove this rope now.

I'm not going to be yanked across the countryside on a leading string.
I'll go where you go because I want to, not because you have me on a
tether."  Ryder's frost gray eyes were remote as he considered her
words.

"Then you agree we should be married."

Mary hesitated.

"I didn't say that.  I said, "I'll go where you go."  That will have to
satisfy you for now."  She waited until he removed the rope before she
added, "And for the record, you didn't ask me to marry you."  His eyes
narrowed as he tried to fathom the twists and turns of her thoughts,
but her features were once again cloaked.  An expression of complete
serenity made Mary as unreadable as she was beautiful.

"For the record," he said, "I'm not taking any chances."  Mary didn't
reply, following him instead as he began walking ahead of her, but
taking chances was exactly what she thought he was doing.  How did he
think he was going to engage her cooperation in front of a priest?  At
first she considered that he would be taking her to a town to have the
ceremony performed.  The longer she pondered it, the more insanely
dangerous it seemed.  Mary imagined that Ryder could hardly hope to
bring her into public without attracting notice.  If they weren't
identified immediately he must know she would make sure they were
discovered.  Ultimately she dismissed the possibility of a town
wedding.  It occurred to her now that Ryder had a mission as his
destination.  The Southwest Territory was dotted with Spanish missions,
especially near the border.  It was not difficult to determine that
they were heading south.  Perhaps they were even in Mexico already, she
thought, and wondered how hard it would be to escape Ryder's side in a
foreign country.  Was she better with the devil she did know than among
strangers who might have no sympathy for her situation or wouldn't even
believe her?  Ryder had told her they were a day's walk from their
destination.  She wondered if he counted the day as twenty-four hours
or until sunset.  After walking so far he must expect to spend the
night.  Would it be at the mission?  The thought of sleeping in a real
bed again, with a feather tick and pillows, a comforter pulled up to
her neck, made Mary sigh aloud.  The idea of sleeping in a real bed
with Ryder's body fitted against her own made her knees grow weak.  She
stumbled.  Ryder caught her before she fell.  He helped her up and
steadied her.

"You did better when you were blindfolded," he said.

She drew back and brushed herself off.

"Yes, well I can see a little too clearly now."  After a brief,
quizzical, over-the-shoulder glance, Ryder started walking, this time
shaking his head in bemusement.  The pace he set was not hurried and
Mary was not tired when he stopped.  He studied the ground as she
leaned against a rock and took off her shoes.  Fine grains of sand and
pebbles no bigger than the heads of pins were shaken out.  She stared
at the debris with no little astonishment.  She would have sworn she
was carrying Gibraltar in both shoes.  Mary curled her toes, wiggling
them to restore circulation.

"I'm not tired," she announced.

"You don't have to rest on my account."  Ryder was hunkered beside a
grouping of stones.

"I'm not resting.  I'm reading."  He picked up the stones, smoothed the
ground underneath to remove their depression, then placed them
carefully among other rocks, making certain the sun-warmed side was
still facing up.

"You sound almost eager," he said, glancing at her.

"You'll be happy to know we're nearly there."  Mary stopped wiggling
her toes.

"But you said a day's walk."  Ryder shrugged.

"They've moved again."  She frowned, her brow frurowed.

"It's all right," he said.

"They're still expecting us."  Mary eased herself away from the rock
and straightened.

"What do you mean, "They've moved'?  And who's expecting us?" Militancy
was back in her stance and her eyes were issuing a challenge. Ryder
ignored both.

"Put your shoes on.  There are a few miles left, and most of it's
downhill."  As he turned to go he thought he might get one of the shoes
squarely in the middle of his back.  He was grateflil for Mary's
nastraint.  He wondered what conclusions she had drawn about their
destination.  Whatever they had been she was discovering them wrong.
Her confusion was quite real, however.  It forced Ryder to think about
how much longer he could count on her cooperation.  He was certain now
that she had been plotting her escape.  It wasn't as surprising as it
was disappointing.  Jay Mac stiffened slightly as the guard approached.
Moira rose to her feet at the Chiricahua's gesture but stood
protectively beside her husband.

"It is time to go," the guard said.

"They are waiting."  He withdrew a knife from the soft buckskin folds
of his boot like moccasin.  His flat expression didn't change when he
saw that Jay Mac did not flinch, but he was impressed.

"You will follow me."

He cut the bonds on Jay Mac's wrists, then the ones on his ankles.

Jay Mac got awkwardly to his feet.  His palms and soles tingled with
restored circulation, but he gave little notice to the discomfort.  His
arms went immediately around Moira.  He could feel her heart beating
madly as he pressed her close to his chest.

Believing they had lived their hearts and that nothing had been left
unspoken, they exchanged no words.  Jay Mac broke the embrace
reluctantly.  It was easy to read the guard's expression now.  It was
one of repugnance.

"It appears they don't approve of public displays of affection," Jay
Mac muttered.  Moira smiled, resting her head momentarily on her
husband's shoulder.

"Imagine how he'd react if you kissed me properly.  We'd probably be
able to escape."  The guard was not amused.

"This way," he said.  Jay Mac squeezed Moira's hand.

"At least they want us together," he said quietly.

"What is it?"  asked Mary.  She was looking at the garments hanging
from the end of Ryder's extended arm as if they might bite her.  The
truth was, they looked lovely and were treated to her suspicious stare
because of that.  The leather had been bleached until it was pale as
eggshell and had been worked over and over until it was soft as butter.
The beadwork in the fringe along the neck, arms, and hem was all
turquoise and silver.

"I mean," she corrected herself, "I know what it is, but what am I
supposed to do with it?"

"Put it on."  Mary didn't reach for it.  Instead her hands went behind
her back and she actually retreated a step.

"Oh, I couldn't," she said, shaking her head.

"It must belong to someone.  It looks very valuable.  You should put it
back where you found it."

"You're not usually so slow to the mark," he said calmly.

"Is it that you really don't want to see?"  She merely stared at him,
bewildered.  He explained patiently.

"It does belong to someone.  You.  I found it because it was left for
me to find."  Her hands came from around her back.

"For me?"  He nodded.

"I thought you might like a change of clothes."  Now Mary reached for
the buckskin shirt and skirt eagerly, holding them up in front of
her.

"Beautiful," she whispered, awed.  The weighted fringe on both pieces
swayed and jangled as the beads rubbed together.  The leather was soft
to the touch, and she raised a sleeve to her cheek.

"They look as if they will fit me."  Ryder simply shook his head.  She
was determined not to see any part of the picture that wasn't painted
especially for her.

"Of course they will fit.  They were made for you."  That brought her
head up.  She stared at Ryder wonderingly.

"You?"

"No, not by me."

Mary raised the fringe along the neckline gingerly.  The tiny beads
sifted through her fingers, cool and clear.

"Like droplets of water," she said softly.

"Yes," he said.  Some visions did not have to be explained.  He saw it
in her eyes now, the knowledge that these garments had not been an
undertaking of a few days, but of months, and that they had been
fashioned after a likeness he held clearly in his mind's eye.

"Put it on, Mary."  It would be as if she were in the pool again, she
thought.  She would wear this garment as if it were the water and she
were naked save for its cloak.  And she would remember how he had
looked at her when he thought of her only as a woman and how he had
held her, comforted her, when she thought a woman was all she wanted to
be.  She had fallen asleep in his arms, exhausted by the despair that
clutched her heart, yet strangely rested from his sweet succor.  When
she had awakened he was gone.  She had never expected to see him again
but she knew she wouldn't forget him.  This garment was proof that he
had not forgotten her.

"I'll show you where you can wash," he said.  Ryder led her through a
copse of pines to a narrow mountain stream.  It was only a few inches
deep but the water was clear and cool.  He knelt and washed his own
face and hands.

"When you're done we'll follow this stream to the bottom, and then it
will be done."

Mary opened her mouth to ask a question, but Ryder was striding away.
She watched him disappear into the shadows of the pines.  It occurred
to her he was giving her a chance to run.

It also occurred that he was extending his trust.  On the heels of that
thought she considered that perhaps he was merely taking her compliance
for granted, that in his arrogance he thought her cooperation was
assured.  She gazed after him, staring at the spot where he had
vanished from view, holding the fringed, pale, butter yellow skirt and
shirt in front of her.  It became clear that her decision would not be
made because of what he wanted, but because of what she wanted.

Carefully laying the gift aside, Mary knelt beside the shallow stream
and folded her hands.  It was not water that she raised to her lips but
prayer.  Mary was not the only one who changed clothes.  Ryder shed the
last vestiges of the military and replaced it with garments that had
been left for him.  A long-sleeved buckskin shirt replaced the flannel
one, and he added the breechcloth by looping the long strip of buckskin
over his belt in the front, then drawing the long end between his legs
and tucking it under his belt in the back.  He pulled on the moccasins,
tugging them up to his knees, then gathered the discarded clothes and
bundled them.  For the first time in his life Ryder could find no peace
in waiting.  On this occasion anticipation was not a welcome companion.

If Mary ran he would find her and bring her back.  She could never get
far enough away that he couldn't get her quickly, but he had no taste
for the task.  He did not want it to be against her will, yet he wanted
it.  Marriage was the condition he had placed upon their union.  Mary
did not seem to expect it or even particularly want it.  She hadn't
tried to bargain her body for a ring and a commitment, nor had she
tried to seduce him like Anna Leigh Hamilton to appease curiosity.  The
stillness that surrounded him now was an agony.  He strained for some
sound that would indicate Mary's presence by the stream.  The pounding
of his own heart left him deaf to sounds he could have heard in a
windstorm.  Unable to tolerate it another moment, Ryder shot to his
feet and quickly retraced his path to the water.  Mary turned when she
heard him, her smile more uncertain than eager.  The remote, guarded
expression on Ryder's face did not inspire confidence, and the clothes
he wore startled her.  

She was reminded again of the predatory nature
of man and of this man in particular.  Mary wasn't certain she wanted
to be in his sights now.  Her eyes dropped away from his, and she
fingered the fringe at her neck in order to have something to do with
her hands.  He had steeled himself to accept that she would be gone,
and now the expression was engraved on his features.  It wasn't until
her eyes fell away that he felt himself relax and the frost lift from
his lightly colored eyes.  The pale leather outfit clung softly to her
slender frame.  When she moved the beads glanced off one another,
shifting and sparkling like a curtain of raindrops.  The sun was just
setting, waves of oranges and reds, like a tide of color in her hair,
skimming the surface of each strand so its own rich hue was reflected
more brilliantly.

The fringe at the hem of her skirt almost touched her feet, and it was
movement there that caught Ryder's eye.  Barefoot, Mary was curling and
uncurling her toes in a nervous gesture that kept the fringe swinging
in time.

"A moment," he said.  He was gone and then he was back, producing a
pair of moccasins that were as soft as the shirt and decorated with the
same beads of turquoise and silver.

"Here," he said, handing them to her.

"I should have given them to you before.  I wasn't thinking."  It
wasn't quite true.  He had been thinking, but only of how she would
look in wedding raiment that was like shimmering water.  In the end his
vision had not done the truth justice.  Mary accepted the moccasins but
looked at them doubtfully.

"I think they're going to be too big."  The toe of the buckskin boots
would extend well past her own toes, and the tips of the moccasins
turned upward.  She glanced at the moccasins Ryder was wearing.  The
toes of his had the same distinctive upward turn.

"They are as they are meant to be," he said.  Which was to say that
when Mary put them on, the fit would be perfect.  The rawhide soles
protected her feet as her own shoes hadn't been able to do.

"Thank you, Ryder."  It seemed to him that the use of his name was
deliberate, as if she understood it was not the way of the Apache to
use a given name carelessly, that one's name was invoked when there was
something of importance to be expressed.  Of course, she couldn't know
that, but Ryder found he wanted to believe it anyway.  He picked up her
discarded clothes and bundled them with his.  He held out his free
hand.

"This way, Mary."  As always, when he said her name in that peculiar
way of his, as though attaching some singular importance to it' Mary
found herself wanting to honor his wish.  She slipped her hand in his
and walked at his side along the edge of the winding stream.  Their
descent was gradual and slow.  The pines dwindled in size but never
disappeared, and Mary realized their elevation was still high above the
desert floor.  It wasn't until the stream widened and pines circled a
small clearing that Ryder stopped.  He released Mary's hand and tossed
the bundle toward the trees.

"What are we doing?"  she asked.  It did not seem odd to her that she
was talking no more loudly than the wind as it whispered in the
boughs.

"And what is that?"  She pointed to the large woven basket in the
center of the clearing.  It was filled with water and had the
dimensions of a wooden washtub.  Was she expected to do their
laundry?

"Why are we stopping here?"

"In a moment."  He knelt in front of her and removed her moccasins
while she rested a hand on his shoulder to keep her balance.  When he
was done he removed his own.  Mary wanted to giggle, but something in
Ryder's manner sobered her.  He was behaving solemnly, deliberately. He
took her hand again and this time led her to the basket of water. He
stepped in first, then lifted her.  She caught her breath as much from
his hands on her waist as from the first icy dip.

"What are we doing?"  she asked again.

"What is this place?"  Ryder didn't answer.  His fingers caught hers in
a firm clasp.  Mary tugged, but she wasn't released.  Her skin prickled
with a mixture of cold and trepidation.

"I don't think I want to--"

"Shhh.  They're coming."  At Ryder's whispered urging, Mary was silent.
She followed the line of his vision half expecting to see spirits arise
from the grouping of trees to the left of them.  What came out of the
wooded area was no spirit, but flesh and blood.  The man wore clothing
similar to Ryder's, except his breechcloth and shirt were of cloth, not
buckskin.  His hair was thick, darker even than Ryder's, parted in the
middle and held back by a wide red bandana.  At the side it was so long
it nearly reached his elbows.

The sun had been this man's companion throughout his life.  His skin
had the same reddish-brown tint of a polished chestnut and deep lines
were carved into the corners of his eyes and mouth.

His manner was solemn and proud, and he acknowledged Ryder and Mary
with the merest nod of his head.

"My father.  Naiche."  Ryder's words were quietly spoken and for Mary's
ears alone.

"The woman is my father's wife.  Josanie."  Josanie stood quietly at
her husband's side, reaching just to his shoulder.  She was a score of
years younger than Naiche, and her face was filled out, rounded and
smooth, not engraved with harsh lines.  Her dark hair, streaked with
strands of gray at the temples, was coiled in a knot at her nape.  Her
acknowledgment was also a faint nod, but there was no mistaking that
her mouth was set tightly in disapproval.  Naiche and Josanie did not
approach, and Mary realized she was somewhat relieved by that.  She
felt a little foolish standing in the water, and she had no idea what
she was expected to do or say.  Following Ryder's lead, she remained
exactly as she was, though it was hard not to respond in kind to
Josanie's obvious disfavor.  Just at the point when Mary thought she
would embarrass herself with nervous laughter, she felt Ryder stiffen
and grasp her hand even more tightly.  Mary winced, but it failed to
gain her release.  Her eyes flew to his, and she saw he was paying
scant attention to her but was looking in another direction entirely.

Once again she followed his gaze.  She had reason to be grateful for
Ryder's tight hold as her knees buckled beneath her.  Jay Mac and Moira
entered the clearing followed by their guard.  Their clothes were
dusty, a little disheveled, but they were all in one piece in spite of
their ordeal.  In Mary's eyes they looked wonderful.  She took her fill
of them, just as they were doing to her, their eyes eating her up,
counting every blessed hair on her head.  Joyous laughter began to rise
in Mary's throat.  Her entire body leaned away from Ryder and toward
her parents.  This time his grip was unwelcome.  When she tried to step
out of the basket he restrained her.  Except for a slight nod from
each, Moira and Jay Mac didn't move.  Assured now that she was safe,
their expressions mirrored less anxiety and more confusion and silent
questioning.  Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Ryder gave a warning
by tugging on her hand.  He stepped out of the basket, lifted her to
join him, and announced, "It is done."

Mary barely heard him, and anyway his words had no meaning for her.

She wrested her hand free of his and ran to her parents.  Moira's arms
were already outstretched, prepared to bring her firstborn back to her
breast.  Mary fell into them gladly, holding and being held, feeling in
a primal way the deep nurturing love of that nascent embrace.  Jay Mac
stood close to his wife and placed his hand on the crown of Mary's
head, stroking gently.  The distinct colors in her red-gold hair
blurred as tears gathered in his eyes.

"Come.  You must leave now."  It was the guard who spoke.  Jay Mac's
tears dried immediately, but his vision wasn't clear as blinding anger
crested a thicker haze than tears ever could.

"Give her a moment with her mother," he snapped.

"For God's sake show some compassion."  The guard looked to Ryder for
direction.

Ryder's face was expressionless, but the single shake of his head was
clear.  Raising his rifle a notch, the guard motioned again.

"Come.  You must leave."  Jay Mac had seen Ryder's gesture and
recognized it for the command it was.  Fury was etched on his features,
but he did not allow pride and anger to overrule his judgment.

"Let us take her back," he said, his voice deep with emotion.

"She doesn't belong with you."

"She does now," Ryder said quietly.

"Mary is my wife."  He nodded again to the guard.

"Take them."  He addressed Jay Mac, though he spoke as much for Moira's
sake.

"It's for your safety and that of your wife.  The Army will be looking
for you.  If you are not returned quickly they will find the camp and
destroy everyone."  Only a subtle change in Ryder's expression let Jay
Mac know that "everyone" included his beloved Mary.  Jay Mac understood
then that Mary's life depended on their return to Fort Union and the
offering of any explanation for their disappearance except the truth.
That did not lessen his anger toward Ryder McKay, but it made the
dictate make sense.  His hand moved from Mary's bent head to his wife's
shoulder.

"Moira," he said gently.

"We must go."  Ryder stepped forward to lift Mary away from her mother,
but it wasn't necessary.  She kissed Moira on the cheek, straightened,
then kissed her father.  Her hand lingered on Jay Mac's forearm
reassuringly before she came to stand beside Ryder.  As her parents
turned to go Mary's body vibrated with a wrenching shudder.  She bit
her lip to keep from crying out and prayed that neither Jay Mac nor
Moira would find the strength to look back.  Mary did not think she
could remain with Ryder if they did.  The clearing was silent until
Moira, Jay Mac, and the guard were out of sight; then Naiche approached
the newlyweds and offered his congratulations.  Mary, pale and dazed,
only half listened as Ryder translated from the Apache.  She murmured
what she hoped was an appropriate reply which Ryder repeated at some
length.

"Do they understand English?"  she asked tightly.

"A little."

"Words like cruel bastard and heartless son of a bitch?"

"Your eyes are speaking a language that requires no words," he told
her.

"It doesn't matter what you say, they can see into your heart.  They
know you're angry with me."

"Angry?"  Mary almost choked on the word.

"Then they should look deeper, as well you should, because it doesn't
begin to describe what I'm feeling."

The coldness that clutched her inside and made it difficult to breathe
also froze the fiery brilliance of her green eyes.  She stared at him
hard, willing herself not to shatter in front of him.

Ryder said nothing to Mary, but exchanged more words with Naiche and
Josanie.  After a minute the couple returned to the place where they
had entered the clearing and began walking back to the encampment.  It
was at that point that Ryder addressed Mary.

"Josanie's family has prepared to welcome us with a feast and dancing.
It is not the Apache way that the husband's side should offer this.  It
was done because your family could not.  Naiche is nanta-a leader-and
he has brought great risk to his people by allowing us to be married
here and to celebrate among them.  To bring your parents here to
witness the ceremony was Naiche's gift to me and his blessing.  I could
not have married you without their acknowledgment."  Mary stared at the
ground, hugging herself.  She was confused and hurt, and understood
less than half of what was truly in her heart.

"Whatever your feelings toward me, I ask that you not share them with
the-the people."  She shot him a narrowed glance.

"Because it would embarrass you?"

"Because it would be an embarrassment to Naiche."

Mary looked away.  It was growing darker and the cold seemed to press
against her skin from both sides.

"Very well," she said quietly.

"But this changes nothing between us."  Even as she said it, she knew
it wasn't true.  Everything had changed.

The public dance which Mary and Ryder joined when they reached the
encampment was a lively affair.  Mary would have liked to have watched,
but her participation was expected and she was guided through the steps
by giggling, good-natured women-all sisters or cousins or nieces of
Josanie.  They laughed helplessly, though not unkindly, as Mary
performed her part in the dance, and to show their appreciation of her
attempts, they incorporated her faltering steps among their own.  When
it was over they admired Mary's dress, fingering the fringe and
commenting excitedly over the fit and handiwork.  As they did so, she
realized who it was she had to thank for the garments, and catching
Josanie's dark, watchful gaze, she made a slight bow in acknowledgment.
Josanie's stern mouth softened slightly.  Ryder rescued his wife from
her curious admirers and brought her to sit beside him near one of the
small fires that were now dotting the encampment.

"We can't stay much longer," he told her.

"In the morning they'll move their camp.

We must be long gone by then.  There can be no evidence that they
harbored us."  That bore the danger home to Mary.

"Mama and Jay Mac will say nothing," she said.  At least not to the
authorities, she thought.  But they wouldn't keep it from family.
Jarret would learn of it, and he would come looking for her, using
whatever landmarks her parents could recall to pick up her trail.
Watching her closely, her profile etched by warm firelight, Ryder
asked, "What's troubling you?"  Mary cast him a sideways glance.

"Nothing."  She wasn't convincing, and he wasn't convinced.  She was
saved from another probe by the arrival of their food.  Bean mush was
served, with just a hint of meat to flavor it and cornbread as an
accompaniment.  Mary, who thought her palate had been deadened by weeks
of eating tinned vegetables, found the meal spicy and satisfying. Later
there were small pink cakes made with sugared yucca fruit and decorated
with sunflower petals.  Mary knew intuitively that these were a very
special treat and it was an honor to be served them.  There was a lot
of joking and teasing while the meal was being consumed.  Mary
understood little of the content, but the gist of it generally required
no interpreter.  She was startled to hear Ryder laugh out loud as he
was targeted by his friends for another round of affectionate banter.

The laughter started deep in his chest, rumbling with enough force for
Mary to feel the vibration.  It felt like tiny sparks alighting on the
surface of her skin, touching her with a flash of heat before they
vanished.  She wasn't certain she wanted to be touched by his laughter.
She was still a little dazed by its effect when she found herself being
ushered to the edge of the camp.  She remained there, just as Ryder
asked, while he spoke privately with his father.  Several other men,
men Mary had noted had carried special influence and respect among the
Chiricahua, joined Ryder and Naiche.  Their conversation lasted only a
few minutes, but Mary gathered by the tone and gesturing that the words
which were exchanged were not to be taken lightly.  She raised her eyes
questioningly as Ryder returned to her side.

"You've made your farewell?"  He nodded.

"My father wanted to tell me where the band is going next, but the
council questioned the wisdom of it.

They're afraid I'll want to join them again."

"Would you?"

"I would be tempted," he admitted.  He put one hand on the small of her
back and urged her forward along the trail.  A crescent moon lighted
the path until the canopy of pine blocked it.

"But they're right to be concerned that the Army could stumble upon
them through me.  I can wait until they're ready for me to find
them."

Mary was quiet for a long time, concentrating on not stumbling over a
raised root or fallen branch.  She recognized the clearing when they
came upon it the second time, even though the basket of water had been
removed.  It was here that Ryder picked up the bundle of their
discarded clothes.  He gave Mary his flannel shirt to put over her
beaded shirt.

"That slip of a moon makes you an easy target," he explained when she
told him she was warm enough.

He had no problem gaining her cooperation after that.  He let her take
the lead until their ascent became steep enough for her to require his
assistance.

"They didn't appear to have many guns," she said, as Ryder helped her
over a rocky incline.

"You noticed that."  What he noticed was that she tore her hand away
from his as quickly as possible.

"What did you think about it?"

"At first I wondered if they had them hidden."

"And?"

"And that didn't make sense.  If you need a rifle for protection you
don't hide it so precious seconds are lost retrieving it.  Of course,
if you need the rifles to mount an attack you might hide them until
you've marshaled your forces."  Darkness hid Ryder's faint smile.  It
was hard to believe she'd been a nun for so many years and not an Army
strategist.

"So what have you concluded?"

"They don't have any guns.  Those people were more wary of being
attacked than intent on attacking.  I don't mean that they wouldn't
fight," she added, concerned that Ryder might believe she thought
Naiche's people lacked courage.

"I know they would fight with whatever is available, just as I know
that what's available isn't guns."

"What about gold?"  he asked.

"That's what they were supposed to have gotten from the raid."  Mary
considered his question a moment before she answered.

"I think if they'd really gotten the gold they'd have bought guns by
now."

"Why?"  he pressed.  She hesitated, letting the logic of her reasoning
settle in her mind, testing its soundness against other
possibilities.

"Because no one who wants to travel light and fast can afford to be
burdened by too many possessions."

"Perhaps they've hidden it."  He helped her up again, this time
bringing her flush with his body.  He heard her catch her breath, but
suspected it wasn't the climb that had helped her lose it in the first
place.  She was looking up at him, her eyes wide, her lips slightly
parted as she sipped the air.  He bent his own head a fraction.  His
voice was hushed.

"What do you think?"  Mary was mesmerized by the sliver of light edging
his hard profile, the way it touched the line of his brow, shaped his
nose, and polished the corner of his mouth.  He had asked her a
question.  It hung in the slip of a space between their mouths, but she
couldn't remember what it was.  She was having a hard time recalling
that earlier in the day she was certain she hated him.

"Well?"  Mary blinked.

"I don't think they've hidden it, because it's not their way.  They
would have wanted to make the trade quickly.  The gold's really useless
to them except as barter for guns."

"You have a very good mind, Mrs.  McKay."  He turned quickly and
started up the trail again.  He had no difficulty imagining the
fierceness of Mary's expression.  It was in her voice as she hurried
after him.

"I'm not Mrs.  McKay," she said sharply.

His tone was a pleasant contrast to hers.

"In my eyes you are".

"Well, damn your eyes."  Ryder merely grinned.

"I mean it," she called after him.

"That wasn't a wedding we had today."

"It was to me."  Before she could damn him again he added, "I recall
you not wanting a marriage at all."

"I didn't .. I don't."

"Then..."  His voice trailed off expectantly.  Mary's confusion had
made her lose her pace.  Now she ran to catch up, the beaded fringe
jangling lightly.  She pulled on Ryder's buckskin shirt from behind,
used it to raise herself up, and scrambled around him, taking the high
ground.  In her haste she had forgotten that with Ryder it rarely
mattered if she captured the high ground.

He dropped the bundle of clothes and grabbed Mary.  His palms anchored
her at the waist and kept her steady.  She was so slender and lithe
that his fingers almost met in the clasp.  Her own hands skimmed his
shoulders, fluttered momentarily, then rested there.

She couldn't think what she wanted to say.  Ryder helped her.

"Cruel bastard?"  he asked.

"Heartless son of a bitch?"  Mary was glad for the darkness that hid
her flaming face.  It was difficult to meet his eyes.

"My parents were returned safely?"  she asked lowly.

"You have my word.  Neither was harmed."

"There were bruises on my father's wrists.  I saw them when he took my
mother's arm."

"Your father wasn't very cooperative in the beginning.  He had to be
bound."  It was as Mary had suspected.

"You didn't win a friend there," she told him softly.

"In general Jay Mac likes his sons-in-law.  In the past he's tried to
handpick them.  I don't suppose he thinks much of you now."  Ryder's
smile was faint.

"In Apache the word for son-in-law means he-who-lifts-burdens-for-me.
There's an expectation that the bride's husband will care for her
family."  Mary tried to imagine how Ryder could ever hope to fulfill
that role in her family.  John MacKenzie Worth controlled millions of
dollars, thousands of miles of track, and hundreds of employees.
Neither Moira, nor any of his daughters, had wanted for anything that
money could provide.

"I'm fairly certain Jay Mac won't have that expectation."  Ryder's
smile deepened.

"Probably not."  He bent his head slightly and rested his forehead
against Mary's.

"Is there anything else you want to say?"  She closed her eyes
briefly.

"I wanted to spend more time with them.  I hated you for not letting me
do that."

"I

know."

"I wouldn't have returned with them, not unless it was what you wanted.
I had already made my decision about remaining with you."  Ryder's
heart slammed in his chest, and he released a breath he hadn't realized
he was holding.

"I just wanted to reassure them... explain."

"I know that, too."  Mary nodded.

Earlier she had been too full of her own anguish to hear properly, and
Ryder's explanation to Jay Mac had made little sense.  She had had time
to think about it as she was in the company of Naiche and Josanie and
the score of others who made up the first family group.

She witnessed the reverence one accorded one's relatives, the respect a
husband had for his mother-in-law, the affectionate teasing between a
brother and his sisters.  The elders were valued for their wisdom born
of experience, and the babies were lovingly protected by charms and
amulets hung on the frames of their cradle boards

"It was a great honor you did me by having my parents brought to the
ceremony".  In response Ryder placed a light kiss between Mary's brows.
He hadn't expected her to see it that way.

"And a great risk to so many people," she added.

"Why would you do that, Ryder?  Why risk so much?"

"Do you really not know?"  This time when his mouth touched her it was
at the corner of her eye.  His lips trailed along the curve of her
cheek then pressed the sensitive hollow just behind her ear.  He felt
her breathing quicken and her fingertips leave their imprint on his
soft buckskin shirt.  Ryder whispered her name against her skin, and
his breath was like a brand.  She leaned into him and raised her mouth.
He covered it with his own, crushing her lips in a hard, hot kiss that
seemed to last just this side of forever.  His hands slid from her
waist to her hips and then cupped her bottom, raising her just enough
to cradle him in the cleft of her thighs.

She moved against him, the rhythm instinctive, yet innocent.

Ryder eased her back gently and separated their bodies with a small
space of air.  His breathing was ragged.  He could hardly hear hers.
Night sheltered them, but this was not what Ryder wanted for the first
time with her.

"I have to take you back to the cavern," he said.  His voice was a
rough whisper as he struggled for control.  His hands were resting on
her bottom.  He slid them up to the small of her back.  She was still
leaning toward him, and he could make out the line of her full mouth.
The taste of her was on his tongue as he spoke.

"This is no place for us."

"It's not safe for us?"  she asked.

"Something like that."

"Oh."  Mary didn't want to move.  She felt his absence keenly.

Her breasts were swollen now, the nipples raised; and the ache to be
pressed to Ryder's chest again was physical.  She removed her hands
from his shoulders and, not knowing what to do with them, crossed them
in front of her.  It was a poor substitute for his arms, but the ache
subsided fractionally.  She regretted the loss of his hands on her
waist.  Cold seemed to penetrate her there and she shivered.  Ryder
adjusted the flannel shirt across her shoulders.

"You never quite get used to the change in temperature in the winter
desert."

"I can adjust to that," she said under her breath.

"It's people who blow hot and cold I can't tolerate."

Ryder thought it better that he pretend not to have heard.  He did what
he could to repair the trail they had disrupted with their scrambling
then he urged Mary ahead of him on the flatter ground.

He noticed she covered the terrain with more agility than she had shown
earlier in the day.  Was she eager or merely determined?

With Mary it was probably a bit of both.  A delicious sense of
anticipation returned to Ryder, and this time he could embrace it.

Ahead of him he watched Mary's lithe figure clamber effortlessly over
rocks and fairly dance along the winding trails.  She tantalized him
with an occasional glimpse of her thigh as the skirt split with her
stride and the beaded fringe swung across her white skin.  His eyes
followed the sway of her narrow hips and the stretch of her long legs.

Sometimes she turned, spearing him with an over-the-shoulder glance
that made him want to abandon common sense and take her standing up
against the nearest tree.  It was hours before they reached the mouth
of the cavern.  There had been an ebb and flow to their foreplay,
moments when they were merely intent on putting one foot in front of
the other followed by an innocent helping hand that led to a lingering
touch or a husky murmur of thanks.  Mary would have entered the cavern
immediately but Ryder caught her, lifted her, and carried her across
the threshold.  The symbolism was not lost on her.  She was still
smiling widely when he turned to her after lighting the lantern.

His fingers brushed back the hair at Mary's temple.  He watched her
intently.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?"  he asked.

Her smile faded.  She looped her arms around his shoulders and stood on
tiptoe.

"No," she whispered.

"But I'm hoping you'll show me."

Chapter Nine

Ryder laid his lips against her forehead, then drew back.

Her mouth was hungry for a kiss but he refused the invitation.

"We'll never make it back if I start kissing you now," he said.

Mary didn't know that she cared all that much.  Something of her
thoughts showed in the sulky line of her mouth.  Watching her, Ryder
sighed.

"You make it very tempting."  She smiled.

"That's all right, then."  Mary gave him her back and said dutifully.

"You may blindfold me now."  Ryder touched the bandana at his forehead
then let his hand fall away.  He raised the lantern so light showered
the area where they stood.  The fingers of his other hand stroked the
back of Mary's neck lightly.

"Not this time," he said quietly.

"Come.  I'll show you the way."  Mary wasn't entirely certain she
wanted this particular gift.  It would mean that she wasn't a prisoner
any longer, that she would have the route to leave him if she had the
will to use it.  The trust he was placing in her began to feel more
like a burden.

Then she remembered his warnings about finding her way out.  Where
would she go?  She had no concept of the direction of the fort or of
the distance she might have to travel.  Getting from their interior
chamber to the cavern's mouth was only a small part of the journey.  It
was a little like understanding how a lock worked but not being given
the key.  Ryder understood her hesitation.  His hand slipped from her
nape, down her spine, and settled at the small of her back.

"Have you worked it out?"  he asked.  She nodded, glancing over her
shoulder.

"I think so."

"Good."  He gave her a small push in the direction they should go.

"I wasn't inviting you to leave me."  The secret to finding their
chamber was all in knowing what to look for.  The signs were there, and
they were all the same yet different.  A straight line was always used
to indicate direction at any juncture in the path, but the line might
be only three small stones set along the edge of the route.  Sometimes
the line was lightly marked on the ceiling of the passageway, at other
times it was hidden on the underside of a rock.  A circle was used to
indicate a wrong turn in the route and a diagonal line meant danger.
Ryder pointed out to Mary that the way to the chamber hundreds of bats
called home was indeed marked with a diagonal line.

"How would I have known?"  she asked, staring at the faint marking in
the arch of the chamber's entrance.

"You wouldn't.  And no one else would either.  These signs were for Joe
Panama and later for me.  They're not supposed to mean anything to
anyone."  Ryder's fingertip traced a light diagonal path across Mary's
cheek.  When she looked at him questioningly, he said, "Because you're
the most dangerous thing in this place right now."  Then he took her
hand and pulled her along the passageway.

She was out of breath with excitement rather than exertion by the time
they reached their chamber.  As she took off Ryder's shirt, he placed
the lantern near their stone shelf-bed and lighted another one.

"I want to see you," he said.  Mary's eyes widened fractionally.  She
was flattered and a little frightened.

"You're too far away."  She realized that once he had released her hand
she hadn't moved.

She was still standing near the entrance to the chamber, hovering
actually, as if bolting down the passageway was still an option.

"Shy?"  he asked.  Mary had never been accused of it before.  She
regarded him narrowly, wondering if he was making fun of her.

"Come here, Mary."  She couldn't refuse him, not when he spoke in that
gentle, amused voice, not when the tone hinted at an urgency he didn't
show in any other way.  She responded to the way he held back, as if
denial was something to be savored before it was to be satisfied.  Mary
crossed the chamber floor.  She shimmered as she walked, he thought, as
if she were moving through a waterfall.

When she stopped in front of him, within arm's reach, the beaded fringe
swayed gently.  Her forest green eyes were large and luminous, the wide
centers of them like polished onyx.  Her face was raised to him, and
desire had made her watchful and a little wary.  As his hand threaded
in the silky strands of her hair, his fingers were washed with color.
His thumb brushed her cheek.  She closed her eyes and turned her face
into his palm, placing her lips lightly against the ball of his hand.
He felt that sweet touch ripple through him like a heat wave.  Leaning
forward he kissed her closed lids, then his mouth settled over hers. He
tasted her lips, learned the shape and texture of their soft
undersides, the way his tongue could raise a shiver from her when he
touched her just so.  Her mouth parted beneath his, her lips pliant and
eager.

She explored tentatively with her own tongue, meeting him, teasing in a
like manner.  Ryder leaned back against the stone shelf.  His splayed,
outstretched legs captured Mary between them.  She allowed herself to
be pulled closer and nestled against him.  The kiss deepened.  There
was heat now.  Hardness.  A sense of demanding that had been missing
before.  It seemed he was drawing on her air, forcing her to share his.
The intimacy of the kiss stunned her senses.  She felt as if she were
completely open to him, that she was giving him the right to know her
in a way no one had ever done before, that ultimately, and most
frighteningly, he would come to know things about her that were a
mystery to herself.  If he drew on her air he also drew on her heart.
Its steady thrum had quickened, and when his mouth touched the cord in
her neck she knew he could feel the wild pulse vibrate against his
lips.  Her throat arched when his mouth slipped to the base of it.  His
tongue tasted the hollow and he sipped her skin in the curve.  Mary's
fingers tangled in his thick hair, stroking, holding him to her.  Her
own sounds of pleasure rocked her as his hand caressed her breast.
Ryder placed his hands on Mary's waist as he slid off the stone bed. In
the same motion he lifted her and set her upon it.

Kneeling at her feet, he removed the soft buckskin moccasins.  His
palms caressed her skin from ankle to knee, sliding under the leather
skirt and parting the fringe.  She was warm and taut.

As he stood again his hands went higher, raising her skirt while he
moved beneath it to learn the shape of her thighs.  She watched his
face, then his hands, then his face again when his fingers slipped more
intimately between her thighs.  Her mouth parted.  A protest hovered. A
plea was formed.  Ryder heard none of it as his mouth covered hers. Now
Mary's pleasure was partly expressed by a humming sound at the back of
her throat as she returned the kiss in full measure.  Ryder cupped
Mary's bottom and pulled her to the edge of their bed.  Her thighs were
parted and when he leaned into her she cradled him naturally.  He
raised her pelvis for a moment, letting her feel his arousal between
her thighs, warming her to the shape and strength of a man; then he
eased back down and took the bottom of her shirt in his fingers and
lifted the garment over her head.  Mary's first instinct was to raise
her arms to cover herself.  It was the small, almost imperceptible shake 
of Ryder's head that gave her pause, and the warmth in his gray
eyes that stopped her.  

She could not look down at herself; but at seeing his admiring stare, her embarrassment slowly faded, replaced by an unfamiliar wash of pride 
and the realization that she liked being looked at as Ryder was looking 
at her now.  Her breasts were full, slightly swollen even before he cupped 
the undersides.  His thumbs passed tenderly over the coral tips and stiffened 
them to pebble hardness.  

His head bent and he touched her neck first, then the hollow
of her throat and the curve of her shoulder.  He forced anticipation on
her as his mouth went lower, skimming her skin until he reached the
curve of her breast.  Mary's back arched and Ryder accepted the
offering.  His lips closed over her nipple, laving the tip with his
tongue, drawing a response from her with the hot suck of his mouth.

Cords of heat traveled from her breast to her thighs.  It seemed sparks
had been struck in her fingertips and in her toes.  She could not get
close enough to him.  Her hands slid beneath his buckskin shirt.  His
skin was hot and smooth.  It retracted as her fingers explored.

His abdomen was taut, the muscles defined.  She traced the edge of his
rib cage with her knuckles.  Her fingers dipped just below the belt
that held his breechcloth in place.

Mary felt the loss keenly when Ryder pulled back.  Her small gasp
sounded loud to her own ears, as if it echoed in the chamber instead of
being caught in her throat.  Ryder's smile was wicked, and she knew he
understood and was even enjoying making her experience the pleasure and
then the absence of it.  His mouth brushed hers.

"All in good time."  The husky voice complimented his smile.  He pulled
up on the back of his shirt and removed it, tossing it behind him.

"Now you can touch me."  She wanted to, but it was with her eyes that
she first covered the breadth of his shoulders and the smooth expanse
of his chest.  She stared at the firm curve of his arms and the way his
waist tapered in clean, strong lines.  His nipples were already hard.
Mary placed her hand between them, covering the beating of his heart.
It raced on at the same frantic pace as her own.  She raised her eyes
to his.

The smile had vanished.  His features were calm, the silver eyes
implacable; yet there was the unmistakable stamp of desire as he
returned her stare.  Ryder slowly bent his head again and took Mary's
other breast in his mouth.  Her fingers clutched his arms at first,
then moved hungrily over his back and shoulders.  She felt herself
being eased backward against the stone bed.  Blankets twisted beneath
her as he removed her buckskin skirt.  He placed kisses on the
underside of her breast before he moved lower; down her rib cage and
across her flat belly.  Mary tensed.  Ryder raised himself up on the
bed and removed his moccasins and breechcloth.  He straddled her thighs
and leaned forarard, stretching like a predatory cat, sleek and
beautiful above her.  He caught Mary's wrists and held them lightly
just above her head.

Her slender frame was taut, the muscles rigid, and her struggle was
reactive, not intentional.  Her head was turned to the side, away from
him.

"Give me your mouth."  Mary lifted her face.  As Ryder claimed her
mouth pleasure coursed through her and she returned the kiss, their
shared pleasure increasing tenfold.  Her arms looped around his neck,
and her back arched.  Her breasts scraped his chest, the tender nipples
radiating sensation, and Mary moaned softly.  Ryder released her
wrists.  His hands caressed her arms, her shoulders.  They slipped
along her back and raised her hips.

His knee parted her thighs as he adjusted his position.  He watched her
face as he probed, watched the play of shadows on her features as she
gave herself up to him.  He was achingly hard for her, but his first
thrust was restrained.  Mary was biting her lip.  He held himself still
and waited.

"Ryder?"  She said his name softly, uncertainly.  It was almost his
undoing.  He raised her hips a little more and felt her body begin to
accommodate his.  He thrust into her hard as she yielded to him, and
this time she closed around him like a silk sheath.  Mary moved with
him now and the pleasure of it was almost beyond bearing.  Every
sensation was outside the realm of her experience; of her imagination.

Ryder leaned close to her as their bodies rocked in unison.  His breath
moved strands of her red-gold hair.  She could feel the moist heat of
it on her skin.  She liked the way his body pressed into hers, the way
she could accept him and hold him and keep him to her.  She liked the
way the pleasure kept building.  In some ways it was like being
underwater, sensation washing over her in waves.  The surface was
there, just out of her reach, but she knew it was there because of the
cascade of moonlight shimmering across it.  She swam toward it,
challenging the current, moving with it and through it with the sleek,
undulating curves of her body.  Mary twisted, stretching, and finally
cried out as she broke through, exhilarated as much by the journey as
the destination.  She sucked in great draughts of air as her muscles
contracted and her spirit was lifted.  She held Ryder close, felt his
thrusts become quick and shallow, heard the tempo of his breathing
change.  His features were taut, his skin pulled tightly across the
bones of his face.  His eyes closed at the moment of his final thrust.

He arched, his hard, lean body shivering with the force of his release.
He rested his face in the curve of Mary's neck and recovered his uneven
breath.  The warmth of him was comforting.  Mary raised a knee and
rubbed her leg slowly against his skin, aware of the inward curve of
his hard buttock, and the contrasting texture of his leg.

The sole of her foot lightly caressed his calf.  She was disappointed
when he withdrew from her and rolled away, even more bereft when he
left the bed altogether.  Mary watched him pad unselfconsciously to the
well of water in their chamber.  He hunkered down, dipped a basin into
it, took up a cloth, then rose and turned toward her.  She closed her
eyes as if she hadn't been watching him greedily all along.  His deep,
rolling laughter let her know she had been caught out.  Ryder sat on
the edge of their bed, set the basin down, and wrung out the cloth.
Mary was searching for a blanket to cover herself, but he stopped her
and applied the cloth instead to her thighs, wiping away the evidence
of her virginity, first from her, then from himself.  Mary was
mortified.  When Ryder finally removed the basin and returned to the
bed, she was wrapped tightly in a blanket, clinging to the last
remnants of her composure and wondering if she would ever recapture her
dignity.  Ryder tugged on the blanket but she held fast, refusing to
shed her cocoon.  He pulled a blanket loosely over himself and
stretched out beside her, propping himself on an elbow.

"It was my pleasure, you know," he said, bending to kiss her cheek.

"All of it."  Mary cast him an uncertain look out of the corner of her
eye.  He appeared to be quite sincere.

"I could have bathed myself.  I've been doing it for years."  Lantern
light flickered in Mary's hair.  Ryder's fingers grated the edge of her
short curls, brushing them back, twisting them around the tip.

"It was for me to cleanse the wound," he said.

"I was responsible for it."  It is all in the perception, she thought.
When he put that meaning to his actions it seemed to tilt her world
right again.

It was intended to be a kind, healing gesture, not an intrusion.

Mary's eyes softened, and she edged a little closer to him.  His
fingers felt good in her hair.  The way he played with the strands sent
a parade of warm feelings marching down her spine.

"I wish it were longer."

"It's as it should be," he said.

"And when it's twice this length it will still be as it should be." Did
she understand, he wondered, that her hair was perfection in his
eyes.

It rivaled silk in its texture and the dawn in its coloring.  Its
length neither lent it beauty nor took any away.  His fingers continued
to sift through the strands.

"Josanie admired your coloring."  A small vertical crease appeared
between Mary's feathered brows.

"Then it was all she admired," she said.

"She didn't appear to be pleased with your choice of a bride."  Ryder
did not deny it.

"Josanie holds you to different standards than I do."  Mary doubted
that Josanie was alone.  The welcome she was extended by the family
group was not without a hint of pity."

"What standards?"

"Chiricahua maidens usually marry before their eighteenth birthday.
There's no place in the society for unmarried people--the economics of
the band work against remaining single.

they're to be pitied."  That explained it, thought Mary.

"So I was much too old to take a husband."

"Something like that."

"You mean there's more?"  How else hadn't she measured up?  Ryder
couldn't help but grin at her indignation.

"Well, you didn't come with a bride price.  Your father didn't ask
anything for you, and I didn't offer.  A Chiricahua suitor showers his
intended bride's family with gifts.  Horses.  Goats.  Baskets of food.
Your father and mother left the camp empty-handed.  To Josanie and the
others it seemed that you were worthless because there was no
demand."

"Jay Mac is going to demand your head on a plate," she said tartly.

"That should satisfy Josanie."  Ryder's rueful smile flickered again as
he rubbed the back of his neck.  He could imagine the blade Jay Mac
Worth would use to do the job.  It wouldn't be sharp.

"What is Josanie to you?"  Mary asked with quiet, restrained curiosity.
She slipped her hand into Ryder's and rubbed her thumb across his
palm.

"I told you.  She's my father's wife.  Naiche took her in marriage when
his first wife, my mother, died.  Josanie was my mother's youngest
sister, and it was expected that Naiche would continue to care for the
family."  Mary remembered that the son-in-law was supposed to lift the
burdens of his wife's family.  Apparently it was a promise that
extended past her death.

"All my sisters are spoken for," she told him, half in jest, half in
earnest.

"In the event that something should happen to me and you feel obliged
to remarry in the family."

"I don't hold to all the customs."  Still, Mary was glad they were all
married.

"How is it that you call Naiche your father?"

"He adopted me."  Mary realized that all she knew about Ryder she could
write on the back of her hand.  She stared at him wonderingly.

"I was seven," he told her, offering for the first time without being
asked.

"Part of a wagon train crossing the Southwest with my father and mother
and my little sister.  We were headed for California where my father
had a new teaching post.  He'd been a professor of mathematics in
Cincinnati."  Mary recalled that Ryder had studied mathematics at West
Point.  Her eyes strayed to the books in the basket by the wing chair,
treasures, she realized now that had belonged to his family.  She
recalled the inscriptions written at the front of each book and put
names to the parents Ryder was describing.  His father was Jackson, his
mother Anne.

She could not recall anything with his sister's name.

"We covered half the distance, as far as Saint Louis by a more
conventional train," he continued.

"But at that point my parents decided joining a wagon party was more
practical and educational, so they signed on."  He paused.  The hand
that gripped Mary's was unconsciously tighter now.

"It was an adventure," he said very low.

"Right until the very end."  Compassion touched Mary's eyes and she
ignored the press of his fingers over hers.

"The Apache?"

"Yes, Apache.  But not what you think.  Not the Chiricahua.  A band of
the Southern Tonto attacked the train before we reached Phoenix.  My
mother and Molly were killed outright, but they used hot pitch on my
father to torture him, stripping his skin away in front of me."  Mary
blanched.  She could not close her eyes for fear the vision would
become all too clear.  Instead she concentrated on Ryder's face and
began to understand what he masked with his expression of determined
calm.  How could she say she did not want to hear more when he had
lived through it?

"I was abducted by the group along with two other boys a little older
than me.  One of them, Henry Parker, died shortly afterward when he
couldn't keep up with the band.  The Tonto killed him rather than
abandon him to the elements."  When he heard Mary suck in her breath,
he added, "To them it was a kindness."  It was on the tip of her tongue
to protest that Henry had been only a child, but who knew that better
than Ryder, by his own account an even younger child?

"I spent less than a week at the camp before it was raided by a band of
Chiricahua.  I saw my chance to escape and I took it.  I made certain
the Chiricahua got the horses and the other small treasures the Tonto
had taken from the wagon train, and I ran after them as they left camp.
They ignored me at first, but I wouldn't turn back so they couldn't."

"They admired your courage."  Ryder shook his head.

"It wasn't courage, I was running from the people who had murdered my
mother and sister and had tortured my father.  Hatred and fear kept me
running after the Chiricahua raiders, and when that wasn't enough
revenge kept me going."

"It always takes courage to leave," Mary said gently.

"Some people can't face the fear of the unknown; yet it's exactly what
you did.  No wonder the Chiricahua wanted you."

Her hand slipped from his and she stroked his forearm.

"What happened to the other boy?"

"Tommy O'Neil.  I never saw him again.  I assume he was assimilated
into the tribe in the same manner I was taken into the Chiricahua
fold."

"It's hard to know who adopted whom."  Ryder's small smile reflected a
more pleasant memory.

"Naiche and I have often had the same discussion."  An opening in
Mary's blanket appeared as she adjusted her position.  She didn't seem
to notice the split along her thigh, but Ryder did.  His eyes skimmed
the length of her white leg from hip to ankle.  She had the softest
skin just behind her knee.  He wondered what she would do if he turned
her over and kissed her there, if he let his mouth trail up the back of
her thigh, if he filled his palms with her lovely little bottom.

"How did you get to West Point?"  she asked.

"Or was that your uncle's doing?"

Mary imagined Senator Wilson Stillwell fit into the equation in some
fashion.

"He must be your mother's brother.  Did he--" Ryder shut her mouth with
a kiss.  His lips covered hers from corner to corner, teasing a
response from her.  Mary was breathless when he drew hack, her eyes
radiant.

"I won't always let you get away with that."

"But for now?"  He was hopeful.

"For now it was an inspired idea."  As Ryder bent over her again he
fleetingly wondered what had ever called Mary to the Church.

Then her arms came around him and she turned into him, opening her
chrysalis and enfolding him in her butterfly wings.  There was less
time for exploring now.  They both knew what they wanted.

Mary's skin was sensitive to the slightest brush of his fingers.

Her nipples stood erect when his mouth only hovered above her breasts.
When he kissed the backs of her knees she thought she would shatter.
Her touch was no less powerful on him.  Ryder felt her mouth draw on
the skin of his shoulder, then she nipped it with her teeth.  She
didn't merely mirror the things that had been done to her, she found
her own ways to please him.  She liked to run her hand along his narrow
hip, liked the heat of his skin beneath her palm and the way he drew in
his breath when she strayed close to his arousal.  Ryder was more
conscious of Mary's tenderness than she was.  Desire made her
insistent, and when he would have been gentle, she was greedy.  She
helped him this time, guiding his entry and lifting her hips to
accommodate his thrust.  She whispered his name and he could not refuse
her.  As Mary abandoned herself to pleasure, Ryder let her set the
pace.  He watched her savor each subtle sensation, closing her eyes and
sipping the air delicately as if too much would overwhelm her.  Her
body was warm and pliant, a supple wand beneath him.  They moved as
one, joined, hands clasped.  His dark hair slipped forward and shielded
his face from the light.  His profile was dark, predatory, and yet his
touch was adoring.  He held himself back as she rode the crest of her
climax alone and then he came into her, filling her deeply with his
pleasure and his seed.  Ryder lay back, replete.  It was Mary who
turned toward him.  She stretched out, her bent knee resting against
his thigh, her arm curved under her for support.  The air in the
chamber never changed from its standard seventy degrees, but it felt
cooler now on their sweat-slick bodies.  Mary drew up a single blanket
to cover them both.

"Are you going to sleep?"  she asked, watching him close his eyes.

"Mmmmm."

"I thought the Apache were admired for their stamina."  Ryder raised
one brow.

"I heard stories at Fort Union," she told him.

"About the scouts."

He still didn't look at her.

"Is that right?"  he asked dryly.

Mary ran her knuckle along Ryder's jawline.  There was a hint of
stubble there.  In the morning he would have to set out his razor and
shaving cup, a reminder that he was not a smooth-faced Apache at all
but a professor's son from Ohio.

"They say a warrior can cover fifty miles in a single day and is so
swift he can outrun a horse.  A man like that could probably stay awake
a little longer."

Now one of Ryder's eyes opened and he gave her a wary look.

"There's stamina and then there's stamina."  He closed his eye and
settled back, his features relaxing as though the conversation had
ended.  Mary opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of
it.  She watched him a while longer, studying his face in unguarded
repose.  Finally she placed her head in the crook of his shoulder and
an arm across his chest.  She slept deeply.  Leaving his drink
unattended on the mantel, Jay Mac paced the floor in front of the
fireplace.  Low flames made logs crackle there, keeping the chilly
night air at bay.  His hands were thrust in the pockets of his jacket,
and his head was bent.

"I can't believe there's not some sign of them."  Rennie placed a hand
over her husband's forearm.  It was both a supportive and cautionary
gesture.  Jay Mac had been saying words to the same effect for over an
hour, as if changing the inflection or rearranging the sentence would
bring about the reply he wanted.  Her father did not mean to be
accusing, but Rennie could understand that, after so many repetitions,
Jarret might begin to hear it that way.  Her husband had been a skilled
bounty hunter, tracking down criminals in the Colorado Rockies and east
of the Mississippi.  He was good at what he did, but it had been eight
years since he had earned his living that way.  Ryder McKay was
challenging Jarret's skills in a manner no wanted man had.  No one
Jarret had ever hunted understood so well how to hide a trail or
mislead the trackers.  The trail had been cold more than two weeks,
with no hint that it might turn hot again.  To make things even more
difficult, the territory was unfamiliar to Jarret.  He understood the
landscape of the Rockies.

The mountains and mesas of southeastern Arizona could have easily been
the hills and valleys of the moon.

"By all reports, including my own, he's very good at what he does,"
Jarret said.

"Ryder McKay is not a regular Army scout.  He's been used for years for
special, sensitive assignments.  The other scouts say that if he
doesn't want to be found, he won't be, and their words are being borne
out.  This is coming from men who take great pride in being able to
track anyone or anything."  He added with a touch of sarcasm, "They
weren't recruited by the Army because they're stupid."  Moira set her
teacup on the table.  Her voice, like everyone else's, was hushed. Fort
Union's quarters were not so private as they appeared.  Voices raised
in arguments or excitement could be overheard in the corridor beyond or
in the adjoining rooms.  Jay Mac and Moira had not reported their
abduction to the Army search party that found them.  They'd told
Lieutenant Davis Rivers and, later, General Gardner that they had
wandered away from the main line in search of a better route through
the foot hills and had lost their way.  They had been chastised for
their foolishness, and Jay Mac had had to bear it in silence, making
his stiff apologies sound sincere.

"What about that one ...... that Tonto person?"  Moira asked Jarret.

"I've heard there's no love lost between him and Mr.  McKay."

"You mean Rosario."  Rennie said.

"Yes, I've heard the same thing.  I really don't understand it, but it
seems the Apache are not so easily categorized as one nation.  The
Tonto are part of the Western Apache and they've no particular liking
for the Chiricahua."  She looked to her father.

"Perhaps if you were to hire him, offer a reward above what you've
already promised for Mary's return he would cover the ground again."
Jay Mac paused in his pacing and considered Rennie's suggestion.

"General Gardner just might release him to me," he said, thinking
aloud.  He glanced at Jarret.

"I'd like it better if you accompanied him.  Mary would be less
frightened if you were there when she's found."

"You're putting a lot of faith in Rosario," Jarret said.

"I don't particularly trust him I think his interest lies more in
bringing down Ryder McKay than in returning Mary safely.

Remember, most of the people here believe Mary helped McKay escape.

For that alone, Rosario may not care what happens to her."

Rennie took up her sister's cause.

"Mary had nothing to do with the escape."

"I didn't say she did," Jarret responded.

"Only that-" Moira's hands curved around her teacup.  She looked across
the table at Rennie and Jarret, then stole a glance at her husband.

She could tell he was thinking the same as she.

"Don't be too quick to defend your sister."  she said quietly.  The
words were even more painful to say aloud than they had been to
think.

"You didn't see her with him today."

"That ridiculous ceremony," Jay Mac muttered.  Moira ignored her
husband's comment.

"I don't think she would have returned with us if she had been given
the chance."  Rennie's eyes flew to her father's.  He was not objecting
to what Moira was saying.  That alone was telling.

"You mean she wanted to stay with him?  How can that he?"

"Oh, she didn't want to be parted from us," Moira said.

"At least not so soon.  It was clear that she was surprised to see us
and that being separated was an agony for her, but your father and I
had opportunity to see her before she saw us."  Moira's green eyes were
awash with tears.  She steadied herself to go on.

"And she was... radiant."  Jay Mac's eyes closed.  He rubbed the bridge
of his nose tiredly.  In his mind's eye he could see his Mary Francis
clearly, shimmering in her beaded dress, the colors of the sunset
glancing off her hair.  Her hand hadn't been captured by Ryder's at
that point.  She had held his of her own accord.

"Papa?"  Rennie asked.

"Is this right?  Do you think Mary's with him because she wants to be?"
Jay Mac came to stand behind Moira.  He placed his hands on her
shoulders.

"I don't know anymore," he said heavily.

"It makes it all the more imperative that we find her first.

General Gardner's reduced the size of the search parties, but he hasn't
given up.  Sooner or later McKay's luck will run out.  I think one of
us should be there when that happens."  In unison Jay Mac, Moira, and
Rennie looked to Jarret Sullivan.  Mary eased herself into the icy
spring.  The cold raised goose-flesh on her arms, and she sucked in her
breath.  There was really never any getting used to it.  She quickly
soaped her hair, working up a lather, then rinsed.  Droplets of water
were flung in an arc around her as she shook her head.

"You're like a puppy."  Mary's head snapped up and her eyes opened.
Ryder was looming above her on the stone edge of the spring.  He was
perfectly, splendidly naked.

The smile on his face was a trifle indulgent and a lot more wicked.

"I had a puppy once, you know."  He hunkered on the lip of the well.

"We left Copper behind in Cincinnati."

"Copper?"  she asked on a thread of sound.  Really, that wicked smile
did strange things to her stomach.

"An Irish Setter?"

"A bulldog," he said matter-of-factly.

"Molly named him."  He was grinning openly now, laughing at her.  He
raised his hands, half in surrender, half for protection as Mary
showered him with water.

"I didn't say you reminded me of that puppy!"  Mary wasn't placated.
She scooped another handful of water into her cupped hands and let it
fly.

There was nothing for it but that Ryder should join her in the spring.
He jumped in, sending a geyser of water into the air.

When he surfaced Mary was pressed to one edge of the spring hiding her
face behind her hands and laughing helplessly.  Pinning her to the edge
Ryder placed an arm on either side of her.  He bent his head so his
forehead touched hers and growled lowly at the back of his throat. Mary
stopped laughing.  That husky growl could start the butterflies in her
stomach as easily as his wicked smile.  She cast him a wary glance
through her splayed fingers.  His eyes were boring into hers, not
frosty now, but a slightly darker gray, more like molten silver than
melting snow.  She found she was wrong about the water.  One could do
better than get used to it.  One could learn to ignore it entirely.

As Ryder's mouth closed over hers it was what she was able to do.

In his arms she felt weightless.  He lifted her with ease, bringing her
body flush to his.  Her breasts were crushed against his slick skin,
and her legs wrapped naturally around his flanks.

They exchanged excited, hungry kisses.  He touched her temple with his
mouth, her closed eyes, and cheeks.  His teeth caught her earlobe and
he tickled the hollow behind her ear with his tongue.

She liked the texture of his skin beneath her lips, the sweet and salty
taste of him when she pressed her mouth to the taut line of his jaw and
the plane of his shoulder.  His hands roamed freely, exploring the
shape of her head, her face, her slender neck.  His palms and fingers
moved with a certain exactness, as if he would be held responsible for
recreating each angle and contour.  He learned the slant of her
shoulders and the gentle curve of her spine.  Her narrow waist fit
neatly between his hands while her bottom filled them.  Her long legs
fascinated him, curved as they were around his body, melding her to him
even before they were joined.  Mary let her fingers trip along the
length of his back.  His muscles bunched when she touched his
shoulders.  His ridged abdomen was flat against hers, and his arms held
her in a secure embrace.  She laid a line of kisses along his
collarbone and pressed her cheek against his skin.  He was stirring
between her thighs, and she learned that the shape of her own body
could be defined by the fit of him against her.  Ryder's fingers
slipped between their bodies.  His knuckles brushed her breasts and his
thumb passed back and forth over her raised nipples.  A flush of desire
crept under Mary's skin, suffusing it with color.  Her pelvis cradled
him tightly and she undulated against him slowly as he drew on all her
senses.

His hand went lower, this time to the juncture of her thighs, and he
pressed his palm against her mound sending a shudder through her.  Her
fingertips whitened on his flesh as his fingers stroked and probed.
Tongues of flame licked her skin.  She jerked against him as his
fingers dipped and entered.  He murmured against her ear.  The words
were unintelligible but the tone was gentling soothing, and in the end
he seemed to have possession of her will.

Mary's body obeyed his commands.  The intimate press of his fingers
made her limbs grow taut and her slender frame arch.  She threw her
head back and rivulets of water slid past her temples and her
shoulders.  She felt his eyes on her, gauging her restless response,
ready to push it to another level.  And when he did, Mary's fingers
unfolded as pleasure engulfed her.  Her mouth opened but she made no
cry.  Her entire body went rigid, still.  The tightness lasted only a
moment before she collapsed against him, sinking into the curve of his
embrace.

He stroked her damp hair as her heartbeat slowed.  Between her legs he
was still stiff and hard.  This time his satisfaction had not been
physical.  Mary's eyes were closed.  A little ashamed of the selfish
pleasure she had enjoyed, she couldn't look at Ryder.  She could feel
him against her, his arousal pulsing.  She would have taken him into
her, had wanted to, but he had denied himself.

"Why did you do that?"  she asked softly.  Even in his embrace the
water was chilly now.  She shivered lightly.  Ryder set Mary down
carefully and raised her chin with his forefinger.

"You're not ready to take me again.  Not so soon."  His thumb traced
the edge of her damp lower lip.

"But I did not want to deny you... or myself."  Mary wrested her chin
away from his light grip and looked down through the crystalline water.
Ryder made no attempt to shield his aroused state.

"I think you did deny yourself," she said.

"That's only because you're still an innocent."  She looked at him
oddly, not understanding.  Rather than ask him what he meant she
determined to find out for herself.  Looking around, she spied the slim
bar of soap she had used on her hair.  Mary picked it up, ignoring the
cloth that lay nearby.  She raised a bit of lather between her hands,
then she applied the soap and suds to Ryder's body.

"I don't think-" he began.

"You think too much," she interrupted gently.  Her hands worked deftly,
sliding the soap over Ryder's shoulders, massaging his chest and upper
arms with slippery lather.  Her fingers glided to his neck before she
circled around him and rubbed down his back.  His flesh rippled under
her touch and defined the hardness lying beneath his taut skin.  She
washed the base of his spine, finding the small dimples with her index
finger.  She soaped his hard buttocks and the backs of his thighs, then
returned to his back, slipping her palms along his tapered waist and
narrow hips.  Mary slipped her arms around him from behind, resting her
forehead against his back.  Her soapy fingers traced the ridges of his
rib cage and rubbed lather across his abdomen.  Her hands went lower to
the arrow of hair below his navel.  That was when she dropped the soap.
And the pretense.

Made buoyant by the water, Mary slipped around Ryder again, her entire
body rubbing smoothly against his.  Her hands went below the surface of
the water and grasped him.  She could feel the coursing of the blood
that was making him hot and hard beneath her fingers.

Ryder's hand closed over Mary's and he showed her how to take him.

She discovered that by giving this pleasure she had denied herself
nothing.

"You were right," she said quietly when he set her outside the pool.
She picked up a thin cotton quilt and began drying herself.  Ryder
hoisted himself out of the spring and steadied himself.  Water dripped
on the stones in a slowing staccato rhythm.  He had a little less
strength coming out than he had had going in.  There was no chance that
he was going to forget that dip in the spring anytime soon.

"About what?"  he asked.

"That I was an innocent."  Though Mary wasn't looking at him, he
couldn't miss her smug smile.

"Just a little full of yourself, aren't you?"  he asked dryly.

"Pride is my worst fault.  Sister Benedict always said so."  Ryder
dried himself off briskly, hitched the damp blanket around his hips,
then pulled Mary to her feet.  She dragged the cotton quilt around her,
tucking the ends neatly between her breasts.  Ryder turned her toward
their bed and gave her a pat on the bottom, urging her forward.

"How is it that you ever became a nun?"  he asked.  Mary stiffened at
the question.  She slowly pushed herself onto their stone shelf bed.

"You say that as if you think I shouldn't have.  It's not very
complimentary."

"I only meant-" She held up her hand, stopping him.

"I don't want to hear it.  You think because I respond to you so
completely I was somehow unsuited for convent life.  If I carry your
reasoning a little farther it's natural to conclude I should have
become a whore at seventeen instead of a bride of Christ."  One of
Ryder's brows kicked up.

"I was trying to--" Mary's full mouth flattened mutinously, and if it
had not been so predictably childish, she would have clapped her hands
over her ears.

"I'm hungry."  Ryder hesitated.  He had no liking for their argument
and even less for the misunderstanding.  However, it seemed that Mary
had closed the discussion.

"Very well," he said after a moment.  He turned and went to their
larder, opening tins of meat and vegetables.  Realizing he was hungry
as well, Ryder set out the portion on two plates.  He handed one to
Mary, but didn't join her on the bed.  He sat in the wing chair, his
long legs stretched negligently in front of him.  She pushed the cold
food around her plate.  Hunger had been a diversion, not a need.  She
tried to think of some way to make amends for her sharpness.  She had
never been very good at saying she was sorry.  She lamented that pride,
indeed, was her worst fault.

"I can't talk about it," she said at last.

"It's too.."  She struggled for the word.

"Too personal."  Ryder nodded, saying nothing.

"You'd have to know my parents better, particularly my mother."  She
sighed.

"I'm just not ready."  She sighed again.  This time her eyes were
apologetic as she shrugged uncertainly.

"I'm sorry."  Ryder couldn't pinpoint the precise thing her regret was
supposed to cover, but he accepted it.

"Eat up," he said gently.  Mary tucked into her food.

"Tell me about our ceremony in the clearing," she said around a
mouthful of peas.

"Why did we stand in the water?"

"The Apache trace their origin to the Child of the Water.  We were
united with that blessing and the acknowledgment of both families."

"It's very symbolic, then."  She liked that.  Her life in the Church
had been full of symbols and ritual.

"Although I'm not certain my father actually acknowledged us.  It's not
as though he gave me away."

"His presence was enough."  She ate more, thoughtful now.

"You realize I don't consider us really married."

He nodded.

"It seemed like a good compromise."  Mary barely heard him.

"I mean, it's more of an arrangement, isn't it, instead of a
marriage?"

"If that's the way you want to think about it."

"It won't require an annulment or a divorce."

"Not a church annulment," he said.

"And not a lawyer's divorce."  Ryder set his empty plate aside and
regarded Mary steadily.  An edge of frost had returned to his lightly
colored eyes.

"You only have to pack my things and put them outside the entrance to
our home."  He spread his hands to indicate their chamber and
shrugged.

"That's all.  If you find me lazy or unwilling to provide for you, if
we're incompatible, if we bicker too often, or if I'm uncommonly
jealous--all of these things can end it."  His eyes darkened a
fraction.

"As can infidelity."

Returning his stare, Mary swallowed hard.  It was almost as if he was
warning her.

"Well, yes," she said, bemused.

"Of course.

Infidelity."  His smile was not a smile at all.  The watchful predator
had returned.

"Just so we understand each other."  He rose from the wing chair and
rinsed off his plate in the pool.  The underground current swept the
debris away.

"Are you finished?"  he asked Mary, looking at the half-eaten remains.
She nodded, handing them over.

"I suppose I wasn't as hungry as I thought I was."  Ryder put the
uneaten portion back in a tin to be used later in the day.  He rinsed
Mary's plate and the utensils, put them away, then got out his maps
from the chest.  He brought them over to the bed and unrolled them,
flattening them with the side of his hand.  Mary yawned.  She had no
idea if it was day or night outside of the cavern or if she had slept
hours after their last lovemaking or only a few minutes.

"You can go to sleep," he said.

"I won't disturb you."  He began to pick up the maps, but Mary stopped
him.  She was tired, it was true, but she was also strangely reluctant
to go to sleep.  His mood had cast a pall over her.  All the talk of
marriage and divorce... it was unsettling.

"I don't mind if you look at them here," she said.  She brought down
the lighted lantern from another shelf and placed it beside her.  Ryder
laid out the maps again.

"Perhaps I could help you," she offered.

"You're welcome to look on."  It wasn't an enthusiastic invitation, but
neither had he said her help wouldn't amount to much.  Mary knelt on
her knees and elbows and surveyed the topographical map closely.  Ryder
remained leaning against the high stone bed, his eyes occasionally
drifting from the contours at his fingertips to the ones Mary was
unwittingly presenting to him.

"You may want to tuck that blanket a little more firmly," he said.

Under his breath he added, "Before I forget which mountain range I'm
studying."

"Hmm?"  Mary murmured, glancing up at him.  He pointed to his own
chest.

"Your blanket."  Mary looked down at herself.  She was practically
spilling out over the top.

"Oh... thank you."  She adjusted it without embarrassment and resumed
her inspection of the uppermost map.  Ryder shook his head, wondering
what to make of her.  With her head bent he couldn't see the small,
satisfied smile that lifted her mouth.

"I assume these maps have something to do with the gold from Colter
Canyon," she said.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Do you mean, do I know where it is because I have first-hand
knowledge, or do I have suspicions?"

"Suspicions, of course," she said, raising her eyes to his.

"I

don't think you had anything to do with the raid."

"I was there."

"I know.  I heard that.  My brother-in-law told me."

"I see," Ryder said.

"What else did you learn?"

"Not much.  There wasn't time.  I wasn't in the fort very long before
you took me away."

"Then you don't know about Miss Hamilton?"  A chill crept down Mary's
spine.  She brushed back a tendril of hair that had fallen over her
forehead.  Her forest green eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"No, I've never heard the name."  With a sense of foreboding she asked,
"Who is she?  Your fiancee?"  Ryder was watching Mary closely, gauging
her reaction.

"Anna Leigh Hamilton."  It was difficult to maintain an indifferent
profile when he had to say her name.

"Senator Warren Hamilton's daughter.  The woman who says that while the
Chiricahua were attacking the wagons in Colter Canyon, I was raping
her."

Chapter Ten

It wasn't shock that touched Mary's features, but curiosity.  She
looked at Ryder and asked frankly, "Why would she do that?"  Ryder's
eyes mirrored nothing of what he was thinking.

"Aren't you going to ask if it's true?  Don't you want to know if I
raped Anna Leigh?"  Mary's brow furrowed.

"Why would I ask that?  I can't imagine you even thinking about raping
her."

"Then you're the only one," he said without rancor.

"Miss Hamilton was very effective in telling her story."  A short
red-gold strand of hair had fallen over Mary's forehead.  She blew it
out of the way.

"I'm sure she was.  But I have another experience with you that makes
it difficult to believe you would act in any dishonorable way."  Her
gaze dropped back to the map, and she pretended to study it.

"I haven't forgotten the night we spent outside a watering hole in the
Hudson Valley.  You held me, comforted me, and quite against your will,
I think, your body responded to mine."

"It wasn't against my will," he said softly.

"I wanted you that night.  I had wanted you that morning."

Mary's fingers stopped tracing map lines as a fris son of heat tripped
down her spine.  She closed her eyes and said words she had never
spoken aloud before, words that she had struggled not to put together
even silently in her own mind.

"And you never acted on it.  Not that morning when I would have fought
you... and not that evening when I would have given you anything you
wanted."  Ryder had to strain to hear her last whispered words.  It was
no admission she was giving him, but her confession.

"Oh, Mary," he said quietly.  He took her wrists and pulled her toward
him.  The maps twisted and curled beneath her, but Ryder didn't care.
When she was at the edge of the bed he lifted her down but never let
her leave his embrace.  She rested her head against his shoulder.

Tears pressed at the back of her closed lids.

"It's not the reason I left the Church," she said on a thread of
sound.

"I was already struggling... questioning... If you hadn't been there
that night the outcome would have been the same."  He stroked her hair,
resting his chin against the crown of her head.  Pain shuddered through
her and Ryder felt the vibration against his skin.  Mary's voice was
choked now.  She had to work words past the hard, aching lump at the
back of her throat.

"Sometimes... sometimes I think God sent you to me... to help me
surrender.  I was fighting His wishes... ignoring what He was telling
me so I wouldn't .."  Her tears touched his chest, slipping along the
outline of her cheek.

Ryder didn't probe or press.  He waited.

"So I wouldn't disappoint .. . my mother."  Her eyes were squeezed
tightly shut, but tears still ran freely from them and her breath came
in small, pained gasps.  Sagging against Ryder, Mary cried until she
exhausted herself.  Ryder pushed the maps aside and lifted her back on
the bed.  This time he joined her, stretching out beside her, his arm
placed familiarly around her waist.  An extra blanket warded off the
chill.  He wiped her eyes with the corner of it.

Mary gave him a watery, embarrassed smile.

"I don't know what happened," she said.

"I didn't expect to say those things."

"I know."

"We were talking about you... I shouldn't have--" "Shhh," he
whispered.

"It's good.  It's healing."  Mary closed her eyes.  He was right.  Her
heart was lighter now, her head clearer.  Ryder's body was warm at her
back, and the arm around her was exactly as it should be.  She was
asleep before she realized it was going to happen.  Ryder woke from a
dead sleep and sat upright.  A chill covered his body, and beads of
perspiration touched his brow.  He was hot and cold at once, and the
premonition of danger wouldn't leave him.  He could no longer tap the
dream that had pulled him to consciousness, but emotion--fear and pain
and loss lingered.  Something forgotten, he thought.  Something left
behind.  Mary was sleeping quietly beside him, undisturbed by his
nightmare.  The evidence of her tears and exhaustion was in her
slightly swollen lids and in the shadows beneath her lashes.  She was
breathing softly now, easily, the serenity of her expression so
markedly beautiful that Ryder knew a measure of peace merely looking
upon her.  The unsettled feeling persisted, however, and he had learned
at the knee of Naiche not to ignore that feeling.

He moved to the edge of the bed and swung his legs over the side.

Fiddling with the lantern, he increased the light so most of the
chamber was visible to him from where he sat.  There was nothing out of
place, nothing different than it had been, yet the sensation of danger
would not be put to rest.  Ryder got up and put the lantern aside.
There was no terror for him in the darkness, but he lighted all the
other lanterns anyway.  The only shadows in the chamber were the ones
he created as he moved from place to place seeking out the thing that
disturbed him.  In the end he had to admit to himself it was only
foolishness.  It had been nothing but the cold tentacles of a forgotten
dream.  He looked over his shoulder at Mary.  Let her sleep, he
thought, but for him it was time to make a new day of it.  He would
dress and... It came to him then, like a physical blow.  The sensation
of danger tightened Ryder's abdomen and prepared him to receive it. The
force of it was all in his mind, and it still had the power to make him
recoil.  He spun around, searching for the clothes he had bundled and
carried on the journey back from the clearing.  His eyes went to every
level of the chamber.  He could remember picking the garments up after
they had left the camp and returned to the clearing.  He had even given
Mary his shirt for warmth.  His gaze settled on the flannel shirt lying
on the floor beside their bed.

Ryder closed his eyes, trying to visualize what had happened to the
other things.  He could almost feel the weight of them in his hand, the
way he had shifted the bundle from one hand to another as he'd helped
Mary along the rocky path.  How was it that he held it at one moment
and forgotten it in the next?

Ryder's eyes opened and Mary filled his vision.  Of course he had
forgotten.  Mary had filled his senses.  Ryder moved to the bed and
laid his hand on Mary's shoulder.  As if she could sense urgency in his
light touch, she came awake almost instantly.  Her eyes flew to his
face.

"What is it?"

"I have to leave.  I wanted you to know I'll be gone--"

"What?  What do you mean you--" He gave her shoulder a squeeze and said
calmly, "I'll be gone longer than usual."  Mary sat up as Ryder began
to dress.  Feeling a little dazed by the abrupt wakening, she watched
him put on the buckskin shirt, breechcloth, and moccasins he had worn
in their wedding ceremony.

"You don't usually tell me when you're leaving," she said.  This was
different, she thought.  Something was wrong.

"Things are different now.  I thought you'd want to know."

"Why leave at all?"  A small vertical crease appeared between her
brows.

She hitched the quilt around her breasts as she came to her feet.

"There can't be anything imp or-" Ryder stopped her by gripping her
shoulders.

"I left our clothes on the trail," he said.

"I had them in my hand.  You and I were arguing... I kissed you... I
think I dropped them then.  I can't remember having them after that."
Mary understood.

"Of course, you have to get them."

All the work he had done to cover their trail was undone by a moment's
inattention.  She searched his face wondering if he blamed her or
himself.

"This isn't about blame."  he said, answering the question she hadn't
had to ask.

"It's about responsibility.  I was supposed to be responsible."

"Can I help?  Is there something I can do?"

"It's for me to fix," he said.

"And I can travel more quickly alone."  Mary held onto those words. She
could not remember time in the chamber ever passing so slowly.  She had
no way of knowing if Ryder had faced sunshine or star shine when he
reached the mouth of the cavern or which would have helped him more in
accomplishing his task.  In her mind, she allotted time for him to
search for the clothes, time for him to cover his trail.  She made
allowances for the climate and still more for his caution.

She tried to read, but thought instead of all the things that could go
wrong.  What if the clothes had already been found?  Animals might have
scattered them.  Soldiers could pick up the trail miles from where they
had been searching, and their success in finding Ryder would be a
tribute to coincidence and luck.  It occurred to her that someone else
might find the clothes.

A prospector perhaps.  An Army scout.  A bounty hunter.  Jarret
Sullivan.  It was senseless now to wish she had warned Ryder.

She had hugged the secret of her brother-in-law's bounty hunting to
herself.  In the beginning she had not wanted Ryder to take any extra
precautions or set any traps.  He was so certain his hideaway couldn't
be found that she had kept the secret to serve him his comeuppance.
When had the desire to teach him a lesson gone?  If Jarret had ever
stopped looking for her it was a certainty he had taken up the search
again.  That would be the consequence of Ryder including Jay Mac and
Moira in the wedding ceremony.  Jarret would find whatever remained of
the Chiricahua camp and from there--Mary dropped her book, startled as
one of the lanterns flickered, then was extinguished.  She stared at
it.  How long did one of them stay lit before the oil was used?  Six
hours?  A little longer?

Perhaps it hadn't been completely filled.  But she had done the filling
herself and this lantern had only been burning since Ryder had wakened.
If he could really travel faster on his own why had he already been
gone six hours?  Mary's book slid from her lap to the floor as she
stood.  It lay there unnoticed as Mary considered her options.  She
could wait--Ryder would want her to do that--or she could search for
him.  It was what she wanted to do.  She compromised, deciding she
could wait at the mouth of the cavern.

Armed with the knowledge of how to read the signs in the passages, Mary
was confident that she could make it to the entrance safely.

It would pass the time.  Perhaps, she thought, she would even meet him
along the way.  Mary refilled the empty lantern with oil and lighted
it.  Wearing a pair of Ryder's trousers, one of his shirts, and the
moccasins he had given her, Mary hefted the lantern and began her
journey to the mouth of the cavern.  She took her time, stopping to
examine the signs carefully at every juncture.  With each pause she
found herself imagining that Ryder was closer.  She half expected to
look up and find him standing in a stone archway and watching her study
his peculiar hieroglyphs.  He never was.

At some junctures the signs were harder to locate.  Mary had good cause
to wonder at her wisdom in making the journey.  She regretted not
bringing beans with her again in the event she got lost, but she was of
no mind to turn around.  On two separate occasions she took passages
that would not have been her first choice if it hadn't been for the
markings.  At least once she was forced to choose a route that was not
clearly marked at all.  Relief washed over her when she stumbled into
the wide, yawning entrance of the cavern.  Weak-kneed, she sat on a
smooth slab of stone until her heart quieted in her chest and she could
laugh at her own foolishness.  Mary picked her way over the boulders
and across the small stream to reach the opening.  Putting the lantern
out, she set it down and walked outside long enough to take her measure
of the sun's height.  Her very rough calculation was that it was late
afternoon.  That meant Ryder had had to make all of his journey in
daylight.  She sat down again, worry replacing relief that she had come
so far with no sign of Ryder.  He had told her he would be gone longer
than usual, and she tried to keep that in her mind.  It was difficult
to do with no timepiece to make a comparison.  It seemed to her that he
had never been gone even half so long before.

Or was it merely that she hadn't cared so much?  Over the next few
hours Mary ventured out of the cavern on five occasions.  Although she
strayed farther each time she was always aware of the foolishness of
her venture.  It was as Ryder had always warned her--there was simply
nowhere for her to go.  The realization that she couldn't do anything
for him only made her feel more helpless.

After the sun set Mary stayed put.  Wind eddied through the cavern's
mouth and raised odd sighs and whistling moans among the rocks.  The
sound raised the hair on the back of her neck, and she remembered there
were chambers here that had been used for a burial ground.  When the
pitch of the wind died she was surrounded by silence.  It was more
eerie in its own way than the moaning.

Mary's hand strayed to her side to finger the rosary that was no longer
there.  The wind picked up again, blowing life into the cavern.  Mary
bowed her head and prayed for all the lost souls, Ryder among them. Her
voice came to Ryder on the back of the wind.  He stood just inside the
entrance and leaned heavily against the stone archway.  She wasn't
visible to him, but her voice was the sweetest music.  She thought she
had imagined it at first, that it was only the wind playing tricks on
her.  But then it came again and Mary knew--she knew her prayers had
been answered.  Her eyes flew open and her head snapped up and she
searched the yawning entrance for the dark silhouette that was no part
of the landscape.

"Ryder!"  She was on her feet when she saw him, running to his side. He
was almost toppled by the force of her arms around him.  His greeting
was a groan.  Mary stepped back instantly, her eyes trying to pierce
the darkness to search his face.

"What is it?"  she demanded.

"You've been hurt, haven't you?"

"It's not so bad."  Fear made her voice sharp.

"I suppose you think that's an answer to my question.  You should have
said, "Yes."  I'll be the one to determine how bad it is."

"Be careful.  You're beginning to sound like a wife."  He sucked in the
beginnings of a laugh as pain shot through him.  Ryder clutched his
side to limit the agony to as small a place as possible.  Mary stopped
her gentle search.

"Let me light a lantern," she said.

"I can't do you any good in the dark.  I may even hurt you."  Ryder missed
her hands immediately.

"What are you doing here anyway?

You should be back in the chamber."  Mary struck the flint.  White
light nicely illuminated the sour look she gave him.  For good measure
it was accompanied by an unladylike snort.  His smile was lopsided.

"Point taken," he said dryly.  Mary raised the lantern.

"Oh, God," she whispered.  Ryder's face was ashen and lines of strain
were clearly etched at the corners of his mouth and eyes.

Dried blood covered his fingers and streaked the front of his
breechcloth.  The wound that was the source of the blood ran in an
ugly, jagged line for most of the length of Ryder's left thigh.  He had
torn part of the breechcloth to make a bandage, but it was inadequate
for the task.  Some of the buckskin had dried to the wound while
elsewhere blood continued to drip.  She looked at the way Ryder was
still holding his ribs.

"Broken?"  she asked.  He nodded.

"Two, I think."  Her eyes dropped to his feet.  The bundle of clothing
he had gone out for was lying there.  Ryder followed her gaze.

"I brought back the prize."  Mary didn't comment.  She couldn't help
but wonder at the cost.

"Let me fix a bandage for you now."  He shook his head.

"I'll bleed more if you lift the bandage I've made.  I want to get out
of this area.  We're too vulnerable."

"Were you followed?"

"No, but I won't be so difficult to track."

She understood.  He hadn't been able to cover the route he had taken.
Somewhere beyond the cavern there was enough of Ryder's blood for the
trail to be picked up again.  Mary wouldn't let herself think about
that now.  Ryder wasn't nearly as strong as he was pretending to be.

"I need to get you back to the chamber where I can look after you
properly," she said.

"Should I support you or would it be less painful for you to walk
unassisted?"

"I can go alone," he said.

"You carry the clothing and the light.  Don't forget to bring my
lantern."  Mary led the way as Ryder hobbled behind her.  It was
difficult to keep her pace as slow as his.  His normal stride would
have swallowed hers; now it was only a third as long.  She asked no
questions, not wanting to tax his strength any further.  Halfway to the
chamber it seemed that Ryder's face was the same pale shade of gray as
his eyes.  A hundred yards from their chamber's entrance Mary had to
present her shoulder and arm for his support whether it pained him or
not.  Leaving one lantern and the clothes bundle behind, Mary managed
to get Ryder to the bed.  She realized how much he had girded himself
for that effort.

Once he was lifted onto the edge of the rock shelf, he collapsed.

Mary's work began at that moment.  She made Ryder as comfortable as
possible, rearranging the blankets under him and folding another for a
pillow.  At the well she filled the basin and dipped several cloths
into the cold water.  Laying it all aside for a moment, Mary raided the
trunk for material that would make the best bandage.

She settled on her own chemise, tearing it into long strips.  She
rifled the saddlebag that Florence Gardner had packed and found a flask
of alcohol, the bottle of liniment, and a small sewing kit.

Ryder's eyes were closed when Mary returned to the bed and his
breathing was shallow.  She removed his bandana and put the back of her
hand to his cheek.  His skin was cold and clammy.  She touched his lips
lightly with her fingertips and began to work.  The jagged wound on his
thigh required her first attention.  There were other scratches and
cuts, but none so deep as to call for stitching the way this longest
one did.  Little Sisters of the Poor had served the hospital in Queens
for years.  Mary was no stranger to nursing.  She had been called upon
to cleanse wounds and stitch them before, and she had always done it
with a glad heart.  It wasn't the same now.  Her hands were shaking.
She pushed Ryder's breechcloth free of his thigh and began removing the
dried-on bandage.  The wound bled again, but she had learned from
doctors that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; infection could be washed
away by the blood.  Mary carefully laid back the torn flesh and used
Ryder's knife to cut away the dead and shredded tissue.  She cleaned
the wound first with soap, then inspected it.  There were embedded bits
of gravel that had to be painstakingly removed.  When Mary had removed
as many of them as she could hope to get, she cleaned the wound again,
then liberally showered it with alcohol.

Ryder had been stoic until that point, centering his mind on something
other than the pain.  With the introduction of the alcohol, he
fainted.

"Thank you, God," Mary whispered.  It was beyond her how he could have
withstood so much in the first place.

She glanced at his face and saw the release of tension in his features.
With his final collapse, she noticed that her hands were no longer
shaking.  Mary bent to her task, working quickly before Ryder regained
consciousness.  She threaded the needle deftly, wishing only that she
had one curved for sutures.

"Oh, Maggie," she said softly, "what I wouldn't give for even a tenth
of your skill."  But her physician sister couldn't aid her now, so Mary
set to work.  She sutured the underlying tissue first with the
alcohol-soaked thread.  The wound took sixty stitches before she was
ready to close the skin over it.  Ryder came awake as she was finishing
the last of the skin sutures.  He watched her cut off the thread and
study her work with a critical eye.

"Well?"  he asked hoarsely.  The white lines were at the corners of his
mouth again.

"Mama said that needlepoint was never my strong suit," she said.

"But I think she'd change her mind if she saw this."

"It didn't have to be pretty," he said.  Mary laid one hand over his
forehead, brushing back his thick hair where it clung to his skin.

She smiled down at him.

"Oh, it's not," she told him.

"But it's good."

"That's all right, then."  He closed his eyes.  Mary's fingers were
warm where they stroked his cheek.  He wanted to reach for her hand,
but his arm fell uselessly back to his side.  She bent and kissed his
cool cheek.  Her hand found his.  Tears welled in her eyes as she felt
him squeeze it.  In other circumstances she would have called the
gesture gentle.  She recognized it now as weak.

"Rest," she said softly.  Then she sat by his side while he did just
that.

"You should eat something," Mary told him.  She raised a spoon of
vegetables to Ryder's lips.  He took a bite, chewed, then laid his head
back down.

"It's enough," he said tiredly.

"But--"

"It's enough."

"Very well."  Mary gave in because she couldn't force the issue.  Ryder
wasn't regaining his strength with the speed Mary had hoped for.  He
slept in fits and starts, the pain of his broken ribs giving him little
relief when he unwittingly turned on his side.  What measure of comfort
he could derive from sleep was erased soon upon waking.  The scar on
his thigh was puffy and red where it curved near his knee, and Mary was
afraid she was seeing the first signs of infection.  She took away the
food, rinsed the plate, then sat down in the rocker.  She spent what
passed for her nights in that chair, moving it closer to the bed so she
would hear Ryder each time he woke.

"Would you like me to read to you?"  she asked.

"Then let me bathe you.  It will ease the heat in your skin."  Her
hands all over his body?  Ease the heat?  Not likely.

"No."

"As you wish."  Once again she acquiesced with a grace that would have
astonished her family or the Little Sisters.

"I know what you're doing," he said.

"Oh?"

She didn't bother looking in his direction, pretending no interest as
she unrolled his maps.

"You're giving in."  One of Mary's brows shot up.  She raised her face
and speared Ryder with a level look.

"Not fighting is not always the same as giving in."

Groaning softly, Ryder closed his eyes.  That meant she was biding her
time.  Probably had plans to force-feed him while he was unconscious
and bathe him while he slept.  He turned gingerly over on his side,
determined to stay awake as long as possible.

"What are you doing with those?"

"Looking for gold."  she said.

"Same as you were."

"You don't know where to look."  She shrugged and bent to her task
again.

"I found Colter Canyon marked on this first map, and I've been able to
match the elevation markers and topographical features to the second
map.  It's really just a closer view, isn't it?  I suppose it
intentionally wasn't marked as Colter Canyon to make it less useful to
someone who stumbled upon it."

"Like you."  She ignored his sarcasm and said patiently, "No, not like
me.  Like another prospector.  That is who drew this map, isn't it?
Your prospector friend?"  Ryder's brows raised a fraction.  He nodded
his head slowly.

"Your amazement is not flattering.  I know how to read a map, and I can
put two and two together for the correct sum as well as anyone else."
At least he'd gotten a bit of a rise out of her.

"Yes, you're right.  Joe Panama drew the map.  He explored most of this
area at one time or another.  He was convinced there was a mother lode
of silver in these parts."  Mary could hear the strain in Ryder's
voice, the small breaths between sentences that signaled he was tiring.
She thought of cautioning him, but decided against it.  Showing concern
for his strength was a sure means of raising his ire.

"Did he ever discover it?"  she asked.  Perhaps she could simply
exhaust him with questions.  Ryder shook his head.

"Not that he ever told me."

"He's dead?"

"A few years ago.  He killed himself not far from here after a fall
broke his back."  Mary's features softened compassionately.

"You found him?"

"No," he said, watching her closely.

"I was with him."  Her eyes widened.

"And you let him kill himself?"

"I let him end his suffering," he said' "because I couldn't end it for
him."

"He asked you to?"

"Of course."  He saw Mary's brows draw together as she struggled with
this information.

"Measuring one sin against the other?"  he asked.

"Was letting Joe pull the trigger any different than pulling it myself?
What if I told you that he didn't carry a gun?"  He saw her brows lift
fractionally.

"That's right.  I gave him mine."

Something of the sorrow Mary felt in her heart touched her eyes.

"I'm not a saint," Ryder said.

"I never mistook you for one."

"If you're cataloging my sins, I have some more I-"

"I'm not judging you," she said quietly.

"I was only thinking how it must have pained you to make such a
difficult choice.  I know what the Church teaches, but I can't help
wonder how I might have decided in the same circumstances."

"You may find out," he said gravely.  At first she didn't take his
meaning.  Her features went from blank to horrified as she saw him tap
his wounded leg lightly.

"What are you saying?  You want me to shoot you?"

"Not just this minute."

"Don't make light of this," she said angrily.

Mary's mouth flattened and her tone became sharper.

"Or me.  I find nothing about it remotely humorous."

"I recall that not so long ago you held a Henry rifle to my chest and
claimed you were willing to use it."  Mary did not appreciate being
reminded.

"That was different," she snapped.

"What was different was that I was in good health then.  Now that I'm
likely to die, you're not willing to help me along.  You have a
confusing sense of morality."

"It would have been a grievous sin if I had killed you then.  It would
be an equally grievous one if I did it now."

"So you're saying it really wouldn't have been different at all," he
said thoughtfully.

"You're very quick to change your opinion."  He saw her face flush and
her eyes flash.

"You look as if you're giving my request more serious consideration.
Perhaps the key to getting what I want is to goad you into it."  Mary
bent her head and stared at the map.  The lines ran together and place
names blurred.

A fat, heavy tear slipped past her lowered lashes and splattered on the
paper.

"Mary?"  She shook her head, not trusting herself to say anything and
not wanting him to speak.  Ryder forced himself to sit up, wincing as
he slid his legs over the side of the stone bed.  He was glad she
hadn't looked up, glad that she couldn't see the pain in his
expression.  She would think it was all because of his leg, and she
would have been wrong.  He hadn't meant to make her cry.

"No more tears on my account, Mary," he said.

"I don't want-" She sucked in a sob and pressed the back of her hand to
her mouth.  Ryder managed to push himself off the bed.  Relying heavily
on his uninjured leg, he hobbled toward where Mary sat on the floor. He
nudged aside the maps with the toe of his foot, putting himself in her
line of vision.

"Go back to bed."  she said hoarsely.

"There was no reason for you to get up."

"There was every reason.  She raised her head.

"You're a horrible man."

She said it as if she meant it, and Ryder had no doubt that in that
moment she did.

"Worse than horrible," he said.

"Don't patronize me."

"I was agreeing with you."  He held out his hand to her.

"Take it, Mary, or I swear I'll get down on my knees beside you."

That threat had her slipping her hand into his.  Ryder drew her to her
feet.  She was stiff and unyielding when he pulled her into the circle
of his arms, but he held out, keeping her close in a loose embrace
until she relaxed against him.

"You're not going to die," she whispered.  Mary's tears dampened his
shirt.

"You're not."

Ryder said nothing.  It was a certainty that his life wouldn't end by
her hand or with her cooperation.  He regretted that he had let her
think, for even a moment, he might ask it of her.  She was going to
fight for him, and in the end, if her ministrations and her prayers
weren't enough, he would do what he had to without any help from her.
Mary knuckled her tears aside as she felt Ryder's weight shift toward
her.  It was harder to know who was holding whom now.  Slipping her
shoulder under his arm, Mary aided him back to the bed.  His face was
pale, and parenthetical lines of pain creased the corners of his mouth.
He didn't argue when she rearranged the blankets over him and examined
his leg.  The swelling and redness had spread.  Ryder's knee looked
inflamed with the infection from the injury.  A thin red line was now
visible, snaking from the base of the wound toward his calf.  Mary knew
what she had to do.

"I'm going to have to cut these stitches," she said, "and clean the
tissues again.  It's going to hurt like hell."  When Ryder didn't
respond she stopped her examination and glanced in his direction.  He
was out cold.

"Just as well," she whispered.

"I can't spare any liquor for an anesthetic."  Numbing her senses to
the task at hand, she began working.  She sliced the lower third of the
visible stitches and laid open Ryder's skin.  Sanguineous, malodorous
fluids seeped from the infected tissue.  She cut the second layer of
stitches, and more of the infection was revealed.  Mary cleaned the
wound, this time scrubbing it with the hard, alcohol-soaked bristles of
Ryder's hairbrush.  Splinters of wood came to the surface, and she used
a needle to extract every one that she found.  The wound bled freely
again, and Mary let the bleeding run its course before she began the
task of suturing.  Ryder never woke while she worked, but occasionally
his body would jerk in response to the deep pain she was inflicting.
All the while her lips moved in the ceaseless litany of prayer.  When
she was done Mary knelt at the well and washed her hands.  Having done
all she could was not the same as having done enough.  It was the
disparity between the two that troubled her.  She sat in the wing
chair, her long legs curled under her, and watched Ryder sleep.  How
serious had he been, she wondered, when he'd compared his situation to
Joe Panama's?  Did he really think she might give him a gun so he could
kill himself?

Was that his idea of being cruel, to be kind?  Mary's head throbbed.
Fingers of tension seemed to be pulling the skin tightly over her
pounding temples.  Bright flashes of light, created by the deep ache
behind her eyes, began to cross her vision.  The steady roar in her
ears reached tidal wave proportions.  Mary's head fell forward.  Her
shoulders slumped.  Only the curled position of her body kept her from
sliding to the floor from the chair.  Eventually her dead faint became
a deep, healing slumber.

Standing unnoticed in the entrance to the chamber, Jarret Sullivan
slipped his Colt back into its holster.  The showdown he had
anticipated and prepared for was not going to happen, at least not
immediately.  He turned down the lantern he had carried with him into
the cavern and then set it aside.  There wasn't any need for it in
Ryder McKay's well-lit hideout.  Jarret counted six lanterns, all of
them burning with varying degrees of brightness.  Mary's idea of prayer
candles, he decided.  He doubted Ryder would use his supply of oil so
frivolously.  jarret could see that both occupants of the room were
sleeping deeply, but he had no difficulty in discerning the differences
in their slumber.  His tread was silent as he passed Mary's chair and
went straight to the stone shelf-bed on which Ryder lay.  Jarret had
only glimpsed Ryder at Fort Union, but he had been given a photograph
that left him with no doubt that it was Ryder McKay he was seeing.
Jarret looked for the injury that engraved Ryder's face with pain and
brought beads of perspiration to his upper lip.  Finding none visible,
he raised the blanket and whistled softly.

"Hell of a thing, you bastard."  he said softly.

"I could almost feel sorry for you."  Lowering the blanket, Jarret
turned his attention to Mary.  She didn't appear to be injured, only
exhausted.  There were shadows beneath her eyes and no color in her
cheeks.  He had never thought of her as particularly fragile, but she
had that aura about her now, looking too slender and delicate in
Ryder's clothes.

"If he hurt you," he said under his breath, "I'll break his knees."

The threat would have been a familiar one to Mary.  She had used it
herself on four different occasions.  Jarret first heard it when he
stood up as best man for his friend Ethan Stone.  Mary had been looking
out for her sister Michael that time.  She had given Jarret a similar
warning when he'd taken Rennie in hand.  Connor Holiday hadn't been
spared when he'd made Maggie his wife, and Walker Caine had heard the
same threat when he'd exchanged vows with Skye.  Mary Francis always
looked out for her sisters.  She would have protected them with her
life if it had come to that.

"And who's been looking out for you?"  he asked softly.  Jarret saw the
cloths laying out to dry beside the well.  He picked one up, dipped it
in the icy water, and carried it back to Mary's side.

He laid it gently against her brow, then wiped her tear-stained cheeks.
She stirred slightly, but didn't open her eyes.  When he touched her
cheek with his hand she turned and pressed her face against his palm.

"Ah, Mary," he said, understanding.

"Who do you think I am?"

"Ryder."  The word was hardly spoken, was more an expulsion of air, but
Jarret didn't mistake that it was in response to his question.

Moira was right, he thought, Mary Francis felt something for the
renegade Army scout.  When Jarret hunkered beside the chair his foot
caught one of the maps peeking out from beneath it.  He started to push
the paper aside; then he saw what he was kicking and stopped.  Laying
the washcloth over the arm of Mary's chair, Jarret picked up the
uppermost map and looked at it.  Months earlier, when Rennie had first
considered expanding Northeast Rail in the territory of the Southwest,
she and Jarret had poured over maps of the area.  While they had
studied the land around the Holland Mines most particularly, they had
also examined a number of other locations.  Jarret had no difficulty
recognizing the map he held as marking the territory in and around
Colter Canyon.  The next map showed him Colter Canyon itself in more
detail.  He recognized some of the markings as indicating different
types of ore deposits.  His dark brows were raised admiringly as he
looked over it.  Rennie would have paid a lot of money for a geological
survey as detailed as this one.  The ones she had gotten from the
government men paled in comparison.  Jarret put the document aside and
quickly scanned the third and final map.  It was territory he didn't
recognize at all, with markings that made little sense to him. Puzzled,
he held it up to get a better look at it.

"Put that down or I'll shoot you where you sit."  Jarret didn't move.

"In the back?"  he asked Ryder.

"In the backside if I have to."

Jarret lowered the map and carefully slid it under Mary's chair with
the others.

"Keep your hands up," Ryder said.  His voice wavered slightly with the
strain of talking.

"I've already looked under those blankets," Jarret said evenly.

"The only thing you had under there worth noting was a bum leg."  He
turned around slowly and stood, hands at his sides.  He could see
clearly that Ryder's threat was an empty one.

"I expected a little more from you."  Even Ryder's shrug was painful.

"I got you to put those maps down, didn't I?"  he asked' striving for
carelessness in his tone.

"You weren't completely sure."  Jarret tipped the brim of his hat back
a notch, conceding the point.

"You been awake long?"

"Long enough to hear you threaten my knees.  Hate to disappoint you,
though.  I've only got one leg worth breaking."  His pale gray eyes
took Jarret's measure and immediately recognized a worthy adversary.
The man didn't flinch under his scrutiny.

"You must be one of the in-laws," he said finally.

"Rennie's husband?"

"That's right," said Jarret.

"How did you know?"  It was a struggle to sit up, but Ryder managed.
Feeling less at a disadvantage even though he was out of breath, he
said, "I always figured I had more to fear from her family than from
any three units the general might send out."  Ryder raked his hair with
his fingers.

"You must be the one who used to bounty hunt."

"Did Mary tell you that?"  Ryder shook his head, a slight smile lifting
one corner of his mouth.  He looked past Jarret to where Mary slept,
still slumped in the wing chair.

"She played her cards very close to the vestments."  Jarret's faint
smile was a salute of sorts.

"Jay Mac taught her well.  Her sisters will tell you she's the best one
at the table."

His smile faded.

"So how did you know?"

"She forgot about Walker Caine."  Now Jarret's dark brows knit.  His
eyes narrowed.

"You know Skye's husband."

"For years," he said, not explaining their friendship began at West
Point.

"When Walker married Skye he wrote about her family.  He had a line or
two for you."  Ryder winced as he shifted his weight.

"I didn't connect you and your wife with Mary when you first came to
Fort Union."  The trial had been underway then, Jarret remembered, and
the testimony had been damning.

"You had a few other things on your mind."  Jarret said.

Ryder's rueful grin acknowledged the truth of that.

"Just a few."

And only a few less now, he thought.

"You tracked the blood?"  he asked.  Jarret nodded.

"Hell of a fall you took back there.  I half expected to find a body at
the bottom of that ravine."

"Disappointed you didn't?"

"Glad I didn't find Mary."

"I don't suppose you and I would be talking if you had."

"That's right."

Jarret tapped the butt of his Colt.

"I would have killed you.  No question."  It was nothing less than
Ryder would have expected.

He was a little surprised that Jarret was carrying on a conversation
now.

"I may ask you to do it anyway," he said.

"Mary can't."

"Jesus," Jarret said lowly.

"You asked her?"

"I told her I was considering it."

"Jesus," he said again.

"You had no right.  Not Mary.  You know what she is... what she was.
She'd never give up.  She'll kill herself working to save you."

"Do you think I don't know it?"  Ryder asked quietly.  His eyes strayed
back to Mary's exhausted figure and lingered there.

"You've got to get her out of here."  It was what Jarret came to do.
However, he hadn't expected to be invited to do it.  He pointed to
Ryder's injured leg.

"What the hell were you doing on the lip of that ravine anyway?"

"Trying to cover our tracks."

"Mary was with you when you fell?"

"God no."  He closed his eyes briefly, thankful she hadn't been around
when the ridge of stone had given way beneath his feet and sent him
plunging over the edge.

"I left something along the route, and I had to go back to get it."

"Clothes," Jarret said.

"That's right.  How did you-"

"You missed a sock."  jarret raised one hand, holding off the question
he saw in Ryder's eyes.

"It's all right.  I have it now.  I cleaned up the trail, too.  Just in
case it led me to you.  I didn't want anyone else finding it."  Ryder
didn't thank him, his mind already racing ahead to the obvious
question.

"Anyone in particular?"

"A Tonto scout."

"Rosario."

"That's right.  Jay Mac upped the ante.  Rosario gets a bonus above
what's already being offered for-"

"For my head."  Ryder finished.

"It's all right.  Mary warned me her father would want my head on a
platter."

He forgot his pain long enough to allow himself a small, self-mocking
chuckle.

"Jay Mac could have saved his money.

Rosario would happily turn over my scalp for free."

"So I understand."

"It's not personal," Ryder said.

"Rosario hates all Chiricahua equally and that's what he considers me.
That's why he's been such a good scout for Gardner.  Bringing in the
Chiricahua is a matter of pride.  He can cut his teeth on me, but if he
can bring down Geronimo he'll be a legend."  Ryder shifted his weight
again, this time moving back on the bed so he could lean against the
stone side.  The effort beaded his brow with sweat.

"So Rosario's out on his own.  I'm surprised General Gardner released
him to go alone."

"Jay Mac was convincing.  And the general thinks Rosario's with me."

"Why isn't he?"

"No one simply loses Rosario.  I may have no liking for him, but I
respect his skills."

"I hammered him on the head with my peacemaker," Jarret explained.

"Then I lost him."

"I didn't trust him."

"Because he's an Indian?"

"Because he wanted you too badly.  I was afraid for Mary if she got in
the middle."  He glanced over his shoulder.  The sight of Mary still
sleeping comfortably in the chair raised a smile.

"And she can't seem to help herself.  I used to think it was her habit,
now I realize it's just her way."

Ryder nodded, understanding.

"Then, thank you," he said quietly, "for realizing what her father
couldn't and acting on it."  Jarret took off his hat and ran his
fingers through his hair.

"Jay Mac's not thinking straight.  You can't blame him.  You have his
little girl.  I suppose you'd have to have a daughter of your own to
appreciate what he's going through."

"What makes you think I don't?"  Frowning, Jarret pinned Ryder with a
hard, cold look.

"What are you saying?"

"I have..  . had a daughter," he said.

It was odd to him that he was telling this to Jarret Sullivan.  The
words he was speaking he had meant to share with Mary.

"She was murdered in her cradle board  My wife .. . her family .. .

they were all killed in the same raid."  Jarret's stare could not
penetrate the mask that Ryder had drawn over his features.  Here was
grief so profound, Jarret thought, that it could not be made visible.
"I  didn't know," he said.

"Not many do."

"Mary?"

Ryder shook his head.  "I  haven't-" He broke off as a movement behind
Jarret caught his attention.  At first he didn't know what had changed.
Mary hadn't shifted in the chair.  Her legs were still curled under
her.  The tilt of her head was exactly the same.

Her shoulder sloped at an identical angle.  Ryder's gaze went back to
Mary's face and locked on the forest green eyes that were returning his
regard.  The movement that had anchored his attention was the raising
of her eyelids.  The emotion he saw in her gaze was more hurt than
anger.  Jarret followed the drift of Ryder's attention, turning to face
Mary.  He saw immediately that she had heard.  Her expression seemed to
confirm that Moira was indeed right about her daughter's feelings for
Ryder McKay.

"Hello, Mary," he said gently.  He bent and kissed her warm cheek. Mary
blinked and the emotion that had been in her eyes for both men to see
was shuttered.

"Jarret."  She said his name politely, as if he were an unwelcome
guest, but good manners forbade her from behaving less than graciously.
To Jarret, her tone was another sign of her hurt and confusion.  Mary
Francis Dennehy had never been one to stand on ceremony.

"How are you feeling?"  She straightened, running one hand through her
hair in a negligent fashion.  There was a vertical crease between her
brows as she frowned, trying to shed the dregs of her heavy sleep.

"What are you doing here?"

Jarret looked back at Ryder.

"Trust her to come straight to the point."  Mary wasn't amused.  She
came to her feet, a little unsteadily at first, but she had no use for
Jarret's extended hand.

Brushing past him, she went to the bed.

"Let me see your leg," she said.  Although her tone brooked no
argument, Ryder tried to object.  She stared him down.

"All right," he said, giving in.  Over Mary's shoulder, he could see
Jarret's interest in the exchange.  He pushed back the blanket and let
her examine the wound.

"It's better," she pronounced.

"Wishful thinking," Ryder told Jarret.

"It is," she said.

"Look.

Some of the redness is gone.  I think the poison is gone.

Jarret, come and look at this."

"He's already seen it," Ryder said, even as Jarret was approaching.

"He knows I'm going to lose my leg."  Mary's head swung in Jarret's
direction.

"Is he right?" she demanded.

"Is that what you think?"  It was what he had thought when he'd first
seen the wound.  Now he saw Mary's fierce determination and remembered
what it was like to fly in the face of that.

"What I think," he said heavily, almost on a sigh, "is that there's
something in my saddlebags that might help."

Chapter Eleven

Once Jarret was gone from the chamber Ryder was left basking in Mary's
triumphant smile.

"How do you do it?"  he asked.

"How do you get people to move in ways they're not at all inclined to
pursue?"

"I'd like to think they respond to superior reasoning," she said
primly.

"The truth is, I bully them."  The real truth was somewhere in between,
Ryder decided.  Not that Mary wasn't capable of sound reasoning and
bullying tactics, but it was her ability to make people believe in her,
and in the things she believed in, that had them stepping lively to her
tune.

"Lie down," she said.

"All the color's faded from your face."  Ryder acknowledged that he was
in no condition to gainsay her.  With Jarret gone, he didn't even try.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Mary picked up a damp cloth and wiped
the perspiration from Ryder's face.

"I wish you had told me about your wife," she said after a moment.

"I know."  The cloth was cool on his skin, and Ryder closed his eyes.

"It was so long ago," he said.

"I was married before my uncle found me, before West Point.  I can
almost believe it happened to another person.  It's the same way I feel
about my childhood in Ohio.  Separate places.  Separate lives."  He was
a man with roots in two worlds, she thought, part of both, belonging in
neither.

"Where is it that you find peace?"  she asked.

Ryder opened his eyes and looked at Mary steadily.  The serenity of her
features masked the ferocity of her temperament .. his warrior angel.

"In your arms," he said, as though the answer were profoundly simple.

"Only in your arms."  Mary's breath caught in her throat.  For a moment
she couldn't move.  It was the way he said it, with that air of
inevitability and acceptance, that gave truth to the words.  Leaning
over, she kissed him full on the mouth.

"All the more reason to get well," she said, lifting her head.

"So you can be there again."  Ryder murmured his agreement, his eyes
closed again.  Sleep was edging at his conscious mind.  He felt Mary's
gentle touch on his face, then his neck and shoulders.

The cloth was cool, her fingertips warm.  Mary continued to wipe down
his fevered skin even after Ryder fell asleep.  She pushed back strands
of his dark hair where it lay against his temples and brushed her
knuckle across the pronounced hollow of his cheek.

"He's sleeping?"  Jarret asked from the entrance.

"Or did he pass out?"

"A little of both, I suepect."  Mary left Jarret's side to dip the
cloth in the pool again.

"How did you find us?"  Jarret dropped his saddlebags on the rocker and
set down his lantern.  He tipped his hat a notch as he looked in Mary's
direction.

"There's a trail of blood a greenhorn could follow."  Mary nodded.

"Ryder was afraid of that.  Where did you pick up the trail?"

"Above the ravine where he fell.  I went down first, just to make
certain there were no bodies, then I climbed out, using the same route
he did.  It's pretty much a miracle he survived at all--and with no
broken bones."

"Two ribs," she corrected.  Jarret just shook his head.

"The man has a will of iron."

"He wanted to come back to me," she said simply.

"You would have done the same for Rennie."

"But I love your sister."  Mary sat beside Ryder again.

"Well?"

she asked.  Jarret's eyes went from Mary to Ryder, then took in both of
them together.

"I see," he said.

"So that's the way it is.  Do you return it?"

"If I do," she said, "I wouldn't tell you first.  That's for Ryder to
hear."  Jarret grinned as he removed his hat and dropped it on the
rocker.

"You were never one to show your hand early," he said.

"Just so you know, your mother thinks she has it figured out."  Mary
nodded, accepting it, but saying nothing.  jarret sat in the wing chair
and reached for the saddlebags.  He placed them between his knees and
began removing their contents.

"How long ago did he fall?"

"I don't know."

When Jarret looked at her oddly, she explained' "There's no means of
telling time in here.  Neither of us has a watch, and there's no
sun--no moon to orient us.  My best guess is that it's been a week
since the accident.  I just can't be sure."  She began to wipe down
Ryder's skin again.

"Was the ravine far from here?"

"Easily eight miles."

"I've been that way once in the daylight and once at night, but I don't
remember it clearly.  How far did Ryder fall?"

"Didn't he tell you?"  She shook her head.

"And I didn't ask.  It wasn't as important to know the details as it
was to have him here."

"He went down about a hundred and fifty feet."  At Mary's gasp, he
added, "Not all at once.  He dropped in stages.

The ground kept crumbling under him, and he slipped on his own blood as
he tried to climb out.  That gash in his leg was the result of slipping
past a tree branch that was growing out of the side of the ravine."

"I thought it might be something like that."

She sighed.

"I suppose it would have been better if he hadn't gone after the
clothes at all."  At Jarret's curious look Mary explained why the
clothing had been on the trail in the first place.  Some of her guilt
came through in the telling, because Jarret was quick to point out that
the events that followed were not her fault.

"There's not much comfort in that," she told him.

"So I may as well feel guilty."  Mary pointed to the items Jarret was
moving from his saddlebags.

"What do you have there to help Ryder?"

"Balms and tinctures," he said.

"Your sister made me bring them\ just in case."

"Then thank Rennie for me."

"It was Maggie, not Rennie."

"Maggie?  When did you--" Jarret held up his hand and cut her off.

"Mary, did you really imagine the family wouldn't gather at a time like
this?  Maggie and Connor arrived hours before I left.  Michael and
Ethan are on their way from Denver.  Skye is the only one with no
chance of getting here and she won't thank you for it."  Mary's
shoulders slumped a little.

"It occurred to me, of course," she said softly, more to herself and to
Jarret, "but all of them .. "Jay Mac was here right away."

"I knew he would be."  She wrung out the cloth and put it aside.

"Mama is doing well?"  she asked.

"For the circumstances," he said.

"The more frustrated Jay Mac gets, the calmer Moira becomes."  Mary
smiled faintly.

"It's always been like that."  Jarret grinned, understanding.  He
sorted through the items he had removed from the saddlebags and carried
the most important ones to Mary's side.

"Maggie's instructions were hurried," Jarret explained, "but I think I
know how to use these things."  Mary accepted a bottle of tincture and
studied her sister's neat, handwritten label.

"The wonder is she didn't insist on coming herself."

"She did," Jarret said dryly.

"Connor held her back."  Uncorking the small brown bottle of white
willow tincture, Mary swabbed Ryder's wound carefully.

"I had to cut him open again to remove more of the infection," she told
Jarret.

"Then you haven't tried cauterizing the wound."

"No.  I was afraid to build a fire.  Ryder would never let me."

"It's all right," he said.

"I'll light a small amount of your lantern oil and heat my knife."

"I never thought of that."  Jarret put his hand on Mary's shoulder.

"You've done as much as any three people," he said.

"Don't blame yourself now for what you didn't think of."  That said, he
began working quickly and efficiently, building the small fire to
sterilize and heat the blade.  Flames licked at the steel, turning it
smoky blue.

"Hold his shoulders, Mary."  She frowned.

"He's going to feel this?"

"He's going to think he's coming out of his skin."  Mary placed her
hands on Ryder's shoulder and watched Jarret turn the blade to get the
flat, hot side of it lined up with the wound.  At the last moment she
looked away.  The smell of searing flesh assailed her nostrils and she
squeezed her eyes tight.  Under her palms she felt Ryder's immediate
struggle and she heard his growl of pain.  She counted a full five
seconds before Jarret removed the blade.  Ryder was breathing hard.
There were white creases at the corners of his mouth.  He had grabbed
Mary's wrist to move her hand from his shoulder, and his fingers still
pressed her skin hard.

Jarret put the knife aside.

"Let her go," he told Ryder.

"It's all right, Jarret," Mary said.

"He doesn't-" She felt Ryder's grip ease.  When she looked down at him
she saw that he had passed out.

"I always feel relieved when he does that."  Jarret nodded.

"I

know what you mean."  He handed her the balm Maggie had packed for
him.

"Take this.  I'll get the bandages.  Rub it carefully around the burn,
then I'll wrap it lightly.  Maggie's also given me some herbs so I can
make a tea."

"You'll have to use cold water," she said.

"That's all right.  It will only take a little longer."

By Mary's estimation it was thirty-six hours before they were able to
note any change in Ryder's condition and another twelve before they
could be certain it was a change for the better.  The herbs that Maggie
had had the foresight to provide helped Ryder's fever and reduce the
inflammation around his wound.  Mary gave thanks that when Ryder slept
his slumber was no longer tormented, but was a deep, healing rest that
would leave him stronger upon waking.  Mary sat beside the well,
rinsing bandages while Jarret lounged in the rocker, watching her. When
she heard the tempo of the rocker change for the third time, she
glanced over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, a question in her
eyes.

"If you have something to say," she said, "say it."  The rocking
stopped.

"Very well.  Ryder's stronger now.  The time has come."

"Oh?

What time is that?"  Jarret studied her.  Was she pulling his leg or
did she really not know?

"Did you imagine I'd be staying indefinitely?"  he asked.  Before she
could reply he added, "Or that I'd be leaving without you?"  Mary
frowned, her eyes narrowing.

"No, I didn't think you'd be staying," she said slowly.

"But there's no question that you'll leave without me.  I'm not going
back to Fort Union with you."

"I'm not going to argue about this, Mary."

"Good."  She shrugged and wrung out another bandage.

"Neither am I."  Jarret realized that not arguing did not necessarily
put them on the same side of the issue.

"Your mother, father, everyone, expects that if I find you I'll bring
you back."

"I'm aware of that.  You'll have to lie to them, of course.  Tell them
you didn't find me."  He shook his head and raked back his hair with
his fingers.

"I can't do that.  They're worried, Mary.

With good reason.  There's nothing remotely safe about your being with
Ryder McKay.  I can't pretend that I haven't seen you.  Your parents,
your sisters-all of them deserve better than that."  Mary acknowledged
the truth of his words with a slight bow of her head.

"Then we'll have to think of something else, something that will
appease them."

"Your return to Fort Union will satisfy them."  Her chin came up and
her knuckles whitened on the cloth she was holding.

"No," she said firmly.

"It's not going to happen.  Not now.  Not without Ryder."  Her eyes
widened and her features became still as another thought occurred to
her.

"You don't intend to try to take him back, do you?  You didn't help
make him well just to see him hang?"  jarret paused a beat too long in
responding and had to duck the damp washcloth that was fired at his
face like a snowball.  He held up his hands, partly in surrender,
partly to ward off another missile.

"Answer me, damn you."  Mary snapped, coming to her feet.

"Is that why you've been so helpful, because you've planned all along
to force Ryder to go back to Fort Union?"  Jarret stood as well.  His
voice was deep and steady, reflecting a shade more control than
Mary's.

"Listen to me," he said flatly.

"There are enough men already looking for Ryder.  I don't have to
concern myself with his capture.  Do you understand what I'm saying?
It's inevitable.  Your father's offered a reward for him, separate from
the one for your safe return.  That means he's worth the same amount
dead or alive."  He saw Mary's complexion pale.  Her green eyes were
impossibly large in her face.

"The one with the best chance to collect the reward is the Tonto scout
who bears Ryder no special affection.  I've already shared that with
Ryder which is more than I had to do or probably should have done.
Ryder's accident out there enabled me to pick up his trail.  it's only
a matter of time before Rosario is able to do the same."  Mary took no
pains to hide the small measure of relief she felt.  When Jarret looked
at her as if she'd lost her mind she explained.

"You don't understand," she said.

"While the Tonto and the Chiricahua have no liking for one another,
they're still Apache, and this is sacred ground to the Apache.  That
scout won't come in here, not if he doesn't want to be visited by the
dead ancestors of all the tribes."  Jarret let out a long breath.  This
information put another twist on their circumstances.

"Burial grounds?"  he asked.  She nodded.

"Ryder and I are safe in here.

If I erase his blood signs on the route to this interior chamber, even
you wouldn't be able to find your way in here again."  There was more
truth to that than Jarret wanted to admit.  He sat down on the curved
arm of the wing chair, stretching one leg out to the side, and
considered what he had learned.

"I doubt Ryder has plans to stay in here forever," he said finally.

"Rosario will be waiting for him outside the cavern.  If not Rosario,
someone like him."

"Then you'll have to make certain the trail to the cavern is covered.
Better yet, that it proves misleading."  Her expression was earnest
now.

"You can do that."

"Why would I want to?"  Mary nearly stamped her foot in frustration.

"For me," she said.

"Because I'm asking you to.  If my safety means something to you, then
don't let the scouts or the Army find me too easily."

"I thought we were talking about Ryder being found."

"It's all the same.  If he's found, then I will be, too.  I'm not going
with you, Jarret.  I mean it.  I'm staying with him."

"God, Mary... What you're asking..."

"He's innocent," she said.  There was a naked plea in her voice now.
She was willing him to be convinced of her own conviction.

"He had nothing to do with the Colter Canyon raid.  If he served some
purpose it was as a target for the blame."  Jarret's eyes darted to
Ryder's still and sleeping form huddled beneath a mound of blankets.
His tone was frankly scoffing.

"He says he was set up?"

"No," she said, exasperated.

"I say he was set up."

"Mary, he oversaw every detail of the transport.  Except for the newest
recruits, he handpicked most of the men for the journey.  The route was
known only to a few officers, and Ryder himself was responsible for
dividing the troop.

As if all that wasn't enough, he has a known history with the
Chiricahua.  His adopted Apache father is Naiche, blood brother to
Geronimo."  Mary was taken aback by all the information Jarret had on
Ryder, most of which she did not know herself.  Still, it did not sway
her from her argument.

"Who better to frame?"  she asked in reply.

"With so much stacked against Ryder just because of who he is, it
hardly provided any challenge for the criminals."

"And the real criminals would be?..."  His voice trailed off
expectantly and one of his dark brows kicked up.

"I don't know," Mary admitted reluctantly.

"That's what I plan to find out.  That's why I'm not going back with
you."  His look was patently suspicious now.

"And that's the only reason?"

"It's the only reason I'm giving you," she said tartly.

"I'll return to Fort Union with Ryder when his name is cleared.  Not
before then--not alive anyway."  Jarret rolled his eyes.

"A bit too much drama at the end for my tastes."  Mary's expression
turned sheepish.

"I

couldn't help myself."  He sighed.

"All right, so you're not going back with me.  That doesn't help me
deal with your family.

I owe them some explanation.  God knows, they're preparing for the
worst."

"That I'm dead?"

"That you're involved."  Mary's brow puckered "Involved?  How do they
mean that?"

"They mean from the beginning.  We all know you met Ryder before you
ever came out here.  Florence Gardner gave that tidbit to your mother."
When Mary didn't deny it he went on.

"You had also mentioned Ryder McKay to me before we ever reached the
Fort."  Mary nodded slowly.

It had happened just as Ryder had said it would.  The odd circumstances
of their first meeting gave support to their subsequent one six months
later.

"There's the fact that you went to his cell and that you were wearing
that habit.  General Gardner believes you helped plan and carry out
Ryder's escape.  Your family is only a little inclined to believe it."
Mary was silent for a long time.  She stared off at a point beyond
Jarret's shoulder, thinking.  A chill seeped through the flannel shirt
she wore.  She crossed her arms in front of her to ward it off.

Finally she looked at Jarret.

"Then you should make them believe it," she said quietly.  Jarret's
gaze narrowed.

"What?"

"Make them believe it," she repeated firmly.

"This way you can tell them you found me, I'm safe, and I refuse to
abandon Ryder until his name is clear--for my own sake.  After all, why
would I come back to face charges of aiding his escape before I can
prove his innocence?"

"Mary, if I take back that story you'll face charges whether Ryder's
proved innocent or not.  It's called obstruction of justice, and you're
admitting your guilt."

"I don't care.

There's no other alternative I can accept."

"But it's a lie.  You didn't help him escape."  Mary's faintly sly
smile touched her eyes.

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

"I'm .. ."  He broke off, studying her face closely.  The inscrutable,
serene expression was firmly in place.

"Oh, hell.  I'm not sure anymore."

"Good.

Then you'll be especially convincing."  Jarret didn't smile as he was
meant to.

"I don't like it."  Mary approached him, placing her hand on his
shoulder.

"He didn't do it," she said quietly.

"You need to believe that, Jarret.  The rest will come easily."

He looked up at her, wondering how she passed on the strength of her
convictions so effortlessly.

"Mary-" She shook her head, stopping him before he could muster an
objection.

"He's an honorable man.  He respects tradition and values honesty.  He
married me in the Chiricahua manner because the ceremony was important
to him.  I didn't care if there was a ceremony at all."

Mary's faint blush made Jarret understand what she meant.

"He did it so there would be no shame in our being together.  He did it
to protect me from the consequences of my own rash actions.  And
without warning me at all, he risked a great deal to have Jay Mac and
Mama brought to witness the ceremony."  Mary's hand dropped away from
Jarret's shoulder.  Her eyes darkened and her voice took on a harder
edge.

"I know what he's supposed to have been doing at the time of the Colter
Canyon raid."  she said.  Jarret nodded.

"I

wondered about that."

"Well, I don't believe it and neither should you.  Anna Leigh Hamilton
lied.  I don't know why exactly, but I know she did.  Whether by
intention or coincidence, she helped set up Ryder."

"You're taking on quite a bit, Mary.  What can you hope to accomplish
here?"

"Not much," she admitted.

"But as soon as Ryder's better we're going to find the gold."  Ryder
knew instantly that something was different.  Though nothing had moved,
there was a shift in the air in the room that captured his attention.
He sat up.  The throbbing in his leg was only a dull ache now, and he
rubbed the stitches absently.  He was alone in the chamber.  Jarret's
saddlebags and bedroll were gone, but the bottles of tinctures and
liniments had been left behind.  There was no sign of Mary.  Closing
his eyes briefly, Ryder rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb
and forefinger.

"You're awake" she said.  Ryder's head snapped up and he stared at the
entrance to the chamber.  She was standing in the archway, holding a
lantern in one hand and a rolled map in the other.

"You're still here," he said.  Mary hung up the lantern and approached
the bed.

"I'm going to choose not to be insulted by that."  She placed the back
of her free hand over Ryder's forehead.

"No fever at all.  That's good."

"Hmmm."  Expecting to see Jarret, he looked past her shoulder.

"Where's your bodyguard?"

"Bodyguard?"  Realization dawned.

"Oh, you mean Jarret."  He's gone back to Fort Union.  I told him to
wait until you were awake before he left, but he said it was better his
way."

"Wise man," Ryder said.  Mary looked at him oddly.

"Why's that?"

"Because I damn well would have insisted he take you with him."  That
rocked Mary back on her heels.  She pitched the map on the bed in
anger.  She had a good mind to clip him on the jaw he thrust in her
direction.

Ryder had no difficulty reading the bent of her mind.  There was no
sense giving her a clear target.  He curbed the defiant angle of his
chin.

"What the hell was he thinking, leaving you here?"  he asked instead.

"He was thinking it was what I wanted!"  She gritted her teeth.

"Oooh, when I think of all the breath I wasted convincing him, I could
just... just."  Words absolutely failed her as Ryder simply stared at
her, his head tilted slightly to one side, his fascination total.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said, but there was no real
conviction in her tone.  He didn't stop, but the centers of his eyes
became a shade darker.

"Like what?"  Her eyes dropped to his mouth.  It was slightly parted.

"Like .. . that."  Ryder took Mary by the wrists.  Her fists were still
clenched and he could feel the tension in her forearms.

The blanket hitched around his waist parted along his wounded thigh. He
brought Mary between his opened legs and placed her hands on his hips. 
His hands went around her back and clasped at the base of her spine. 
Mary couldn't take her eyes away from his mouth.  She felt her own lips
part, but there was nothing she wanted to say, only something she
wanted to do.  She leaned into the waiting kiss, slanting her mouth
across his.  The taste of him was sweet, with the lingering coolness of
the tea.  Her tongue traced the line of his upper lip and she felt him
draw in a sharp breath robbing her lungs of the same.  Her hands ran up
the length of his chest.  Heat followed in her wake.  Ryder pressed the
kiss more deeply.  It had been too long to go gently.

His tongue was hard against hers, and the rhythm was achingly familiar
and intimate.  Her fingers splayed flat on his chest, then curved at
the tip.  He could feel the tiny crescents of her nails mark his skin.
Her mouth was warm and sweet, her response full and generous.

Mary wanted to be closer to him.  She wanted to feel the press of his
skin against hers, the delicious contrasts of contour, texture, and
shape.  When his hands moved to the buttons of her shirt she knew a
rush of heady anticipation.  Ryder broke the kiss and felt the loss
keenly.  Almost immediately, Mary brushed her mouth against his,
seeking what he was denying them both.

"Take off your shirt," he said.  Mary's fingers stilled on Ryder's
chest.  Her eyes opened slowly and she stared at him, the centers of
her eyes dark and wide.

"Take off your shirt."  he said again.  There was the merest tremor in
his voice and Mary responded to it.  Her hands went to the throat of
her shirt as Ryder's dropped away.  She looked down at herself as her
thumb made a pass across the uppermost button.

"Look at me."  The husky order was accompanied by his forefinger under
her chin raising her face.  Color rushed to Mary's complexion as desire
warred with uncertainty.  His eyes held her waiting and watchful.  It
was her nearly imperceptible nod that made him release her face.  Mary
drew in a shaky breath, and her fingers slipped to the next button on
her shirt.  She couldn't see her reflection in the darkly mirrored
centers of his eyes, but it was as if she could.  Her slightest
movement raised a response there, and she knew she was looking at
powerful, naked hunger held in check.  Mary's fingers fumbled the next
button.  Lantern light cast its warm glow across her skin.  Strands of
copper and gold were highlighted in her hair.  A shadow chased across
her collarbone as she shrugged out of first the left shoulder, then the
right.  Without conscious thought she raised her arms to cover her
breasts.  The look in Ryder's eyes stopped her.  He didn't say
anything.  He didn't have to.  Mary removed the rest of her clothing.
His eyes touched her everywhere, and the impact was greater than if he
had used his hands.  She felt them on her breasts, abdomen, the curve
of her hip, and grazing the lengths of her legs.  Between her thighs
she was warm and moist, and when his eyes went there she felt a tug on
her womb.  Ryder took her wrist.  As his thumb passed along the soft
inner skin the contact was almost too much for her.  Her quick, indrawn
breath was like a reaction to pain.  He paused, searching her face, and
recognized her response for what it was.  She stepped toward him, not
away.

His hand closed over her breast.  His thumb brushed the erect tip of
her nipple and she sipped the air again.  Her flesh swelled beneath his
cupped palm.  He bent his head.  His mouth touched hers but a moment
before its sweet warmth was on the curve of her neck, then her
shoulder.  She arched, aroused by the slow, inexorable journey of his
mouth to her breast.  His lips caught the nipple.  The damp edge of his
tongue bathed the tip.  Mary's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him
to her as ribbons of pleasure uncurled just beneath her skin.  He drew
out her response, and when she didn't think she could stand it any
longer he showed her that she could.  Mary felt herself being lifted to
the edge of the stone shelf, and now Ryder was standing in front of
her.  The blanket that had covered him lay on the floor.  He cupped her
bottom and brought her closer to the edge of the stone bed, hooking her
legs on either side of his hips.  His mouth took hers again, and this
time the plunging force of his tongue was matched by his hard, swift
entry.  Mary's gasp was trapped by his mouth.  He was in her deeply,
completely.  She was raised against him, accommodating the heat and
hardness of him, holding him to her as surely as she was held.

"Please," she whispered against his mouth.

But she could not have said what she was asking for.  It was only when
Ryder began to move inside her that she realized this was what she had
been wanting.  It did not bother her that he knew it better than she.
The force and rhythm of his body seemed to rob her of breath and
thought.  She could only feel.  She felt the heat of his skin, the
strength of his arms, the steady rise of pleasure, not as a single
sweep, but as a force that ebbed and flowed, and never abandoned her.
She felt the press of his hands, the imprint of his fingers.  The shape
of his mouth was a brand on her shoulder.  Where he rocked between her
thighs she felt the hot darting lick of delicious tension.  Ryder's
senses were filled with Mary.  He breathed in the fragrance of her skin
her hair and her sex.  He tasted her sweet mouth and the faintly salty
flavor of the curve of her shoulder.  Her skin was smooth and warm to
his touch.  His head was filled with the small cries of pleasure at the
back of her throat.

Mary was in his vision even when he closed his eyes.  The climax was
sharp and searing.  He shuddered against her powerfully.  Mary held
him, her legs tightening against his hips, her hands clutching his
shoulders.  The thrust of his body shattered the last of her defenses.
She embraced her release as she embraced him.  Pleasure vibrated
between them.  Ryder eased Mary back on the bed.  She lay there,
looking up at him, relaxed and replete.  The smile on her face was
faintly smug, certainly satisfied.  She stretched lazily as he climbed
onto the bed beside her.  His kiss was tender, and Mary fairly hummed
with the sweetness of it.

"You're looking a shade too full of yourself," he said, propping
himself on one elbow.  Nothing changed about the placement of her lips.
She couldn't help herself.

"A little while ago I was a shade too full of you."  Ryder blinked.  He
could have convinced himself he had heard her if it hadn't been for the
tide of red sweeping over her face.  For once she looked as if she
wanted to call back her words.  At the same time she was practically
daring him to mention them.  Instead he simply stared at her,
fascinated by contradiction.  The intensity of Ryder's expression, his
darkly searching gaze, held Mary still.  She tried to imagine what he
was thinking when he looked at her like that, when he peered all the
way to her soul.  Ryder picked up a blanket and drew it over them.

"You should have gone with your brother-in-law," he said after a
moment.  Of all the things she had thought she might hear, this comment
was not among them.

"That subject is closed," she said flatly.  It was as if she hadn't
spoken.

"Why didn't you?"  Mary's mouth flattened, and she simply refused to
answer.  Ryder sighed.

"Very well."  Ignoring her small, stiff response when he touched her,
Ryder tucked a strand of Mary's hair behind her ear.

"We're not going to stay here much longer," he told her.  She frowned,
not understanding.

"But Jarret is going to cover your trail.  He promised.  Rosario
won't-"

He cut her off, shaking his head.

"I'm not worried about Rosario.

And I believe Jarret will do as he promised, but he'll be tempted to
return just to be certain you're safe."

"No.  You're not-" "It's what I would be tempted to do," he said.

"He'll make one trip and then another, then another.  It's only a
matter of time before he's followed and we're found out.  Rosario won't
come in here, but there are plenty of Gardner's soldiers who will."
Mary considered that.  Ryder was probably right.  Jarret would feel a
powerful obligation to assure her safety.  She hadn't considered that
when she'd sent him away alone.  She hadn't meant to endanger Ryder
with her presence; her intention had been exactly the opposite.  Her
forest green eyes clouded as she considered the consequences of her
actions.  Ryder had no liking for the anxious, reflective look in her
eyes.

"What is it?"  he asked.

"I should have left," she said, worrying the inside of her lower lip.

"I'm sorry I didn't understand.  Ryder wasn't sure that she did now.
Her agreement didn't necessarily mean she had surrendered to his point
of view.

"I think you'd better explain yourself," he said.  Mary sighed.
Couldn't he just accept that he was right.  Did he have to hear the
whole of her error?

"I didn't realize I was endangering you by staying behind.

It makes sense that you would want me out of the way now."  Ryder
listened to the explanation and nodded slowly.  It was just as he
thought.  She couldn't imagine that he had wanted to protect her.

"I'm the one endangering you," he said.

"You should have left to protect yourself.  That's all I meant."  One
side of his mouth lifted as he watched her try to take that information
in.

She was working up to another argument.

"You really are a perverse creature," he added.  She bristled
predictably.

"What's that supposed to mean."

"It means that not so long ago you were fighting to make me let you go.
Now you're arguing with me about staying."

"That's entirely different," she said immediately.

"Entirely."  Mary looked at him suspiciously.  Was he agreeing with her
or only pretending to agree?  There was a faint edge to his tone, but
his expression was shuttered.

"You're maddening, do you know that?"

"Maddening?  Is that good or bad?"  It was on the tip of her tongue to
say bad.  That after all, was the easy answer.  The truth was more
complicated than that.  Could he really hold her attention so
completely if he weren't a little maddening?  His calm intrigued her.
His humor undid her.

His logic gave her pause.  From the very first he had challenged her.
Mary made a small concession.

"Being maddening is not entirely bad," she said.

"Be careful," he chided her.

"You almost complimented my character."  She nudged his hard belly
gently with her fist.  When she would have drawn back he placed a hand
over hers and held it there.  Her fingers unfolded and lay flat against
his skin.  When his hand fell away hers remained.  She traced the edge
of his rib cage.  There was still some faint bruising from his fall,
but he appeared to be on the mend.

"There's no pain here?"  she asked.

"Hardly any."

"And your leg?"

"Much better."  He raised one brow when her eyes narrowed.

"Do you doubt it?"  He was referring to the way he had taken her, of
course.  With her legs anchored around him Mary had felt the strength
in his thighs.

"No," she said after a moment.

"I don't doubt it."  Ryder liked the breathy, husky quality of her
voice when she said that.  He lowered his head and touched her mouth.

The kiss lingered sweetly.  When he pulled back he adjusted his
position to accommodate her.  Mary rested her head in the crook of his
shoulder and laid an arm across his chest.  He wondered how often or
how long she had slept during his illness.  Jarret's presence had eased
the physical tasks of taking care of him, but had not lightened the
emotional burden.

"Thank you," he said quietly.  When Mary didn't acknowledge him he
thought she had fallen asleep.  It was only when he glanced down and
saw wet, spiky lashes and the tears on the curves of her cheeks that he
knew otherwise.

"Mary?"  She knuckled her damp eyes and gave him a tentative, watery
smile.

"Relief," she said, explaining her tears.

"And gratitude."

He nodded, understanding.  His fingers sifted through the curling ends
of her soft hair.

"I hadn't imagined you would know so much about healing," he said. Mary
remembered how often she had prayed for the skill that was her sister
Maggie's.  It didn't seem to her that she knew so very much.

"I've always worked in a hospital," she said.

"That's what the sisters of my order did."

"Tell me about it."

"The hospital?"

"If you want to start there."  She shrugged.

"There's not much to tell."

"I don't believe that," he said.

"How did you choose your order?"

"I don't know that I did choose it," she said.

"At least not consciously.  It was the place that called me.  My mother
used to make visits to the sick every Wednesday.  When I was still very
young she would take me to the hospital the Little Sisters operated.
Usually I would sit beside her while she read to the patients or wrote
letters for them.

Sometimes I would get them water or help them with their pillows."

Mary turned a little in his arms.

"Jay Mac used to argue with Mama about going.  He was afraid she would
contract some disease.  He thought giving her money for the charity
would keep her away but she always delivered it in person and stayed to
tend the sick anyway.  It couldn't have been easy for Mama to cross Jay
Mac, but she did it once a week for years."

"And took you with her."

Mary nodded.

"Every week."

"Until you entered the order.  Then she stopped."  Mary raised her head
and looked at him.

"How did you know?"

"Just a guess."  No, she thought, it was more than that.  He had the
uncanny ability to listen to her and hear more than she could hear
herself.

It was like having an echo that was clearer and stronger than her own
voice.

"I suppose" she said slowly, "that once I was there she didn't feel the
need to go as often."  Mary laid her head on Ryder's shoulder again.

"Mama was going to be a nun, you know.

That habit I was wearing when I visited you in the stockade wasn't
mine.  It was hers.  She never told me that it had been something she
had imagined for herself."

"Didn't she?"

"Not in so many words.  She never seemed to regret her life with my
father."

"Perhaps that's because she didn't."  Mary was silent for a long time,
thinking.

"No, you're right," she said at last.

"Mama didn't regret the choices she made, but she never quite gave up
her dream either."

"She gave it to you."

"She forced it on me."

Even to her own ears her tone sounded harsh and unforgiving.

"You didn't want to go to the hospital with her?"  he asked.  It wasn't
as simple as yes or no.  Mary let her hand be taken by Ryder.  His long
fingers laced with hers as she stared off to the side, seeing nothing
but the memories in her mind's eye.

"I was interested in the hospital," she said quietly, "but I was
fascinated by the sisters.  They moved with such poise and purpose and
they were such a mystery to me.  Kind.  Gentle.  Brisk.  Reserved.  I
didn't understand their reservation then.  I thought it was
characteristic of the habit.  It was years before I realized that they
disapproved of my mother.  She was a whore, you know.  At least that's
how they saw her.  And I was the bastard daughter."  Mary smiled a
little crookedly as tears hovered, then were suppressed.

"My mother didn't go to mass after she became Jay Mac's mistress, but
she endured the weekly censure of those nuns."

"To help others?"

"To make amends for the choices she made.  In some way I was part of
it, falling in with plans that were never quite my own.  There was
satisfaction in helping others and I was intrigued by the nuns, but the
truth is, if my mother had been going to a racetrack once a week I
would have liked that just as well."  She felt Ryder's fingers tighten
on hers.

"I wanted to be with her, that's all."

Mary's short laugh was humorless, and she shook her head.

"That I can be so selfish--"

"Mary," Ryder chided her.

"I don't think-"

"No," she said.

"It's true.  I was the firstborn and for a while I had her to myself. I
was the first Mary.  Then the others came and I had to share her as
well as my name."  Mary felt as if poison was spilling from her
heart.

"The time at the hospital was so special to me.

I knew it pleased her to have me there, and she never took any of my
sisters.  I think I might have threatened them if they had ever
expressed an interest.  It was just me and Mama, and if I had to share
her with the patients it didn't seem so bad because she approved of me
helping."  Mary took a dry, aching breath and spoke so quietly that
Ryder had to strain to hear her.

"And when I followed the sisters around I could see that she liked it
even better."  She took her hand out of Ryder's and raised herself up,
drawing the blanket around her breasts.

"I'm not a very good person, Ryder.  I think I've always been a fraud.
Certainly I've been a liar."  Ryder reached up and touched Mary's
cheek.  A strand of hair clung damply to the curve, and he pushed it
back.

"You're too hard on yourself, Mary."  She shook her head.

"No, I'm-"

"No one has ever expected as much from you as you've expected from
yourself.  If you're a deceiver, then you're a completely decent one.
The years you spent in the service of your Lord weren't a pretense. You
helped others.  You were generous with your spirit.  You championed
those without a voice and ministered to those who had a need.  That was
no lie you lived.

Compassionate .. . fierce .. . confident .. .

serene--you are those things."  She wanted to believe him.  She wanted
him to believe what he'd said.  Ryder watched her struggle, saw the
doubt surface in her eyes.  He sat up, leaned against the stone shelf
behind him, and drew Mary into his arms.  She curled against him,
hugging her knees to her chest.  As she had on the night of their first
meeting, she fit perfectly in his embrace.

"Our paths would never have crossed if you had made different choices
in your life," he said "I'm selfish enough to admit I'm satisfied with
the ones you made."  He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against
her hair.

"I like to believe that God was saving you for me.  God knows, you
saved me."  Mary's watery smile was imprinted against the knuckles she
pressed to her mouth.  Huddled in the security of his arms, she slept
the deep untroubled sleep of a child.

"Tell me about Anna Leigh," Mary said.  She gave up the pretense of
reading and closed her book, dropping it back in the basket.  Ryder was
sitting on the edge of the stone bed.  He had the rope handle of the
bucket slipped over his foot, and he was raising and lowering the
weighted wooden pail to strengthen his injured leg.  There were beads
of perspiration on his upper lip as he strained to lift it again.

"I think you're doing too much," she said.

"Stop that and tell me about Anna Leigh."  He paused-the bucket up in
the air-and completely ignored Mary's disapproving look.

"You're bossy."

"My sisters say the same thing.  It's never bothered me."  When it
appeared that he wasn't going to pay her any more heed than her
sisters, Mary took action.  Jumping out of the chair before he guessed
her intent, she removed the bucket from his foot and dumped the water
back in the pool.  She hugged the bucket to her to keep it out of his
reach and returned to the wing chair.

"You'll thank me later."  Ryder didn't doubt it.  For as near as he
could mark the passing time he had been working the leg back into shape
for three days.  This was his second session today, and he knew he had
overdone it as soon as he got to his feet.  Hobbling to the rocker was
painful.  Having to hobble in front of Mary only exacerbated the
ache.

"Smugness does not necessarily become you," he said, easing himself
into the rocker.

"As if I care this much for my looks."  She snapped her fingers to
punctuate her point.  It was true, he thought.  She was rarely troubled
by how she looked.  She had no practiced gestures or studied
expressions.  While an air of serenity marked her features most often,
she also could be beautifully animated.  Well, not always beautifully,
he amended.

Right now her expression was downright sour.

"All right."  He stretched his leg.  He massaged the injury lightly
through his trousers.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why was she with you in the first place?"

"You mean why was she accompanying the troop or why was she with me?"
if anything, Mary's mouth became a trifle more puckered.  She sighed
impatiently as if his question were unreasonable.

"Both," she said shortly.

"Well, as long as you're clear."  His comment didn't provoke a smile,
and he finally recognized how serious she was.  He wondered what had
been going on in that fine mind of hers.  She must have been mulling
over some part of the situation for more than a week.

"Anna Leigh accompanied the troop because her father insisted.  I
assumed at the time that she did it in part just to show me she could.
We had a disagreement the night before the wagons left, and she wanted
to prove she had the upper hand."

"What sort of disagreement?"

"She wanted me, and I didn't want any part of her.  I wasn't kind."

Mary didn't want to know the details.

"You humiliated her?"  He nodded.

"And she told me she was coming along the next day.  I thought it was a
spur of the moment decision on her part, but I've wondered since then
if it might have been planned all along."

"Why?"

"Well, her father was adamant about her accompanying the wagons.  Even
when General Gardner and I explained the dangers, he insisted."

"That seems odd, don't you think?"

"Anna Leigh was very used to getting what she wanted.  I think that
tradition started with her dear papa."  He continued to rub his leg
absently.

"I stayed away from her the next morning.  When I reported that I
sensed trouble to the lieutenant, he ordered me to take her with me.  I
was obliged to follow orders, but she knew I didn't want her along. She
hampered my climb back up to the ridge, and at the top she insisted on
stopping to drink.  The trouble was, she wanted my canteen. Complained
that her water was tainted.  I thought it was another tactic to slow me
down and make me pay attention to her.  I traded canteens and drank
some from hers to prove she was lying."  Mary's eyes narrowed
fractionally.

"She wasn't?"

"No," he said shortly.

"She was telling the truth about that.  Whatever contaminated her water
laid me out.  It probably would have killed her if she had ever done
more than sip it."

"Oh, I doubt she would have done that," Mary said frankly.

"How would she have known it was bad if she hadn't tasted it?"  Mary
sat back in her chair.

"Because she poisoned it, of course."

Chapter Twelve

Ryder considered Mary's conclusion.

"You think Anna Leigh deliberately poisoned her own drinking water?" he
asked.

"Why would she do that?  What did she have to gain?"

Mary's eyes widened.

"Besides revenge?"  He nodded.

"Goodness," she said softly.

"I am coming to admire Miss Anna Leigh Hamilton more at every turn.  If
I'm right, then she's really quite good at what she does."  She leaned
forward in her chair and explained patiently, "She poisoned her water
to achieve exactly the end that happened."

"To create an opportunity to accuse me of rape?"  he asked.  Mary shook
her head.

"That's been your mistake all along," she told him.

"You've made Anna Leigh's motives too personal.  What happens if you
consider she had a larger purpose?"

Mary did not have to wait long for Ryder to make all the same
connections she had.  The intensity of his thoughts was there in his
eyes.

"That's right," she said, satisfied.

"She was the diversion.  No one could have expected you to be pulled
away from your duty by Anna Leigh alone.  Certainly not Anna Leigh, not
after her experience with you the night before.  That's why she used
some sort of drug in her water."

"She couldn't have known I would drink it."  Mary recognized Ryder's
pride was making him resistant to hearing her explanation.

"I'm sorry, Ryder, but I think she could.  Anna Leigh was armed with
the fact that you already had determined she was spoiled and
manipulative.  She used those very qualities to make you think she was
lying about water.  And it worked."  Ryder stared at the far wall of
the chamber, his half smile rueful.  He considered how much Anna Leigh
had learned about him the night before the Colter Canyon raid.  He had
shown that he did not suffer fools gladly, that he was not above
humiliating someone to prove his point, and that he had no patience for
feminine wiles.  Anna Leigh Hamilton hadn't lost sleep over how to dupe
him.  He had built the trap for her.  Ryder's light chuckle was
humorless.

"I showed her."  Mary smiled gently.

"It's probably little consolation, but I imagine you're not the first
man she's taken in so completely."

"It's no consolation."

"Then how about this?  I could be wrong."  He looked at her.

"You've set about convincing me of one thing, and now you want to
change your tune?"

"There's no proof," she said.

"That's all I'm saying.  It's always been your word against hers."

"There was a little more to it than that," he said.

"Anna Leigh presented herself to the search party with a torn blouse
and a few scrapes and bruises.  The evidence, such as it was, was on
her side.  It seemed to offer an explanation for my absence during the
raid."

"Can you remember any of it?"

"Nothing much after I drank the water.  I was sick almost immediately
and lost consciousness soon after.  When I came around it was all over.
Anna Leigh had started walking back the way we came.  She was found by
Lieutenant Rivers and Private Carr.  They hauled me out of the shelter
and threw me over a saddle.  I was in chains long before I understood
the charges."

"So the trial centered around the supposition that you had been
derelict in your duty, rather than that you'd been prevented from doing
your duty.  Is that the way it was presented?"

"That's right.  Anna Leigh told her story once and it was all anyone
had to hear."

"You must have had your advocates."  He nodded.

"Character witnesses mostly.  No one who could really refute Anna
Leigh's story.  The prosecution found a couple of scouts who had seen
me with her the night before."  He paused remembering how he had taken
Anna Leigh to a more secluded part of the compound, how he had forced
her back against the wall of the soldiers' quarters as if she were a
whore, and how she had left angrily when she'd realized he didn't want
her.  He knew how it had looked to the witnesses.

They hadn't had to lie.

"The testimony was very damaging," he said quietly.

"Rosario?"

"He was one of them, but he spoke the truth about what he saw.  There
was no need for him to embellish the details to make a case against
me."

"Then we'll have to find proof that undoes the case."

"That would be the gold itself."

"Perhaps."  She rested her chin in the cup of her palm, thinking.

"If we assume Anna Leigh's role in your conviction was larger than a
means of petty revenge, then we have a lead we didn't have before.
Finding the gold doesn't necessarily take us to the people who
organized and carried out the raid, but following Anna Leigh may take
us to the gold."

"Anna Leigh Hamilton is long gone from the Arizona Territory," Ryder
said.

"She left with her father after she gave her testimony."

"Then the gold might have left with her."

Ryder looked doubtful.  Mary's tone strove to be more convincing.

"We've been pouring over the maps as if they held the answer.  They may
have at one time, but now-so many months after the raid-the gold could
have been moved."

"Mary," he said patiently as if she hadn't understood what he was
saying the first time.

"Anna Leigh is in Washington with her father."

"So?  We should go to Washington."  It sounded very simple when she
said it like that.  Ryder felt it was incumbent upon him to point out
the obstacles in their path.

"This cavern is safe," he said.

"We can't stay here forever.  You said that yourself."

"I was thinking we'd move somewhere in these hills, not Chesapeake
Bay."

"That's when you were still thinking you could find the gold."  She
leaned over the wing chair and pulled out the maps that were stored
beneath it.  She passed them to Ryder to emphasize her point.

"You've been over every inch of them.  Joe Panama might have known
about prospecting for gold and silver, but he didn't draw these to find
hidden treasure.  That bottom map describes this cavern, doesn't it?"
Ryder was not surprised that Mary had worked it out for herself.

"You're very good," he said quietly.  She could have left him at any
time while he was sick; still, she had elected to stay behind and care
for him.

"So you know where we are."  She nodded.

"Colter Canyon."

"Close enough."

"Do you think the gold was brought here?"

"Not to this cavern, but somewhere close by.  I've been over most of
the area since we've been here.  There's nothing to follow any longer.
If the gold's here, then no one's come to claim it.  If it's not, then
it was removed in the months after the raid."

"While you were on trial.

Another diversion."  She leaned forward and said earnestly, "There must
be someone who can help us."  He didn't take issue with her repeated
assumption that his problem was hers as well.  He would save that
argument for later.

"I don't know," he said heavily.

"Florence Gardner?"  He shook his head.

"I won't ask her."  Mary recognized his firmness on that front.

"Very well," she said.

"What about Wilson Stillwell?"  She raised her hand, holding off his
objections.

"Hear me out, Ryder.  You may not have any great feeling for the man,
but he is your uncle and he is a senator.  He came from Washington to
be present at your trial.

That says something about his commitment to family."

"He didn't want me to embarrass him," Ryder said.

"That's why he made the trip."  Mary ignored that.

"I don't know the history between you two, but he is in a position to
help you.  It's a terrible toll your pride is exacting if you refuse to
ask him for anything."  The frostlike chill was back in Ryder's pale
eyes.  He said nothing.

"If we can get to Washington will you ask him for help?"  It was the
way she phrased the question that lowered Ryder's guard.

"Yes," he said.  "if we can get to Washington."

"Then it's settled," she said, satisfied.

"Good."  She stood, stretching her arms and yawning widely.  Watching
her, Ryder rolled up the maps and tapped them lightly on the arm of the
rocker.  As far as he was concerned nothing was settled.

"You'd better explain what you mean."  She covered her mouth to
suppress another yawn.  What was it he didn't understand?

"As soon as you're well enough to travel we'll start for Washington.  I
can't say it plainer than that."

"You're going to have to," he said.

"How is it that you propose we get there?  Walk?"  Mary waved a hand
dismissively.

"Of course not.  We'll take the train."  When she saw that he was still
looking at her oddly she realized he still didn't know how it could be
accomplished.  He was probably thinking it would require money.

"Northeast Rail goes all over this country," she told him.

"And my father owns Northeast Rail."  Ryder dropped the rolled maps on
the floor and came to his feet.

"Absolutely not."  Mary flinched at his tone.

When she recovered from her surprise, she asked calmly, "Why not?"

"No."  It was not an answer.

"Surely it's my decision."

"You're my wife."  She blinked at that.

"It's still my decision.

They're my family."

"They're my family."  That announcement took some of the wind from
Mary's sails.  She suddenly realized she wasn't looking at the problem
from Ryder's perspective.  He had already told her that in the
Chiricahua culture it was the role of the son-in-law to provide.  What
she was suggesting was flying in the face of that tradition.

"I wasn't thinking," she said finally.

"I didn't realize what it would mean to you.  This changes things."

"Good," he said.

"Now it's settled."  She nodded.

"I'm divorcing you."  Ryder's head snapped back as if he'd been
struck.

"You will not."

Mary was already moving toward the trunk.  She threw back the lid and
began gathering his clothes.

"Didn't you say all I had to do was leave them outside our home?"  She
rooted through his possessions with the single-mindedness of a puppy
uncovering a bone.

"Should I put them in the passage or drop them at the mouth of the
cavern on my way out?"  Shrugging off the hand that Ryder placed on her
shoulder, she continued to go through his belongings.

"I want there to be no mistake about my intentions."

"Mary, you can't divorce me for no reason," he said.  She stopped long
enough to cast him a sideways glance.

"Since you don't think saving your life is a good reason, let me give
you another one.  You're provoking."  She bent to her task again.

"Don't you dare smile behind my back.  I'm not doing this for your
amusement."  Ryder scooped up the clothes she had gathered and pitched
them back in the trunk.

"I can keep it up longer than you," he said.  Mary's mouth flattened as
she stared at the work he had undone.

"All right," she said.

"I won't divorce you."  She stood and began unbuttoning her shirt.  His
expression didn't change, but Ryder did sigh.

"What are you doing now?"  Raising defiant eyes, Mary continued to
release the buttons.

"When you wanted to keep me around before, you kept me naked.  I'm
merely anticipating your orders."

"Now who's being provoking?"  he asked.

"And you're doing it deliberately."  Mary shrugged.  Her shirt slipped
off her right shoulder.  She let it be and removed the belt holding up
her trousers.  Thrusting it at Ryder, she said, "In case you want to
tie me."  What he wanted to do was gag her.  Unconsciously he wrapped
the ends of the cloth belt around each of his fists and pulled tight.

"Or strangle me," she said, eyeing the garrote.

Ryder looked down at his hands and saw what he had made.

Unraveling the ends, he tossed it away impatiently.  Mary could see she
was engaging him in a battle he didn't want to fight.

Careless of the consequences, she shimmied out of the trousers.

Tossing back her head, she let her shirt slip off both shoulders.

"Well, Ryder?  This is what you want, isn't it?"

It was as if lightning seared his eyes.  He didn't look anywhere but at
Mary's face, and when he acted it was without telegraphing his
intentions.  In a single sweeping motion he lifted her off her feet and
tossed her over his shoulder.  She was robbed of breath for a moment.
She pummeled his backside.  He walloped hers once.

Shock held her still.  The blessed silence almost caused Ryder to
change his mind, but he was already at the pool.  She tried to hold on
to him as his intent became clear, clutching at his shoulders and arms,
but he peeled her off, tipped her into the well, and jumped back to
avoid the splash of icy water.  He was already walking away by the time
Mary surfaced.  She shook off thick droplets and knuckled others from
her eyes.  When she could see clearly she glared at him.

"Bastard!"  Ryder sat down in the wing chair and stretched out his legs
in front of him.  One dark eyebrow was raised.

"You just stay there until you cool off."  Mary was damned if she was
going to do that.  She hauled herself out.  The icy water had raised
bumps on her skin and her teeth had begun to chatter.  Belatedly
realizing Ryder had another motive for dropping her in the water, Mary
gave him a sour look as she reached for a blanket to cover herself.

"Satisfied?"  she asked, drawing it around her.  Ryder had no
difficulty recognizing the trap in that question.  He pointed to the
bed.

"Sit down," he said.

"Over there."  Mary recognized that he was insisting on some distance
between them.

"Are you concerned about my safety or yours?"

"Sit down, Mary.  Now."  She sat.  The silence between them built to a
point at which it was almost tangible.  Mary refused to show what a
struggle it was to meet Ryder's predatory stare.

"Tell me about your plan," he said finally.  She took a deep breath and
let it out slowly.

"You can't keep me here, Ryder.  Not easily, anyway.

I'm leaving you, and I'm going back to my family.  It's not an idle
threat.  I've studied those maps every bit as much as you have, and I
already know how to get out of this cavern.  The journey back to Fort
Union is more straightforward than I could have believed.  You must
have taken the most roundabout route imaginable to make your escape
from the stockade."  Ryder acknowledged the truth of it with a slight
nod of his head.  Mary tucked the corner of her blanket more firmly
between her breasts.

"You'd better be prepared to make me your prisoner again because I'm
done being your wife."

Her voice was clear and firm, leaving no doubt that she meant what she
said.  The blanket that Ryder had maneuvered her into taking was
beginning to look more like armor.

"I wasn't thinking so much about your plan to leave me," he said, "as I
was about your plan that we should leave together."

"Oh."

Ryder crossed his ankles and folded his arms across his chest.

"Oh," he said softly.

"I'm prepared to listen."  Mary twisted some water out of her hair and
untangled the crown with her fingers.

"Rennie and Jarret are still working at Holland Mines.  It makes sense
to go there rather than try to make contact at Fort Union.  With their
help, we can get to the station at Tucson.  That's where the private
cars will be.  There's the one that my mother and I used to come out
west and I'm sure my father brought another for his journey.  Rennie
and Jarret have yet another for their own use.  We only need to ask for
one to take us to Washington.  Rennie's in charge of all of Northeast's
operations in this area.  She can arrange it easily."

"If she will."

"She will," Mary said with serene confidence.

"Then we wouldn't have to ask your father's permission."

"No, we wouldn't.  Does that make it more palatable?"  Ryder had to
admit that it did.

"It might work."

"You'd still have to ask for your uncle's help.  We'd need a place to
stay and assistance in finding Anna Leigh.  Senator Stillwell could be
invaluable to us."

"We still have to get to Holland Mines," he reminded her.  He would
think about his uncle later.

Mary was so certain of her family's help it didn't occur to her there
might not be aid from the other quarter.

"There are troops all over this territory looking for us.  That hasn't
changed.  It was a risk taking you to the Chiricahua encampment but
this is a greater one.  We'll be crossing more open ground, and all of
it will be on foot."  He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his
knees.

"Besides, this may be for nothing, Mary.  Have you considered that?
Anna Leigh Hamilton may not be the key."  Mary had thought of it.

"I don't have any other ideas," she said simply.

"It's better to go off in the wrong direction, than to have no
direction at all."  They left two days later but mistimed their
departure and had to cool their heels in the mouth of the cavern until
nightfall.  Mary wore trousers and a blue chambray shirt.  A bandana
was tied around her forehead.  Her upturned moccasins were laced to her
knees.  Ryder wore the uniform he had escaped in.  They traveled light.
No blankets.  No change of clothing.  He carried a Henry rifle in one
hand and had a Colt at his hip.  The saddlebags, filled with extra
ammunition, maps, medicine, bandages, and a polished turquoise stone,
were slung over his shoulder.  Mary carried the canteen, its straps
slung diagonally across her chest, and the pocket of her right moccasin
contained a knife.  They covered the ground at Ryder's half speed.

Mary's stamina was a marvel to him but no match for his.

Even with his recent injury still plaguing him at odd moments, he had
to slow his pace to let her keep up.  She never complained, and she
didn't waste her breath asking questions.  Her trust in him was
absolute.  He felt this as a boon and a burden.  They walked all night,
resting only to drink.  It was only when the sun was clearly overhead
that Ryder indicated they would stop.  Mary looked around for shade and
saw it in the narrow natural hollow of one of the red rocks.  She
immediately began to go in that direction.

"No," Ryder told her.  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

"There's shade there.  It will be cooler."

"Apache don't rest in the shade because it's so obvious.  We'll rest
there, among the mesquite and yucca."  When Mary didn't argue, but
obligingly turned around and followed him, he once again felt the
enormous responsibility of her trust.  They were up again at sunset.  A
patrol from the fort passed within a hundred yards of them a few hours
later, but not one man in it glanced in their direction.  Mary and
Ryder stayed concealed in the rocks until Ryder was reasonably certain
the danger had passed.

"They weren't looking for us."  Mary whispered as Ryder helped her up.
Her voice was husky.  She hadn't spoke a word for hours.

"That was just a routine patrol.  No scouts.  They weren't searching
for us, but they would have been happy to stumble on our trail."  Mary
realized that Ryder had not exaggerated the dangers.  She fell in step
behind him and found comfort in a familiar littany of prayers.

Ryder found fresh water for them as the moon was on the rise.

Mary filled the canteens and splashed her face while he kept watch.

Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed his still, waiting
expression.  He seemed prepared to sense even the slightest shift in
the current of air.

"I'm ready," she said.  He reached for her, touching her hair with his
fingertips.  Her features were so perfectly composed, her manner so
tranquil, that he took a measure of her peace for himself.  Ryder
nodded once.

"This way."  They arrived at Holland Mines when it was still dark, but
there was no means of approaching that would not create a stir.  Tents
were set up near the perimeter of the track that led to the mine's
adit.

They were all fairly uniform and nondescript.  No lantern light
emanated from under any of the canvas.  There was no way of knowing if
any of them was being used by Rennie or Jarret or some other member of
Mary's family.  No one stirred in the camp.  A guard was posted near
the adit, but his head lolled to the side at such an uncomfortable
angle that Ryder and Mary knew he was sleeping.  A dozen horses and
burros shifted listlessly in the corral.

"Where is the track being laid?"  Ryder asked.

"It's coming north from Tucson," she whispered.

"They work from the point of the completed section so they can carry
supplies and timber as they go.  Rennie is having this area graded and
prepared."  Mary massaged the back of her neck and rotated her head
slowly.

"If Rennie and Jarret aren't here now, they will be in the morning.
We'll just have to wait."  Ryder had been thinking the same thing.  He
looked around, examining their location again to make sure it was safe
from a casual observer in the camp.  In the morning, when the miners
and track laborers began rising, he and Mary couldn't afford to be
vulnerable.  Satisfied, he leaned back against a rock and stretched his
legs.  He patted the ground beside him and waited for Mary to scoot
back and join him.  Her head fit nicely into the curve of his
shoulder.

"Sleep," he said.  Her eyes already closing, she didn't require the
soft command.  There was no casual drift into sleep.  This time she was
overpowered by it.  Ryder's hand relaxed on the Henry rifle at his
side.  The night sounds around him were familiar and unremarkable: the
gentle snuffling of the horses in the corral; the rustle of the scrub
grasses; the soft, even cadence of Mary's breath.  Small animals like
the burrowing owl and the raccoon moved out of their homes to
investigate the mining camp's easy pickings.  Leaning back his head,
Ryder stared at the clear night sky.  After so many nights spent in the
confines of the cavern, this vast canopy of light gave him enormous
pleasure.  The heavens held the constellations of his father's
teachings, characters of ancient Greek and Roman legends.

They also held the stars of his Chiricahua upbringing.  The same
grouping of stars lent themselves to different myths depending on one's
perspective.  It was Ryder's destiny, his gift and his burden, to be in
one place and absorb two views.  In this moment he enjoyed it as a
gift.  Mary came awake abruptly.  Her eyes opened wide above the hand
that was clamped hard over her mouth and nose, but the sharp edge of
her panic was dulled as she recognized it was Ryder who held her.  A
warning for quiet was clear on his face.

She nodded slightly, communicating her assent and understanding.

Ryder removed his hand slowly.  He pointed to the ground, then her,
indicating she should stay where she was.  She looked at him
questioningly, but agreed.  Her expression became more anxious when he
pointed to himself then toward the camp.  He shrugged out of his Army
coat and gave it to her, but when she would have put it around her
shoulders, he stopped her.  With quick economic gestures he told her to
sit on it.  Turning away from Mary, Ryder crouched behind the rock that
served as their cover.  He felt Mary's tug on his belt, but gave it no
attention.  His hand gripped the Henry rifle now and he raised it, not
to fire but to have it ready.  The Chiricahua raiders were at the
corral.  Ryder counted four men, all on foot, slipping around the
posted perimeter.  The horses were not alarmed in the least by the
quiet, calming movements of the trespassers.  In the distance, out of
the line of his vision, Ryder could hear the more agitated sounds of
other horses, the high-strung shuffling and nervous energy of animals
ready to be urged into a wild run.  Ryder's best guess was that the
raiding party included a dozen more warriors who were only waiting for
the corralled horses to be released before they attacked.  Ryder
slipped out from behind his cover and cautiously worked his way down to
the camp.  The raiders were preparing to swing open the corral gates.
Ryder's rifle was useless in this situation.  If he fired it would
rouse the mining camp, but it also would bring a volley of shots from
the waiting warriors.  Cupping his hands around his mouth he mimicked
the cry of the great horned owl.  All four Apache raiders stopped in
their tracks.  The owl's cry was an omen of danger and death, and they
acknowledged this by pausing in their work.  Ryder released the cry
again, softer this time, capturing the eerie fierceness of the night
predator, then he raised his rifle overhead and stood.  The raiders,
made hyper vigilant by the night stalker's cry, saw Ryder emerge from
his hiding place as if he had risen from the dust.

Their momentary rush of fear was transmitted immediately to the
animals, and the horses and burros began to snort and bray.  Ryder
walked quickly toward the corral before the restless animals woke the
camp's guard or alerted the more distant warriors.  Mary's heart was
lodged firmly in her throat as she watched Ryder stride boldly across
the open ground.

It was a good place for her heart, she thought absurdly, because that
kept her from making a sound.  She found she could not draw a full
breath until he made it to the corral without incident.  It was
unnerving to watch the action and have no role in the outcome.

Mary could see that Ryder was speaking to the raiders at the same time
he was drawing them away from the corral.  She was aware of the animals
quieting and of silence returning to the encampment as Ryder and the
raiders disappeared behind the curtain of night.

Minutes passed and he did not reappear.  Mary's legs ached from her
crouched position, and her promise to stay where she was tore at her
conscience.  It had never been her way to do nothing, but in this
instance she had no clear idea of what she could do.  In a heartbeat
the decision was taken out of her hands.  Ryder carried his rifle at
his side.  Surrounded now by the raiders, it was no longer necessary to
hold it overhead.  After some arguing with him and among themselves
they led him to the band of warriors who had been awaiting their
signal.  Ryder had no difficulty finding the great Geronimo among them.
Geronimo's broad face was cut by deep creases, carved by the weather in
much the same manner the earth was carved by sun and storms.  The
silver medallion he wore on a rawhide thong around his neck flashed
briefly in the moonlight.  He allowed his mount to advance a few steps,
bringing him out of the phalanx of skittish animals.

"Ryder."  Geronimo pronounced it with a guttural harshness that could
not be mistaken for a greeting.

"You interfere."

"My wife's family may be among those you intend to murder in their
sleep," he said.  The Chiricahua leader did not blink.  He stared at
Ryder stonily, unmoved by this information.

"Naiche is my brother, and you are his son.  That is why no one moves
to kill you now.  You may go and we will forget this trespass in our
affairs."

"I will bring you the horses," Ryder said.  Geronimo's mouth
flattened.

"The animals were ours, and you stopped the raid."

"I stopped the bloodshed."  Ryder saw the truth of his words in
Geronimo's flinty eyes.

"My wife's father is powerful among his people as you are powerful
among so many.  There will be great retribution for taking the lives of
his loved ones."

"Your wife's family brings the iron horse," Geronimo intoned gravely.
Ryder's chest tightened.  He hadn't realized Geronimo knew that Mary's
family was connected to the railroad.

This did not favor Ryder's ability to bargain.

"Yes," he said.

"You are a traitor to your people," the chief said.  Ryder knew
Geronimo meant the Chiricahua.

"The white leaders say the same," he said.

"But I have betrayed no one.  I live in one world and I remain true to
all people as I am true to myself."

"How will you fight tonight?"  Geronimo asked.

"On whose side?"

"On my side," Ryder said, returning Geronimo's hard stare.

"I will fight you to prevent more bloodshed, and I will fight my wife's
people to bring you the horses."  Geronimo was silent, in no hurry to
make his decision.

"My heart is sad for you," he said finally.

"For I think you live in no world and trust no one."  There were
whispers among the warriors as they anticipated their leader's
decision.

"Bring us the horses."  There was the slightest pause, and then
Geronimo spoke Ryder's name in the Apache tongue,
"One-Who-Rides-The-Wind."  Ryder acknowledged this with a slight bow of
his head before he turned.  The irony of the similarities in his
Christian and Chiricahua names had never been lost on him, but now the
connection seemed more important than ever.  Once again he was bridging
both cultures, two lives.  Ryder returned to the corral alone.  He
climbed over the fence and dropped inside.  Leaning his rifle against
the fence, he began to run a leading string around the horses,
tethering them together so they wouldn't stray when he released them.
The animals were calm under his gentle direction.  The horses lined up
docilely, and the burros meekly went to another corner.

Ryder was ready to raise the rope on the gate when a familiar
unexpected voice stopped him.

"I'm not going to let you do that," Rosario said lowly.  Ryder did not
drop the rope, but some small movement he made indicated his intention
to go for his gun.

Rosario stepped out of the shadows of the nearby mining machinery.

"And I'm not going to let you do that."  The Tonto scout was shielded
by Mary's body.  He held a knife to her throat.  Ryder's face gave no
indication of the jolt that went through him.  He let the rope fall
back into place.

"Let her go."  Though Rosario had spoken English, Ryder gave his order
in the Tonto dialect of the Apache tongue.

"You only want me."

"I will have both."

"You will have nothing."  Ryder practically spat the words.

"You hide behind a woman.  There is no honor in that."  Rosario
recognized the ploy: attack his pride and force him to give up his
captive.

"It means nothing coming from a man who has no honor," he said tightly.
The blade was no longer cold on Mary's throat.  The edge of it had
drawn blood once, and she could feel the trickle against her skin.  She
was afraid and she was angry, but anyone who knew her would realize in
which direction the scales of emotion were tipped.

"For God's sake, speak English," she snapped.

"If I'm going to die over it, then I'll damned well know what the
argument's about."  Ryder didn't flinch.  Rosario, he saw, was taken
aback by her tone and her vehemence.  The knife was pressed more firmly
against Mary's throat, the blade turned in just a fraction more
lethally.

"He doesn't want me to release the horses," Ryder told her.

"And he isn't willing to release you in exchange for my promise."  He
looked past Mary to Rosario.

"You're condemning everyone here to death."  Rosario's head cocked to
one side, but he said nothing.

"You saw the raiding party, didn't you?"  He nodded.

"Less than twenty men."

"You fool.  Geronimo is with them.  It makes them a hundred strong." He
saw Rosario's confusion.

"And they'll run over this camp if I don't give them the horses.  No
one will escape.  Least of all you.  You could have had the great
Geronimo.  You settled for the easy coup instead."  Mary felt her
captor's anger rise and knew the moment she was going to be pushed away
so he could face Ryder.  Prepared as she was, the vigorous thrust still
sent her sliding forward onto her knees.  Her palms scraped the ground
as she came to a halt.  Catching her breath, she looked up and saw
Ryder vaulting over the corral to attack Rosario.  Mary scrambled to
her feet and removed the knife from her moccasin pocket.  Ryder and
Rosario were circling each other.  Rosario's knife was darkened on the
edge by Mary's own blood.  Ryder was without a weapon save his Colt,
and it was useless because he didn't want to fire it and precipitate
the blood bath he was trying desperately to avoid.  Mary tossed her
knife onto the ground between the men.

Rosario was small of stature, lithe and quick.  A bandana held back his
long ink black hair, but his locks swirled about his shoulder as he
stabbed at Ryder to keep him from retrieving the weapon.

Ryder easily removed himself from harm's way, feinted left then dove
right, capturing the hilt as he somersaulted forward.  He came to his
feet again easily, this time on the other side of Rosario.  Now that
Ryder was armed, Mary turned her back on the combatants.  Nothing she
could do there could affect the outcome, but she must save the camp.
Raising the looped rope on the gate post, she let the corral gate swing
open and grasped the leading string of the first horse to sidle up to
her.  With a firm, commanding tug, she led the animal out of the
corral.  Tethered together as they were, the others had little choice
but to follow.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Rosario's arm make a wide sweeping
arc, saw Ryder duck the lethal pass.  Mary pressed on.

She didn't know where she was taking the horses.  She was aware of the
general direction in which Ryder had gone when he'd left the corral
with the four Chiricahua raiders.  She supposed, correctly, that they
would find her.  A band of six warriors stopped her, blocking her route
with the animals.  Giving herself to God's care and grace, Mary faced
them squarely.  She held up the leading strings in a tight fist.

"These are for you."  No one moved.  No one commented.  They simply
stared at her.  Mary was a woman outside the realm of their experience.
Her shirt and trousers gave her an appearance they were not accustomed
to in a white woman.  The upturned moccasins, similar to their own,
identified her as the one Ryder had married.  They wondered at her
cropped hair and oddly serene expression as she faced them.  She did
not cower in terror or raise her fist defiantly.  If she was afraid she
had learned to accept the fear and absorb its strength for herself.

One warrior moved forward.

"She is One-Who-Rides-The-Wind's woman."  Mary did not understand what
was said, but there seemed to be general agreement among the other
warriors.

"These horses are a gift for the great Geronimo.  My husband and I wish
to make him this gift."  The warrior who had come forward now reached
for the leads and took them from Mary's hand.

"What do you know of Geronimo?"  he asked in English.  Mary held her
ground, but it was difficult with the horse and the men towering over
her.

"I know he has the mark of a powerful man," she said clearly.

"How do you know this?"  was the deeply graveled reply.

"He is both feared and respected by his enemies."  The warrior
considered this a moment, then he translated for his band.  There was
another general murmur of agreement.

"And would you tell him this if you met him?"  Mary shook her head.

"Respect and fear would shut my mouth."  There was deep, rich rumbling
laughter when this was translated.

"A cunning fox would have to steal her tongue to shut her mouth," he
added in Apache and laughed at his own humor.  Mary did not have to
understand the language to know she was the object of their joking.  It
was clear they had no intention of harming her.  Having made her gift,
she was anxious to get back to the corral and Ryder.

"I must go," she said.

"My husband is--"

"Is going to turn you over his knee."  Mary spun on her heels as
Ryder's voice came to her from behind.  Moving past the horses, she
launched herself into his arms and planted kisses over his face.

Only half aware of what she was doing, she patted him down, exploring
for puncture wounds.

"I swear I am, Mary," he said between kisses.

"Right over my knee."  The warrior holding the horses nodded
approvingly and offered his opinion in Apache.

Still holding Ryder's dear face between her hands, Mary drew back
slightly.

"What did he say?"  she asked.

"Geronimo says I should beat you now and save myself years of agony."
Mary blinked.

"Geronimo?"  Her hands dropped from Ryder's face, and she turned
quickly in the direction of the band of warriors.  They were already
moving away, the great man himself leading the captured horses.  She
stared after him, awed by her close encounter, amazed at her own
temerity.  She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross.  Ryder
lifted Mary against him in a hard, solid embrace.

"I can't turn my back on you for a moment."  He kissed her forehead,
her cheeks, her ear.

"God," he whispered against her hair.

"Thank God."

"Does this mean you're not going to beat me?"

she said when he set her down.  A wash of moonlight highlighted her
mouth.  Ryder's decision was easy.  He kissed her.  Mary gave herself
up to it, forgett all her questions and losing herself in the taste and
texture of that kiss.

"Oh," she said a little dazedly when he lifted his head.

"Oh, my."  Ryder smiled.

"I'll take that as a compliment."  His dry tone was enough to sober
Mary.  She stepped back and turned her gaze in the direction of the
mining camp.

"What happened?"  she asked.  Since Ryder was alive there was only one
answer she expected.  It wasn't the one Ryder gave her.

"Rosario's trussed like a calf for branding."  Mary's forest green eyes
held her astonishment.

"You didn't kill him?"

"Not yet.  Jarret's deciding his fate."

"Jarret!  Then he and Rennie were in the camp."  Ryder nodded.

"He'll probably never know for certain what roused him out of his cot
or what made him decide to take a look around, but he had a lot more to
do with saving my lifb than I did."  Mary tried to take it all in.

"Is the entire camp awake?"

"No.  Just Jarret.  Even the posted guard's still sleeping.  Jarret
wants to kill him more than Rosario."  Ryder took a bandana from his
pocket and wet one end of it.  Lifting Mary's chin, he cleaned the thin
trail of blood from her neck.

"Jarret clipped Rosario with the butt of his Colt and tossed him into
one of the mining carts.  We pushed it into the mine, then I came to
get you.  Jarret was going to keep Rosario in one of the abandoned
shafts until we make our escape.  If he sees the blood on your neck he
may just push Rosario down it."  Though he spoke lightly, Mary knew it
was the truth.  She supposed Jarret's interference had a great deal to
do with saving Rosario's life, too.  The flinty look in Ryder's eyes
told her that he could easily take the scout's life for what he had
done to her.  "i'm fine," she said.

"Really."  Mary laid her hand over Ryder's wrist and forced him to stop
attending her.  She pushed his hand gently away.

"Rosario came up behind me," she told him.

"When you went to the corral.  I didn't go looking for trouble."  It
was important to her that he know the truth.

"I believe you."  And he did.  Rosario had probably been following them
at some distance from the time they left the cave.  Ryder blamed
himself for not being more observant.

"Let's go.  Jarret's waiting for us."  He thrust the bandana back in
his pocket and took Mary's hand.

"He has some place in mind for us to hide."  The hiding place turned
out to be the same abandoned portion of the mine where jarret had made
Rosario a prisoner.  Jarret's torchlight flickered over the unconscious
scout as he led Mary and Ryder deeper into the shaft.

Mary saw that Rosario, bound and gagged' was not likely to stir anytime
soon.

"You won't let him die," she said to Jarret.  When he didn't answer her
she tugged on his shirt.

"Don't ignore me, Jarret."

"As if I could."  He stopped because he had reached the end of the
horizontal shaft.  He thrust the torch into a crevice between the
timber uprights and the rock wall.

"No," he said plainly.

"I won't let him die.  But he has to stay there until we decide what's
to become of the two of you."  He pointed to the blankets he had
already laid out on the ground.

"It's the best I could do on short notice.  You weren't exactly
expected."

"And certainly not invited," Ryder said, giving Mary an arch glance.

Jarret said, "Oh, I know whose idea this was.  It has that masterful
Dennehy touch all over it.  I'm only surprised you went along with it."
He sighed and his voice lost the sarcasm that had marked it.

"Never mind.  I do understand."  He raked back his hair in a weary
gesture.

"Get some sleep.  There are a few hours left before sun up.  You may as
well rest until then.  There's going to be quite a commotion in camp
once I tell the miners their horses are gone."  He left the torch
behind and made his way out by touch.  Mary and Ryder heard him swear
softly as he tripped over Rosario's body.  To her shame, Mary had to
control the urge to laugh.

"It's all right," Ryder said, quelling his own smile.

"Rosario didn't feel a thing."

"I was thinking more of Jarret's toes.  He was barefoot, did you
notice?"  Ryder had noticed.

"I

don't suppose Jarret's had much cause these days to sleep with his
boots on."  He helped Mary down on the blankets, smoothing them out on
the edges.  He didn't even have his coat to lend her for a pillow.

"Put your head on my lap," he said.

"No," she said.

"You put your head on mine.."  Ryder recognized the flat, dogmatic
tone.  If he argued with her they would both spend the night sleeping
sitting up.  He valued his own rest more than winning an argument with
Mary.

"Very well."  He let her settle back against the wall, then lay down.
When her fingers began to sift through his hair he closed his eyes. Her
touch released the tightness in his scalp and the tension at the back
of his neck.  His mouth relaxed, then his shoulders.  Hours later Mary
raised a finger to her lips as Rennie and Jarret entered the area from
the mine passage.  The torch Jarret had left behind had long since
burned out, but Rennie was carrying another.  Mary squinted to adjust
to the onslaught of light.

"Is it morning already?"  she asked softly, loath to wake Ryder.

He had slept deeply, rarely stirring.  Rennie knelt beside her sister.
She touched her face as if to assure herself it really was Mary-and in
one piece.

"Are you all right?  What are you doing here?  Don't think for a minute
that I believe all that nonsense Jarret reported after he found you.  I
know you didn't help plan Ryder's escape.  You told me about finding
Mama's habit, remember?

You weren't pretending to be hurt or angry.  It was all very real.

You didn't plan that."  Mary rolled her eyes.  She had forgotten how
wearing Rennie's energy could be.

"Of course I didn't plan to wear it, you ninny.  That just came about
because it was the better idea."  She saw that she had momentarily
confused her sister.

"Stop trying to guess at things it's better you don't know.  What does
it matter what I've done when I'm here to talk about what I intend to
do?"  Rennie's mouth clamped shut.

"That's better," Mary said firmly.  She glanced down at Ryder.  His
eyes were open, and there was a barely suppressed smile on his lips.

"See?"  she told Rennie.

"He's awake now, and I'm certain it has something to do with your
chattering."  Ryder pushed himself upright.

"I

distinctly heard two jays squawking."

"Jays!"  Mary said.

"Squawking!"  Rennie said.  Jarret hunkered down in front of Ryder and
handed him a tin plate with scrambled eggs, corn meal, and bacon on
it.

"As long as you're eating you can't get in the middle of it."  Ryder
saw the wisdom of it immediately.  He tucked into his food and let the
Marys carry on.  Rennie passed the next plate from Jarret to her
sister.

"You're safe enough here.  The miners have no reason to come down this
passage, and Jarret and I weren't followed in.  Most of the men left
when Jarret raised hell about the horses being gone.  They're walking
to where the track is being laid, hoping to get a ride into Tucson
where they can get new mounts and raise a ruckus about the Apache
raid."  Jarret added, "They know they're lucky to be alive, but they
still want to ride out.  They don't think the Army's doing enough to
stop the Chiricahua.  At least not the band Geronimo's leading."
Ryder's brows rose a fraction but he said nothing.  Mary stared at her
plate.  Rennie looked from one to the other.

"So it was Geronimo."  Unconsciously her hand went to her hair as if to
check the placement of her scalp.

"The men were right."

"I didn't tell them anything," Jarret explained.

"Around here these days it's a matter of two and two is four.  The only
thing that puzzled the men is why they're still alive.  I didn't tell
them that either, but I suspect it has something to do with you."  He
leveled a hard look at Ryder and saw once again that the man did not
flinch easily.

It was Mary who spoke, giving the details of last night and then
including in her story their departure from the Cavern of Lost Souls.
Rennie put her arm around Mary's shoulders.  The affection between the
sisters ran deep, and admiration formed another bond.

"I could not imagine being half so brave as you."  she said, real awe
in her voice.  She shook her head slowly trying to take it in.

"To exchange words with Geronimo.  What was it like?"  Mary's smile was
modest.

"Not half so bad as exchanging words with Mama."

Chapter Thirteen

Ryder and Mary spent the day waiting for night.

The details of the escape had been mapped out at breakfast and the
arrangements made by lunch.  That left little besides anticipation and
apprehension to fill the time until dinner and departure.

Rennie thought the tension was almost tangible.

"Here," she said, dropping a valise at Mary's feet.

"I've brought you both a change of clothes.  It's time you were out of
trousers, Mary.  You'll raise suspicions dressed like that, not reduce
them."  Mary had come to appreciate the advantages of trousers.  Her
agreement was reluctant.

"Do as your sister says," Ryder said.

"She's right."

"I know she is," Mary snapped.

"That's why I agreed."  Rennie looked over her shoulder as her husband
entered the area.  Her eyes warned him about the emotional climate.
Jarret nodded, understanding.

"I have horses for you to ride," he announced.

"A

half dozen of the miners just returned, and they have two horses
between them.  I told them Rennie and I wanted to ride to Fort Union,
and they'll let us have them.  We'll ride out and meet you just beyond
sight of camp.  You'll be on your own after that.  One of the private
cars has been brought as far north as the track's been laid.  You
shouldn't have any trouble there."  He pointed to the clothes Rennie
had brought.

"Once you're wearing those, there'll be enough resemblance to fool
people at a distance.  You only have to stay inside and give your
orders through the door, just like we planned."

"Won't your workers think that's a little odd?"  asked Mary.

"Why would either of you stay inside the car and shout your orders
through a closed door?  That's very strange behavior."  Rennie's mouth
pursed in exasperation, and she gave her older sister a frank stare.

"You can't be that naive, Mary Francis."  Just to make certain she
understood, Rennie added, "Some mornings Jarret just can't get out of
bed."  Jarret came up behind his wife and slipped his arm around her
middle.  With a low, playful growl he nuzzled her ear.

"That's right.  Blame it on me, you lusty wench."  Rennie flushed to
the roots of her hair.  She poked Jarret in the ribs with her elbow.

"Let's get out of here so they can change.  I think Mary's been made to
understand, thank you very much.  And you have to give our prisoner
something to eat anyway."

"Very well."  He let her go and pointed to the things he had carried in
and dropped just inside the entrance.

"I collected the saddlebags, Army jacket, and canteens that were left
up in the rocks.  If you want any of those items, fine.  If you don't,
I'll take them to our tent later and eventually get rid of them."

Ryder nodded.  He knew Jarret was trying to eliminate their trail and
also reduce the chances that he and Rennie would be pegged as
accomplices.

"You haven't been to the fort yourself today?"  he asked.

"No.  There's been plenty of activity between Fort Union and the mine,
though.  Since word reached the fort of the raid, they've had patrols
all over the place.  Jay Mac and Moira and the rest of the family know
we're fine here."

"It's a wonder Jay Mac didn't come himself to make sure," Mary said.

"That would be just like him."  Rennie nodded in agreement.

"We understand that General Gardner won't give any civilians permission
to leave the fort right now.  Ethan and Connor can't be any happier
about that than Jay Mac.  That's why we're returning to the fort as
soon as you're safely off."  There was a small catch in her throat.
Tears glistened unexpectedly in her eyes.

"And I want to see my babies."

Mary flew to her sister's side and embraced her.

"Of course you do.  Dear, dear Rennie, how will we ever thank you?" She
looked to Jarret over Rennie's shoulder and held out her hand for him
to take.

"And you," she said, squeezing his hand gently.

"You've done so much.  There's no repayment ever that will be-" Jarret
shook his head.

"Finish this business in Washington," he said.

"And invite all of us to your next wedding."  His glance at Ryder was
significant.

"There'll be hell to pay otherwise."

Ryder nodded once, acknowledging the point.  it was clear Mary's family
thought she deserved a more conventional ceremony.

"If she'll have me," he said quietly.  Rennie took control of the
embrace with her sister, holding Mary by the shoulders and giving her a
steady look.  For once, she didn't say anything.  She was satisfied
with what she saw.  She released Mary and took her husband's arm.

"Let's go.  I'm as anxious to be gone from this place as they are."
Mary and Ryder changed clothes quickly once they were alone.  Her gown
was a serviceable blue and white gingham, while he exchanged his Army
uniform for jeans, a clean white shirt, and a brown leather vest.  One
of Rennie's bonnets covered Mary's short curls, and Ryder tucked his
long hair under the hat Jarret lent him.  When the transformation was
complete they bore a more than passing resemblance to Rennie and
Jarret.  Ryder actually began to have some confidence that their scheme
just might work.  They passed Rosario as they were leaving the mine. He
was still bound and gagged and sleeping peacefully.  Rennie and Jarret
had fed him well but they had also drugged his food.  Ryder didn't
spare the scout a glance, though Mary said a brief prayer over him.

Mary and Ryder were able to leave the mine without incident.

Crossing the camp unnoticed was more difficult, however.  The miners
and track laborers who had returned were milling about, not so eager
for sleep as they had been the night before.  wThey sat in small groups
of two and three around several different fires.

Someone was playing a fiddle, and the mood was such that even that
happy instrument was given a mournful sound.

"Thought you had already left," a miner called to them as they crossed
the encampment.  Ryder simply raised a hand.  The gesture worked as
well as a verbal response.

"Mrs.  Sullivan," someone else begged for attention.

"You promised you'd give me those plans tonight."

Mary could hear the footsteps behind breaking into a new rhythm as the
Northeast laborer tried to catch up with them.  Thinking quickly, she
pulled on Ryder's sleeve and stopped him.  She could tell he was
questioning her judgment, uncomfortable with having a face-to-face
confrontation with anyone.  Mary slipped the saddlebags off Ryder's
shoulder.

"Go on, she encouraged him.

"I'll be there in a moment."  As Ryder strode away she quickly opened
the bag and withdrew one of the maps.  She had no idea which one she
was handing over when the laborer finally caught her, but she kept her
head low and thrust it into his hands.

"Just as I promised," she said in a credible imitation of Rennie's
huskier voice.

"Thank you, Mrs.  Sullivan."  He took the paper she gave him, tipped
his hat, and let her go, satisfied with the exchange.

Mary's own heart was slamming hard in her chest when she came up behind
Ryder.  She returned the saddlebags.

"Don't take a chance like that again," he said tightly.  He was furious
with her and didn't care if she knew it.

"What would you have had me do?"  she asked in the same harsh
whisper.

"Run away?  That would have raised a few eyebrows and called attention
to us."  It didn't make it any easier that she was right.  He wasn't
used to being impotent in challenging situations.

"I could have given him a map, the same as you."

"He asked for me.  Rennie is the one who is the engineer, after all."
Mary clamped her mouth shut before she said something she would regret.
Without their being aware of it, their angry tandem stride had kept
anyone else from calling out or approaching them.  In a few minutes
they were beyond the mining camp and the light from the fires dotting
it.  Rennie and Jarret were waiting for them in the prearranged
location.  Rennie gave her sister a brief hug, then began counting
instructions on her fingertips.

"It's already arranged for the car to leave as soon as you arrive at
the work site.  Don't forget to tell them in Tucson that you want to go
to Santa Fe, not to California.  That will be different than the route
they're used to Jarret and me taking.

I'll telegraph ahead to Santa Fe and lay out your journey from there.
After you're safely on your way we'll be able to communicate by
telegraph, though I think caution is in order.

Perhaps Pittsburgh would be a good place to send messages.  If the rest
of us stay here a while longer, no one will suspect that we've arranged
for you to leave.  If Jay Mac will only cooperate it will be brilliant.
We'll confuse the Army."

Jarret and Ryder exchanged glances, but both of them were wise enough
not to comment.  Confusion, they had both learned, was a peculiarity of
all the Marys' plans.  They had no doubt that Mary Margaret and Mary
Michael would fall in easily, even approve.  And if Mary Schyler had
been around the whole thing would have only become more elaborate.
Farewells were kept brief to ease the ache on both sides.  Jarret and
Ryder shook hands.  Rennie kissed Ryder on the cheek.  Mary embraced
both her sister and her brother-in-law.  When Mary could steel herself
to look back at Jarret and Rennie, night hid them from her view.  Out
of the corner of his eye Ryder saw Mary hastily brush away a tear.  He
doubted it was from sadness.  Tonight Mary was more likely to cry out
of gratitude.  He understood perfectly.  Their arrival at the work site
was uneventful.  A guard waved to them and sauntered over to take their
horses when they dismounted.  Mary simply leaned against Ryder in a
posture of weary affection, and conversation was effectively eliminated
as the guard saw they seemed eager to retire.  The private car that
Rennie and Jarret used was really more of a work station.  It had fewer
creature comforts and more utilitarian items.  Earlier in the day
Rennie had removed all the essential items she needed to continue her
work on the rail line, leaving the car bare of the charts and surveys
that normally were scattered across every flat surface.  The wide desk
still held a heavy glass paperweight that served only an ornamental
function now.  A small armoire, bolted to the floor and the side of the
car, was filled with clothing and personal items-a razor, strop,
shaving soap, and combs.  Clearly Rennie's intention had been for Mary
and Ryder to freely use whatever they needed.  Mary ran her fingertips
across the dresses and shirts hanging in neat array.

"She thinks of everything," she said softly.  Ryder was looking at the
bookshelves that were built in under the bed.

"Everything," he agreed.  Mary followed his line of vision, trying to
decide if he was looking at the narrow, neatly turned down bed or the
leather-bound volumes below it.  Either way, she supposed, his
agreement fit.  Ryder slipped the saddlebags off his shoulder, propped
his rifle in one corner, and unfasttened his gunbelt.  He hung the
latter over the chair behind the desk, then crossed the car to the bed
and sat down.  There was a large basket on the middle of the covers. He
opened its hinged lid and saw it was filled with food for the first leg
of their journey.  Ryder placed it on the floor and leaned back on his
elbows.  One corner of his mouth lifted in dry amusement as he watched
Mary flit around the car examining one thing and then another. She made
a point of checking all the lamps for oil as well as to be certain they
were secure.  She drew open the curtain that shielded the commode, wash
basin, and toiletries from view.  Availing herself of a glass of water
from the keg below the washstand, Mary also familiarized herself with
the contents of the oak cupboard.

"You can't be that interested in bath salts and lavender soaps," Ryder
said.

"A lot you know," she retorted' closing the cupboard and pushing the
curtain back in place.

"After weeks and weeks of cold dips in that well, I'm looking forward
to a warm bath in scented water."  To prove her point she went over to
the copper hip bath and stepped inside it.  Just fantasizing what it
would be like filled with steaming, fragrant water brought a flush to
Mary's skin.  She hugged herself, closing her eyes.

"Mmm," she murmured.

"Can't you imagine it?"  Ryder could quite well.  The vision of Mary up
to her neck in bubbles-and nothing else--was very clear in his mind's
eye.  He even adjusted his vision so the bubbles only came as far as
her breasts.  If he looked carefully he could make out the tips of her
coral nipples peeping through.  It was easy to conceive of time passing
and the bubbles disappearing in tiny bursts.  The steam would have made
the ends of her hair curl damply, and droplets of water would cling to
her white shoulders.  The hollow of her throat would hold the scent of
lavender.  Her complexion would glow with a thin film of water, like
dew on the petals of a flower.  In his mind the hip bath suddenly
became large enough for two.

"Ryder!"  Mary called his name sharply.  He blinked and sat up
straighter.

"What?"

"You know what.  Stop intruding on my imagination."  A touch of ruddy
color crept under his complexion, betraying the tenor of his thoughts.
He didn't apologize for them though.

"Well, as long as you're going to avoid this bed, I may as well live on
dreams."  Mary raised her brows skeptically and unfastened her bonnet.
Stepping out of the tub, she sent the hat sailing across the car toward
Ryder.  He caught it and fell back on the bed as if laid low by a
weapon.

"Very amusing," she said dryly.  Lifting one corner of his mouth was as
much amusement as he could muster.  Watching him, Mary shook her head
bemusedly.  He could make her heart turn over with so little effort
that sometimes it stung her pride.  She constantly battled being too
easily led, surrendering so much of herself that she would not know
where she left off and he began.  He did not seem to have the same
concerns.

Ryder could give himself up to any moment and still come away whole.
She asked him about it later.  They were lying comfortably in the
narrow bed, the crisp sheets and covers in a tangled disarray about
them.  He had made love to her with such sweet passion that Mary's skin
still tingled.

"How do you do it?"  she asked, leaning over him, her forearms crossed
on his chest.  He was so utterly at peace now, his features calm and
untroubled, it was difficult to equate him with the man whose taut body
had rocked her only minutes earlier.  Tension had engraved the lines of
his face then, working a muscle in his jaw, straining the cords of his
neck.

She had held him, running her fingers along his back, feeling the rigid
musculature beneath her palms.  He had filled her and she had tightened
around him.  She had actually been able to feel her body respond to his
thrust as if it could halt his withdrawal.  There was an ache between
her thighs now, a sensation of something lost.

Mary could sense the shape of her own body because of the absence of
his.  She didn't want an answer to her question any longer.

She wanted him again.  Inside her.  Mary moved so that she was lying
fully along the length of his body.  She saw his eyes widen a fraction,
then darken with pleasure, surrender, and arousal.  Her mouth touched
his and she kissed him hard, drawing it out deeply as her tongue
speared his.  Her breath came in tiny gasps.  He drew in air with no
less difficulty, as selfish of the intensity of the kiss as she. Mary's
sensitive breasts rubbed his chest.  Her nipples grazed his skin, and
the contact was like a current running between them.  The sensation was
almost greater than her tolerance, the pleasure so furious and heated
that it bordered on pain.

Between her thighs she was warm and wet and ready for him again.

She raised herself up, pushing on her hands.  His hands capped her
breasts as she moved to center herself over him.  It wasn't possible
that he should be ready for her again, not so soon.  It had never
happened before, and Ryder had not expected it, but at this moment it
didn't seem to matter what was possible.

He responded to her urgency, to the heat and passion that filled her
and spilled onto him.  Her supple body moved against him like liquid
fire.  Her hand closed over his rigid member and she eased herself onto
him.  It was no vaguely sleepy-eyed, suggestive glance that riveted
Ryder's attention.  Mary's look captured the deliberateness of her
actions, the self-awareness of her body and its movements against his.
It was exciting beyond reason.  His hands slipped away from her breasts
and slid over her waist and abdomen.  He thrust his fingers between
their bodies and stroked her as she rocked.  She cried out.  No words,
just a hoarse cry of elemental passion.  Her head was flung back; her
pelvis tilted forward.  The line of her body was a sensual curve.

Ryder's entire frame arched as Mary forced his release.  He caught her
as she collapsed against him, trembling.  Tendrils of damp hair clung
to her temples and her skin glowed.  He could feel her heart pound,
ease, then pound again.  His fingers flicked her hair away from her
brow.  He capped the side of her face, turned, and eased himself out of
her.

"Don't move," he said huskily.  If she touched him again he would
simply come out of his skin.  Mary didn't.  She lay very still as blood
roared in her ears and her breathing calmed.  Ryder turned on his side
and propped himself on one elbow.  Only one lamp in the car was still
lit.  Its light flickered weakly as the car jerked once and then began
to move.

They were finally underway, just as Rennie had promised.  No questions.
No complications.  Ryder amended his last thought.

Perhaps one complication... and he was looking at her now.

"Suppose you tell me what that was about," he said.  Mary was staring
at the paneled ceiling of the private car.  Intricate scrollwork
engraved each of the mahogany panels, and her gravely serious eyes
traced the edges.

"Mary?"  She was worrying her lower lip now, struggling to come to
terms with the enormity of her own thoughts.

"Why is it when you say my name, I feel compelled to answer?"  He
smiled slightly.

"The Apache do not use a person's given name frivolously.  It is
reserved for more important moments, and the person called upon is
obliged to grant favor when their name is used at such times."  Ryder
gathered the sheet and quilt that had been pushed to the side and drew
the covers over them.

"You may not be aware of it, but you use my name in much the same
way."

"I do?"

"You do.  I find myself responding as if it were Naiche or Josanie or
any other Chiricahua asking a boon."  He considered her a moment
longer, waiting for the answer she had yet to give.  It was his
patience that undid Mary.  From the very first she had known he would
always be able to out wait if not outwit, her.  He even seemed to enjoy
the wait while she could not forbear it.

"I love you, you know."  Ryder was silent, watching her.

"I didn't know what it would be like to act on it or say it.

I was afraid, I suppose.  I thought it would make me part of you in a
way that would be intolerable for me.  And yet I have never doubted you
loved me, even though you've never said the words.  I watch and
experience your expressions of love and marvel that you seem to be
unchanged by them, that you are not different, only richer."  Ryder let
his fingertips drift lightly across Mary's collarbone, then rest on her
shoulder.

"Because you have always been part of me," he said.

"From the beginning.  Not from the moment we met, but from the moment
we were.  There has been a place for you in my heart, under my skin."
He touched his temple.

"Here, in my head.  The spirit of you has always been here, and when
you are with me in the flesh it is deeper and truer and... richer."
Mary felt as if something inside her soared and took flight; yet there
was no sense of loss.  It was the difference between something being
set free and something escaping.  One could be celebrated, the other
mourned.  She turned and was captured in his arms.  Her smile took his
breath away as she settled contentedly against him.

"Go to sleep," he said when she looked as if she might want to talk.

"But--" Her eyes closed dreamily.

"All right," she said.

"Since you said it like that."

In Tucson their car was coupled to a Northeast train headed to Santa
Fe.

From Santa Fe they traveled northeast to Topeka.  Their transit was
smooth.  Rennie had made good on her promise to telegraph the
directions ahead, and Ryder and Mary were largely undisturbed.

They read a great deal, sometimes spending entire evenings together
without exchanging a word.  Mary found a deck of cards in the armoire
and proceeded to relieve Ryder of his shirt and a good deal more with
her expert poker play.  Meals were brought to them, but left on the
balcony of their car as per Rennie's instructions and the DO NOT
DISTURB sign Mary hung over the door.  The porters and conductor
accepted their reclusive behavior without any overt curiosity.  It made
Mary wonder if her sister and brother-in-law spent as much time making
love as she and Ryder.  She quickly dismissed the thought as unseemly,
and when Ryder asked why she was blushing she tossed a pillow at him
rather than answer.  In St.

Louis they dared step off the train and took dinner in a hotel
restaurant where no one knew them or suspected they were fugitives.
They ate catfish and new potatoes, asparagus with cream sauce, cold
potato soup, and salad.  They sampled three different wines, then
finished the meal with fruit, cheese, and coffee flavored with a sweet
vanilla liqueur.  After their meal they strolled in the park and took a
carriage ride along the river.  It was a pleasure to be among people
who only gave them cursory glances and went about their business.  They
could have been any couple sharing the romantic glow of St.  Louis's
gaslight, and for a few hours they pretended that's all they were. They
returned to the train unnoticed by the employees of Northeast Rail. 
Their car was already coupled to the line that was headed east to
Columbus.

Mary and Ryder settled into the routine they had enjoyed since leaving
Tucson.  There was a fraction more restlessness in each of them
following the brief respite, but neither commented on it.  As their car
passed through Ohio, Mary was conscious of Ryder sitting close to the
windows and watching the landscape roll by.  It was still the heart of
winter.  The engine carrying them across the flat farm land had to plow
through the great drifts that had blown across the tracks.

"In my mind it's always summer here," he told her.  Mary sat on his lap
as he tipped back the chair against the lip of the desk.

"What was it about summer that you liked?"

"Fishing with my father," he said without hesitation.

"Stealing green apples from Mrs.  O'Reilley's backyard.  The Fourth of
July."

"Hmmm.  I love parades, too."  He shook his head.

"Fireworks.

My friends and I would tie a string of crackers to-" He stopped.

Mary was looking very disapproving.

"Well," he said sheepishly.

"The cat never got hurt."

"That's awful, Ryder McKay."

"I

suppose you never did anything like that."

"Of course I didn't," she said with righteous indignation.

"I didn't have to.  I had four younger sisters to torment."  Mary
trimmed Ryder's hair as the train approached Wheeling.  She was
reluctant and he was insistent.  It was only when he started to cut his
hair himself that she relented.  To suit herself, she left it long
enough to brush his collar in the back.  She returned the scissors to
the desk drawer then stood just to Ryder's left as he examined her work
in a handheld mirror.  Mary smoothed the ends of his hair with her
fingertips.

"Well, Sampson?"  she asked.

"Will it suit?"  Ryder turned the mirror so it contained both their
reflections.

"Admirably.  I look like thousands of other easterners."  She cocked
one eyebrow.

"Hardly."  Slipping an arm through his and laying her head on his
shoulder, Mary said, "I'd still notice you in a crowd."  He smiled at
that.

"Are you trying to seduce me, Delilah?"

"Just want to see if you have any strength left."

Ryder put down the mirror, lifted Mary off her feet, carried her to the
narrow bed, and tickled her helpless.  Laughter marked their lovemaking
this time and Mary embraced the sheer joy of it.

Still smiling, albeit a little weakly now, Mary lay back.

"Have you thought about children?"  she asked.  Ryder stopped punching
the pillow under his head, no longer caring if it conformed to a
comfortable shape.  He sat up and studied her face.  Was that smile
just a little smug?  he wondered.

A bit secretive?

"Are you-" He stopped.  It wasn't possible.  At least not that she
would know.  She had had her flow just after they left Tucson.  It had
been the source of some embarrassment to her and a disappointment to
him.  The truth be known, he had thought about children.

"I want children," he said quietly.  Mary lifted her hand and touched
his forearm, stroking it lightly.  She heard the faint echo of grief in
his words.

"Tell me about your daughter," she said.

"What was her name?"  He told her the Apache word.

"It means One-Who-Smiles.  It was her baby name.  The Apache are given
a name at birth and take another when they are older.

It's part of the passage from child to adult."  Ryder looked away from
Mary, his gaze becoming more distant with the rush of memories.

"Her little face was as round as the moon, and her eyes were dark, like
her mother's.  Her hair was every bit as black as mine and softer than
cornsilk.  It seemed she was born smiling.

That smile was contagious, like laughter, and the old women in the
tribe always remarked on it.  She was interested in everything around
her, curious to the point of being in trouble several times a day.  She
was the child who would go too close to the fire, or climb too high, or
wade too deep.  She had to touch a cactus spine to be certain it was as
sharp as she was warned.  Everyone indulged her, though.  I think it
was her smile.  She won us all over."

When Ryder glanced at Mary again he saw there were tears in her eyes.
He touched the corner of her eye with the pad of his thumb.

"Dear, dear Mary," he said softly.

"Yes, I want to have a child.

You've made room in my heart for one again."  He held out his arms and
made room for her there.  There were telegrams waiting for them in
Pittsburgh.  The porter slipped them under the door of their private
car soon after their arrival.  All of them were addressed to Mr.  and
Mrs.  Sullivan, but Mary suspected that from the volume of messages,
Rennie and Jarret had told the rest of the family what she was up to.
Mary found a letter opener in the desk and sliced the first telegram
open.  She sat on the edge of the desk to read.

"Well?"  Ryder asked.  He was stretched out comfortably on the bed,
reading a Wilkie Collins mystery, but when Mary remained silent for so
long, curiosity drew him away.

"Is it Rennie?"  She shook her head.

"This one is from Mama," she said slowly.  She read it aloud.  "

"You must love him.  I pray you know I understand."

"Mary looked up.  There was a soft smile lifting the corners of her
mouth.

"I think this means she's come to terms with my decision."  Ryder
closed the book and set it aside.

"It sounds as if she's come to terms with her own decision," he said.

When she looked at him oddly, he explained.

"I only know what you've told me, but it seems that your mother was not
so certain of the choices she made.  She hid it from herself, so it's
no surprise that she was successful in hiding it from everyone she
loved.

Well, perhaps not everyone.  You, more than the others, seemed to
suspect that her long affair with your father had deeply personal
ramifications.  She did find solace in the fact that you had made your
vows with God."

"And when I told her I was leaving the sisters..."  He nodded, reading
the expression on her face, knowing what was in her thoughts.

"It opened the Pandora's box of uncertainties.  Moira had to revisit
her decision all over again."

He pointed to the telegram.

"I think she's telling you that if she were to do it over, her choice
would be exactly the same."  Mary read the telegram again, then folded
it slowly.

"I think you're right," she said.

"In fact, I'm quite sure of it."  As pleasurable as it was to bask in
the glow of Mary's satisfaction, Ryder's attention turned to the other
telegrams.

"I doubt your father's message will be so welcoming."  Mary plucked
another telegram at random and sliced it open.

"This is from Maggie.  She wishes us success and hopes you are doing
well.  She's even given me the name of three medicines to try if your
leg is not completely healed."  Mary shook her head, amused.

"It seems Rennie couldn't wait to fill them all in on the details.  It
may as well have been her who found us in the cavern as Jarret.  And
I'm certain my sister embellished that business at that mining camp.
Maggie asks if it's true that I stood toe to toe with Geronimo."  Ryder
laughed.

"What else do you have there?"  Mary opened another.

"From Ethan and Michael," she said.  ""WIRE US IF YOU NEED HELP."

She grinned.

"Ethan's a federal marshal.  That could help us."

"It can't hurt."

"And don't forget that Michael's a reporter.

She knows how to get a story published.  That could mean a lot when it
comes time to publicly clear your name."

"You have quite a few family connections."

"More than you know," she said serenely.

Michael's godfather was a judge.  Rennie's, a bishop.  Maggie and Skye
had godparents in politics, and her own godfather was the director of
one of the largest financial houses in New York.  She told all this to
Ryder and added, "Jay Mac wanted to see that we were all protected from
some of the censure society coldly reserves for bastard children.  His
foresight didn't make us respectable, but it did make us respected more
or less."  She paused.

"Why are you smiling?"

"I'm imagining you as a child, bloodying the nose of someone who dared
to whisper you were a bastard.

And God help the person who said it about one of your sisters within
your hearing."  He saw by Mary's pink cheeks that he had hit the mark
perfectly.

"You may have tormented the other Marys, and I'm sure they tormented in
turn, but I'll wager that when it came to society's cold censure, the
five of you closed ranks so tightly cannonshot couldn't have breached
your defenses.  I should think that in time Jay Mac discovered all his
protection was superfluous."  Mary nodded.

"Poor Jay Mac," she said without a hint of pity in her voice.

"He loves us all to distraction."

There were two telegrams left unopened.  One of them, Mary knew, had to
be from her father.  Her hand wavered between them.  She picked the one
on the left and opened it.  Her sigh was audible.

"It's from Rennie and Jarret," she said, glancing at the last line
first.  She scanned the contents quickly, then went over it again,
filling Ryder in.

"The search for us has all but been called off.

Rennie says General Gardner thinks we left the area a long time ago and
isn't willing to commit so many men to our capture.  Rennie is battling
him on it, of course."  She glanced at Ryder.

"Can't you just picture her insisting that Gardner muster all his
forces for another search and all the while she knows we're somewhere
east of the Mississippi?"  Mary went back to reading.

"Rosario's dead," she said, her voice deep with regret.

"Apparently he tried to escape and fell into one of the vertical mine
shafts."  Privately Ryder wondered if there were more to the story than
Jarret or Rennie cared to share.  For himself, Ryder had no regrets,
but he watched Mary struggle with this news.

"Do they write anything of Geronimo?"  he asked.  Mary inhaled deeply
and let the breath out slowly, composing herself.

"Only that he still evades capture.

There have been no more raids on the mining camp."  She frowned.

"This is strange.

Rennie wants to know about the map.  She's interested in it and wants
to survey.  What's she talking about?"  Ryder shrugged.

"Hell if I--" He stopped, his brows drawn together, remembering.

"When we were leaving the mine the man who stopped you, thinking you
were Rennie... didn't he want a map?"

"Oh, God, yes.  I forgot.  I gave him one of the ones from your saddle
bags."  Ryder jumped off the bed and went straight to the wardrobe.  He
took out the saddlebags, opened them, and removed the two remaining
maps.

The map that showed the largest geographical area was still there.

So was the one that charted the caves and passages of the Cavern of
Lost Souls.

"You gave him Joe Panama's map of Colter Canyon.  And he gave it back
to your sister."

Mary was relieved.

"Well, that's not so bad.  For a moment I was afraid Rennie had taken
it in her head to survey the cavern.  I don't think she should go
around blasting a burial site, do you?"

"I was thinking the same thing."  He folded the maps and put the
saddlebags away.

"At least there's no harm in her having Panama's map.  She's welcome to
it."  He gave Mary a knowing look.

"As if either one of us could stop her."

"Welcome to my family."  She put aside Rennie's telegram and picked up
the last one.

"Do you want to open it?"  she asked hopefully.

"He's your father-in-law."

"Pass."  He did walk over to Mary's side.  She made room for him on the
edge of the desk, and he read over her shoulder when she unfolded Jay
Mac's telegram.  HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND STOP ON MY WAY STOP HAVE
SHOTGUN STOP "Your father does not mince words," said Ryder.

"It's succinct."

"At least he hasn't notified any authorities.  He could just as easily
have turned me in."

"That's not Jay Mac's way," Mary said, sighing.

"No, I'm afraid he wants to kill you himself."

"That's how I read it, too."  They were silent for more than a minute,
simply staring at the neatly phrased telegram, before they burst out
laughing.  Not that there was anything remotely funny about John
MacKenzie Worth's questioning his daughter's sanity or stalking Ryder
with a loaded shotgun.  It was just that the tension needed a release,
and Ryder and Mary could find it in the most unlikely of places.  Mary
replaced the telegram carefully in its envelope and wiped the tears
that had gathered at the corners of her eyes.

"If Jay Mac's coming, then you can be certain he's not alone.  The
cavalry is coming with him."  The same thought had occurred to Ryder.
It didn't matter that none of the other telegrams mentioned it, the
rest of the family would be there if for no other reason than to
prevent Jay Mac from committing murder.

"I suspect the Marys are about to close ranks," he said.

"Be thankful we're closing them around you."  He leaned toward her and
kissed her cheek.

"I give thanks every day."  It wasn't until they reached Baltimore that
Ryder told Mary about his uncle.  He didn't expect anything to dissuade
her, so he simply put off the unpleasant task until time ran out.

Mary had bought a newspaper at the Baltimore station, and she was
reading it, her eyes intent.  He took the paper out of her hands when
calling her name had absolutely no effect on her concentration.

"What is it?"  she asked.  She was not successful at masking her
annoyance.

"I was reading that, you know."  Ryder folded the paper and tossed it
on the desk.  It slid across the surface, teetered on the far edge,
then fell to the floor.  Mary started to rise to get it, but he stopped
her.

"I want to talk to you," he said.  It was his grave tone more than the
words themselves that had Mary sitting again.  She looked at him
curiously, her annoyance vanishing.

"I know you've put a lot of stock in my uncle's help," he began.

"Indeed, you can't imagine that he wouldn't come to our aid.  That's
easy to understand when you've been privileged to have your
experiences.  Wilson Stillwell--that's how I think of him, not as Uncle
Wilson--we've never been on close terms.  He was my mother's
stepbrother.  They were the same age and not particularly close
themselves although they were raised together from the time they were
eight.  When my mother married, Wilson was already in the state
legislature.  By the time my sister was born he was a congressman and
except for obligatory visits back to Ohio for campaigning and
fund-raising, we rarely saw him."  Ryder ran a hand through his hair.

"He never took much interest in us or we in him.  It's not anything
anyone's ever regretted.  It's just the way it was .. . the way it
is."

Mary was silent, waiting for Ryder to make his point.

"I know you think he was present for my trial because he cared what
happened to me.  Given your experiences, that's a reasonable
assumption.  But it's not an accurate one.  He was a character witness
at my trial; he testified on my behalf."

"Surely that-" He held up his hand.

"He needed to do it to absolve himself.  Wilson Stillwell wields a lot
of power in the Senate.  He sits on a number of important committees
and has the ear of the President.  He was largely responsible for my
assignment to the Colter Canyon patrol.  He saw that I got good
assignments, that I came to the attention of people who could further
my career.

In fact, he had a lot to do with my favored status among the Army
commanders."

"I don't believe that," Mary inserted quickly.

"If your status was favored it's because you earned it.  I'll never
believe anything else.  Anyway, if there weren't some feeling on his
part, why would he want to give you important assignments or see that
you enjoyed any privilege?"

"To absolve himself of more guilt."  Ryder sat in the chair behind the
desk, turning it so he could stretch his legs out to the side.  The
curtains in their private car were drawn back.  Sunshine filtered
through the weather-stained windows and touched the side of Ryder's
face, highlighting his austere, angled features.

"I hold Wilson Stillwell responsible for the death of my daughter, my
wife, her family, and the thirty other Chiricahua who were massacred at
Antler's Ridge."  It was a horrible accusation, one that Mary did not
fully understand, but she had little doubt that Ryder held it close to
his heart.

"When my family was murdered by the Tonto, and I was abducted, there
was no search, there were no reprisals by the Army.  I find no fault
with that.  Someone, somewhere, had decided the killing should stop.
After all, the raid on our wagon train was a retaliation by the Tonto
Apache for a previous Army attack on one of their camps.  The only
point I want to make is that my uncle saw no reason at that time to
have the raid investigated or to put any pressure on anyone for
revenge.

Instead, he used it.  He accepted that we had all been killed and
mourned our passing very publicly.  It served his purpose very well; he
closed the narrow margin that separated him from his political opponent
and took a seat in the Senate."

"You cannot be so cynical," she said softly.  It made sense to Ryder
that she would see it as cynicism whereas he only saw it as truth.

"Years later, when I began to go on raids, and a rumor surfaced about a
gray-eyed, white boy living among the Chiricahua, my uncle decided it
was expedient to look into the matter."

"You can't fault him for that.  It's natural that he would want-"

"He was running a close campaign for reelection.  This time he was the
incumbent and likely to be unseated.  It would have been humiliating
for him.

The investigation was a way to get attention off policy and the
scandal-ridden administration and to play on public sympathy."

Ryder's smile did not reach his eyes, his grin was humorless.

"The Army found me," he said.

"Captured me, to be more specific.  I ran away.  Not once, but on three
different occasions.  I could not have made it more clear that I had no
desire to return to my uncle or any other way of life.  I had a wife, a
daughter, and a family.

They were more real to me than an uncle I could barely remember.

I said as much to my uncle when he came West to convince me himself. He
didn't recognize me, couldn't even be certain I was his nephew, but I
couldn't keep the recognition out of my own eyes and it was enough for
him.  I was more of a trophy than I was his kin."  Mary's hands were
clasped tightly in her lap.  She bit her lower lip to keep from
offering any measure of unwanted sympathy.

"That was before I ran the third time.  I was twenty years old.

I had been a man-a warrior-for years, and Wilson Stillwell convinced
himself I didn't know my own mind.  Or he was convinced I was wrong."
His jaw tightened, and Ryder's voice took on an unpleasant edge.

"Or he believed that his own needs were more important than mine."  He
caught himself and straightened in the chair, drawing back his long
legs and leaning forward.  He rested his forearms on his knees.

"The last escape was the easiest, I realized that later.  But then I
was confident, a little arrogant in my ability to fool all of the
whites.  I forgot what I had learned about caution or listening to the
warnings in my own head.

I forgot to embrace the waiting and struck out when it seemed easiest."
Mary knew now what she was going to hear, and she braced herself for
it.

"I was followed.  Most unusual for the Army, they waited.  They waited
through the celebration of my return until a raiding party was formed
days later.  They let the men leave.  Then they struck the unprotected
camp.  It was deliberate, and it was savage, and it was done at my
uncle's behest.  He couldn't get me to leave my family so he took them
away from me.  That's the kind of man he is, Mary.  Don't ever forget
that."  She was staring at him, her eyes revealing horror.  Ryder
wondered at the source of that emotion.  Was she horrified by what he
told her, or horrified that he believed what he was saying?

She considered herself worldly, but she liked to think the best of
others.  She would have a difficult time accepting that he was not so
inclined to give the benefit of the doubt.  Ryder knew it would be her
nature to try to change his mind rather than alter her own beliefs.

"You must be wrong," she whispered.

"You must have misunderstood."  He merely shrugged.  An argument could
accomplish nothing.  He had armed her with the same knowledge he had,
the knowledge that evil could be embodied in a man who craved power.

She would have to make of it what she would.

"When I was captured again, I remained," he said quietly.

"I was numb with grief, too tormented to suspect the truth then.  That
came to me over time, over years of watching my uncle and learning what
he had to teach me that he did not mean for me to learn.  He sponsored
me at West Point.  I lasted two years, but it was long enough to
distinguish myself as a troublemaker.  I didn't fit in, and I didn't
much try to.  With the exception of Walker Caine, I had no friends and
no desire to find any.

"There were professors who thought I had promise academically, but I
wasn't interested in following in my father's footsteps.  Some of the
men there thought I had promise in other areas.  That's when Wilson
brought me to Washington and I began to take on special assignments."
Ryder raised his chin a notch and said flatly, "And that's when I read
the confidential accounts of the Western Campaigns and satisfied myself
as to my uncle's duplicity."  Mary took in an uneasy breath.  His eyes
were so cold, so hard, it was difficult to look at him and recall he
was capable of any kindness.

"What did you do?"

"I confronted him."

"And?"

"He denied it.  It was no less than I expected but this time I saw the
recognition in his eyes.  He knew I knew, and it was enough for me."

"Yet you took the assignments.  You accepted his help."  There was no
regret in Ryder's eyes.

"The assignments were dangerous," he said frankly.

"Of course I accepted them."

It was then Mary realized he had only been trying to kill himself.

The enormity of what he had been contemplating, the grievous nature of
that sin, chilled Mary to the bone.  She hugged herself.  Ryder was
watching her carefully.  Her face was pale, the skin almost porcelain
with its cool delicacy.  Had he become a monster in her eyes?  She
could no longer be thinking that she understood him so well.  She must
be thinking that she didn't know him at all.

"I

survived," he said, shrugging as though it were of little account.

For many years it hadn't mattered.  He'd felt more anger about
surviving than any sense of gratitude.  Mary came up out of her
chair.

"How dare you say it like that," she said sharply.  Her eyes pinned him
in place, flashing.

"How dare you think-" She couldn't go on.  She had no words to express
what she felt and anyway anger closed her throat.  Her hands, now
dropped to her sides, were clenched tightly.  If Ryder had tried to
touch her in that moment she would have driven one bloodless fist into
his jaw and knocked him senseless.  He came to his feet slowly, but he
didn't approach her.  He saw the intent in her posture all too
clearly.

"It was like that then," he said.

"Not now."

"It doesn't matter.  Your life was as precious then as it is today.

You were careless with it because you thought there was nothing to live
for.  Life is its own purpose, Ryder.  It has meaning in and of
itself."  Tears glittered in her eyes.

"You must never love me so much as you loved your wife.  I won't allow
you.  I won't-" His arms came around her.  Mary struggled briefly, but
he had her in a secure embrace and in the end she quieted and leaned
limply against him.

"You have no say over how much I love or how well," he said, stroking
her hair.  Her damp cheek was pressed to his shirt.

"I would not want you to end your life because I was no longer in it,"
Mary whispered hoarsely.

"There would be no peace for me if that was a decision you could come
to."  Ryder kissed the crown of her head.  He breathed deeply of the
fragrance of her hair.

"Sweet Mary," he said softly.

"I would survive because I know you'd pass up the chance at heaven just
to get even with me in hell."  She raised her head and gave him a
brilliant, if somewhat watery smile.

"No one knows me half so well as you."  It didn't seem there was any
point in discussing things further.  They were only one hour out of
Washington.  There were better ways to pass the time.

Chapter Fourteen

They agreed they should stay in a hotel.  A day ago Mary would have
insisted they see Wilson Stillwell immediately upon their arrival.  In
light of Ryder's disclosure, she was willing to wait.  It was raining
when they disembarked.  They were clearly seen by two porters and the
conductor as they left the private car.

Mary merely smiled as the Northeast employees watched them with some
confusion, scratching their heads and then talking excitedly among
themselves.

"We've been found out," Mary said.  She hefted a valise in each hand
while Ryder carried a trunk.

"Let's go before they rush to help us and ask more questions than we
care to answer."  Ryder flagged a hack just outside the station.  He
gave the driver the address of a boarding house he knew was suitable
for Mary and reasonably priced.  The funds loaned to them by Rennie and
Jarret would go quickly if they weren't carefully managed.  Mary leaned
back on the cushioned seat of the hack and removed her bonnet.  Water
dripped from the brim and splashed the hem of her dress.  She was
grateful for the arm Ryder put around her shoulders to warm her.  It
seemed there was nothing colder than a rainy day in winter.  Although
the ride from the station to the boarding house was not overly long,
Mary was drifting off to sleep by the time they arrived.  Ryder paid
the hack driver the fare and a little extra to help with the baggage so
he could assist Mary.

The Monarch Hotel had a grander name than its appearance warranted.

It catered to boarders rather than overnight guests.  The clientele
appreciated the homey atmosphere which was really just deterioration of
the furnishings and neglect of the structure over time.  Not that the
hotel was rundown.  It was just that things weren't replaced or
repaired quickly.  The lobby was small, furnished with a few
overstuffed chairs and an Oriental rug that was worn in the center and
frayed at the edges.  The clerk's large oak desk was polished but
scarred and the potted plants that decorated the lobby's perimeter
looked in need of watering.  The book the clerk turned for Ryder to
sign was a massive tome.  It contained the signatures of some of the
most famous and infamous politicians of the past forty years.  Beside
him, Ryder felt Mary shake off sleep as her curiosity was aroused by
the registry.

"Later," he said.

"Mr.  Stanley here will let you look.  They're very proud of this book
at the Monarch."

"Indeed we are."  the clerk said.  He adjusted the glasses on the tip
of his nose and looked over the rims at the new guests.

"I didn't think you'd remember me, Mr.  McKay.  It's been a long
time."

"A few years, Doc."  Doc Stanley Wasn't a doctor at all and he had
never professed to be one, but in his years at the Monarch he had often
functioned as the house medical expert, pulling teeth when he had to,
bandaging an injury, or setting a fracture.  One guest had used the
title in a half-joking manner, and it had stuck for the better part of
forty years.  Most people didn't know his Christian name any longer.
Doc turned the registry around, flipped through it quickly, and pointed
to a line halfway down the page.

"Three years and four months," he said.

"There you have it.  Not so long ago after all."  Ryder looked at
Mary.

"As you can see, Doc Stanley's memory is longer than mine.  He
remembers everything and everyone, and if he were the profiteering
kind, he'd be a very rich man from what he knows."  The clerk shrugged,
scratching behind his ear.

"If I started blackmailing the boarders, who'd come around anymore?  A
man's got to have principles."

"Of course."

Ryder reached in his pocket.

"How much to be certain Senator Stillwell can't find me here if he
learns I'm in town?"

"Twenty dollars."  Ignoring Mary's small gasp of outrage, Ryder gave it
over.

"Room three hundred," Doc Stanley said, palming the gold piece.  He
pointed to the stairs.

"Your bags and trunk will be right behind you."  He gave Ryder the key
to the room.

"Hope you--" The clerk hesitated, looking from Ryder to Mary to Ryder
again.

"She's my wife," Ryder said dryly.  He pointed to his notation in the
register.

"Mr.  and Mrs.  McKay.  Doc's cheeks reddened, but he didn't apologize
to Mary for his mistake.  It wouldn't be the first time someone had
tried to pass off a lady friend as a wife.

"Well, I hope you and the missus enjoy your stay."  Ryder linked his
arm in Mary's and moved her out of the lobby before she gave the clerk
the cutting edge of her sharp tongue.

"You really don't want to cause a scene."

"That man thought I was a whore."

"More likely he thought you were my mistress."

"That hardly makes it more palatable."

"It's not so terribly uncommon here."  When Mary didn't reply, Ryder
glanced at her and saw she was studying her left hand, turning it this
way and that.  When she became aware of his attention she let her hand
drop quickly to her side and didn't offer an explanation of her actions
or what she had been thinking.

They were already at the landing on the third floor so Ryder let it
pass.  He opened the door to their small suite of rooms and ushered
Mary inside.

"Why don't you lie down and rest?"  he suggested.

"I'll take care of our things when Doc brings them up.  After that I
need to go out and get a Washington paper and make a few inquiries."
Mary frowned.  A nap sounded wonderful, but she was worried about
Ryder's plan.

"Shouldn't I do that?"  she asked.

"You're known in Washington.  Doc Stanley recognized you after more
than three years.  He must be aware you're a wanted man.  Your escape
from Fort Union would have made the papers here, especially with your
connection to Senator Stillwell."  Ryder was not concerned.

"Doc won't say anything.  He's close mouthed about what goes on
here."

"You bought his silence for twenty dollars.  A man like that can be
encouraged to speak for twenty more."

"You're wrong.  No matter how it sounded, it was a gift, not a bribe.
Doc has much more to lose by speaking out than he does to gain."  Ryder
cupped Mary's face and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"Trust me on this.  It's something I know."  After a moment's thought
Mary nodded.  She was used to trusting family, but she found it more
difficult to extend that same level of confidence to outsiders. Ryder's
experience was almost completely the opposite.

"Very well," she agreed.

"I'm out of my element."

"I doubt that," he said, grinning.  He turned her around and gave her a
little push toward the bedroom.  There was a knock at the door at the
same time.

"Go on.  That'll be Doc with our bags and trunk."

Mary disappeared in the bedroom.  The four-poster bed took up most of
the space.  A wardrobe was crowded diagonally into one corner and a
chest of drawers occupied another.  Mary had to turn sideways to slip
past the large armchair and cheval glass to get to the French doors.
She tried the handle and discovered the doors were nailed shut.
Pressing her face close to the rain-streaked window panes, Mary could
make out a small balcony in a state of disrepair.

The stone balustrade was chipped and the balcony floor itself was
crumbling.  Mary sighed.  The French doors were going to remain closed
to her as long as the balcony was unsafe.  She drew the curtains,
blocking out the gray skies and muffling the incessant tapping of the
rain.  After turning up the gas lamps, Mary removed her cape and
unfastened her gown.  She was hanging both these items in the wardrobe
when Ryder entered with their valises.

"Is it satisfactory?"  he asked, gesturing to the room at large.

"Yes, of course it is."  She smiled a little at his desire to please
her with the accommodations.

"Ryder, I don't know what you think I'm used to, but our chamber in the
Cavern of Lost Souls was an improvement over my cell at the convent."
He hadn't thought of it that way.  He had been recalling her family's
summer home on the Hudson and the private railroad cars that were
available to all family members for travel anywhere in the country.
Ryder had never seen the Worth mansion in New York, but he had no
difficulty imagining its grandeur.  Mary shut the wardrobe doors and
sat on the edge of the bed.  Raising one foot on a faded brocade stool,
she began to remove her shoe.

"I'll be quite content here," she said.

"As long as it's safe for you."

"I don't know that I'll ever get used to it," he said.

"That you come from so much and accept so little."

"You're speaking of material things," she said.

"And those aren't so important to me.  But my home was filled with love
and laughter and lively conversation.  So was the convent.  If you
think I can live with less than that, you're mistaken."  Yes, Ryder
thought, Mary's spirit had to embrace all those things.  He saw she was
struggling with the buttons on her shoe.  He knelt at her feet and
undid them himself, removing the shoes.

"It might be easier if you only wanted a life of luxury," he said.

"I'd just find a gold mine."  She chuckled.

"See, you've made me laugh.  It won't be so difficult for you to
satisfy my every whim."  He tickled the bottom of her foot until she
managed to get it out of his grasp.  Promising to be more respectful of
the other foot, he removed the shoe when she finally allowed it.  Ryder
turned down the bed while Mary slipped off her stockings.  He stayed
around to tuck her in, pressing a brief kiss to her soft mouth.  She
was sleeping by the time he let himself out.  The first thing Ryder did
was stop at the front desk and talk to Doc Stanley.  While Doc would
have cut off his own arm before giving up information on any boarder at
the Monarch, he was free with whatever he considered common knowledge
in the town.  For Doc, common knowledge was rarely what was reported in
the papers.  He dealt more in rumor.  Ryder listened to the report
without asking many questions.  He did not want Doc to speculate
concerning his own purpose in returning to Washington.  After thirty
minutes, he had heard enough to know where he wanted to begin.  By the
time Ryder walked from the Monarch to the library he was soaked.

Droplets of water splattered noisily on the marble floor as he removed
his coat.  He made less commotion walking over fallen, dried leaves in
a forest than he did walking from the entrance hall to the librarian's
desk.  His water-logged shoes squeaked on the cold, green-veined
Vermont marble.  After that initial disruption, the librarian was not
particularly disposed to help Ryder.  She brought him what he wanted,
but her expression was frozen in disapproval.  Ryder did not attempt to
win her over as there was nothing to be gained by it.  She looked at
everyone that way, treating the library as if it were her private
domain and each patron was an intruder.  She would have been happier if
the stone lions on the steps outside the building had actually been
guard dogs.  Ryder sat alone at a long reading table.  The library was
not crowded, and as near to closing time as it was, more people were
leaving than coming in.  The newspapers stacked around him accounted
for most of what had been written in the Eastern papers about the
Colter Canyon raid, the trial, and the escape.  Ryder read the stories
as objectively as he could, trying not to react to every
misinterpretation of the facts as though it were intentional.

Ignorance explained more of the mistakes in the reports than any
deliberate twisting of the facts.  There was a general lack of
understanding about the differences among the Apache tribes.

Everyone was painted with the same brush, and much was made of Ryder's
connection to the Apache as a whole rather then the Chiricahua
specifically.  The reports did not know quite what to make of Ryder
McKay.  He was an enigma: a white man who turned his back on his
upbringing to live among his captors and then turned his back on the
people who had adopted him to begin hunting them down.  There was still
another twist as he was found guilty for aiding the enemy at Colter
Canyon.  Out of town papers printed a few lines about his alleged
assault on Anna Leigh Hamilton.  She was only referred to as the
daughter of a Washington politician.

In the Washington papers she wasn't referred to at all--at least not in
association with his trial.  Anna Leigh Hamilton was quite frequently
mentioned in the society pages.  She hosted large gatherings for her
father's friends and small, intimate dinners for his cronies.
Accompanying her father, she was invited to every important function in
Washington, and from Ryder's quick perusal, it seemed there was
something deemed an important function almost every night of the week.
Ryder read what he could until closing time, then scribbled a few notes
about things he had yet to look at or wanted to come back to.  He and
the dour-faced librarian left the vaulted building at the same time.
The offices of the War Department were closed, but Ryder was well aware
he couldn't simply walk in there and ask to look at their files.  His
face was known to too many people, most of whom would consider it their
duty to arrest him or find someone who would.  He mulled over that
problem on his way back to the boarding house.  Overcast skies brought
night on early.  Gaslight was reflected in pools of water on the
sidewalks and cobblestone streets.  Ryder walked quickly with his head
down, paying scant attention to the traffic or the pedestrians.  He had
learned that the easiest way not to be noticed in the open was not to
openly notice others.  When he returned to the Monarch, Ryder paused
long enough at the front desk to ask Doc to have dinner sent to their
room.  The boarding house had a large dining area on the second floor
to accommodate guests in a family-style setting, but Ryder wanted no
part of something so public.  When Doc assured him all would be taken
care of, Ryder bounded up the steps, anxious to talk to Mary about his
plans.

She was in the bathing room which adjoined their bedroom.  He knocked
politely, and the door, which had not been latched, swung open wide
enough for him to poke his head through.  It was clear Mary hadn't
heard him.  She was sitting in a copper hip bath, her head tilted back
and resting against a folded washcloth.  Her eyes were closed and her
complexion glowed with the sheen of steamy water.  Ryder stepped inside
the room and began to shrug out of his coat.  He might have made it to
the bath without her hearing him if he'd only thought to remove his
shoes.  Water squished between the leather sole and welt as loudly in
the tiled bathing room as it had in the marble library.  When Mary
turned on him, her eyes narrowed with annoyance, he was reminded that
the librarian still had something to learn about expressing
disapproval.

"I take it you're not inviting me in," he said.  It was so obviously
the truth that Mary had to laugh.  She flicked water at him though she
could see it had no impact.  He was already wet.

"Have you been walking all this time?"  she asked, concerned.

"You'll catch your death.  Why didn't you take a hack wherever you
went?"

"We have limited funds."

"I'll wire New York for money."

"No.  We'll do fine.  I don't want to borrow more from your family."

"It's my money," she said.

"Jay Mac set up a trust fund for me years ago.  He only stipulated that
I couldn't turn the money over to the church.  As a consequence, I've
never touched it.  Now, are you going to be stubborn about it?"  He sat
on a small, three-legged stool and removed his shoes and socks.

"I

don't suppose there's any sense in it," he said at last.

"That's right."  She smiled.

"Come here.  I'm feeling very generous."  Too late she realized what he
was going to do.  She only had time to cry out his name, half in shock,
half in laughter, as he stepped into her bath wearing everything but
his shoes and socks.  Water sloshed on the floor and ran in thin rivers
between the tiles.  The towel Mary had set nearby soaked up some of the
spillover but not nearly all of it.

"I don't know that I was feeling this generous," she said, trying to be
stern.

"What are you doing?"  Since Ryder was picking up the soap, he thought
the answer was obvious.  He ran the bar across the sleeve of his jacket
from shoulder to cuff, then across his chest, paying special attention
to the pleats in his white, tailored shirt.  Mary could never have
predicted he was capable of something so spontaneous or ridiculous. She
found the well of love she had for this man was capable of deepening.

Leaning forward, careless of the water she splashed over the sides with
her movement, she took the bar of soap from his hand and let it float
away.

"Let me help."  She undid him as much with her husky voice as she did
with her fingers.  Ryder only helped by lifting his hips so she could
get him out of his trousers and drawers.  Intent as they were on
touching and teasing it was not immediately apparent that they could
not make love in the hip bath.

The cramp in Mary's foot and the one in Ryder's calf made that clear.
Slick as seals, they slipped out of the tub and onto the floor.  Their
legs tangled as they rolled.  Mary lost the tussle and ended up on her
belly beneath Ryder.  He moved the red-gold hair aside at her nape and
kissed her damp neck.  The playful aspects of their lovemaking faded as
desire became hunger and the hunger became urgent.  Ryder reared up
behind Mary, pulling her with him, his hands on her breasts and his
mouth on her shoulder.

His breathing was harsh and uneven.  He stroked her skin with his
palms.  Her breasts swelled and her nipples hardened.  She arched,
pliant as he molded her.  His hands slid over her hips and caressed her
thighs.  His fingers dipped between her legs.  His exploration was
intimate and demanding, and Mary let him touch her in any manner he
wanted because it was what she wanted too.  He pushed her forward,
lifting her hips, and entered her from behind, driving into her with
enough force to make her gasp.  On the next thrust she pushed back
against him and seemed to take him rather than his taking her.  The
rhythm was primal.  Blood roared in Mary's ears and had the sound and
pulsing beat of ancient drums.

She responded to his every touch, to everything he did to her.  Her
skin was all nerve endings and sensation.  She had no clear thoughts;
she was all feeling.  Mary's climax rocked her forward, arching her
body like a bow.  Ryder came into her, held her, and shuddered with his
own release.  They went limp together, easing themselves down on the
wet tile.  Mary hid her face in the curve of her elbow.  When she felt
Ryder tap her lightly on the shoulder she turned her head and gave him
the benefit of one open eye and a single raised brow.

"Don't ever interrupt my bath again," she said, weary with pleasure.

"I won't survive it."

"May I take that as a compliment?"  She nodded and closed her eye.

"This floor's cold."  Still, she made no move to get up.  Ryder helped
her a little later, after he found dry towels in the washstand.  He
sent her off to the bedroom and cleaned up the mess they'd made.

"Someone's knocking at the door," she called in to him.

"Are you expecting anyone?"

"It's our dinner," he said.

"I'll get it.

You're not decent."

"I'm decent," she mumbled.

"I'm just not dressed."  Mary flopped back on the bed.  The towel
unraveled at her breasts, and she was tugging it closed as Ryder came
into the room.  She regarded him skeptically.

"You're not precisely prepared to receive company either."  In short
order Ryder pulled on a dry shirt and clean trousers.  He was tucking
in the shirt, on his way to the door, when he called back to her.

"Get dressed.

When we're done eating, we're going out."

"Out?"  Ryder didn't reply.  He opened the door.  Doc was standing on
the threshold with a large tray of covered dishes.  Ryder took the
tray.

"I don't do this for just anyone," Doc said.

"I didn't expect personal service."  Ryder balanced the tray in one
hand and began searching his pocket for money for a tip.  Doc shook his
head.

"Don't trouble yourself.  I came on another matter, too."

"Oh?"

"Mrs.

Anderson--she's the boarder below you, came to me with a complaint.

Seems there's a regular waterfall coming from your suite into hers.

You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"  Ryder's expression
didn't change.

"My wife was taking a bath," he said.

"I'll have to ask her."  Doc looked at Ryder's wet hair and the shirt
that was clinging damply to his chest and drew his own conclusions.  He
cleared his throat, hiding his smile, and said, "You do that."  Ryder
shut the door and carried the tray to the table by the window of their
sitting room.  He lifted the lids and waved some of the fragrance of
their hot meal in the direction of the bedroom.

"Can you smell that?"  he asked.

"Dinner's ready."

"I heard everything that man said," she called back.

"I'm never coming out."  Ryder smiled.

"Suit yourself."  He arranged the dishes on the table and sat down.  He
hadn't finished unfolding the napkin in his lap when Mary joined him.

"My stomach's growling," she explained defensively, taking the chair
opposite him.

"I

didn't say anything."  She ladled mushroom soup into her bowl.

"You didn't have to.  No one who uses silence as effectively as you has
to say much of anything.  I swear you could have wrung a confession
from Saint Joan."  Mary spooned some soup, raising it to her lips.  The
aroma was delicious, and the first taste proved it was every bit as
good as it smelled.  They ate in silence for several minutes, moving
from the soup to the crisp salad with vinaigrette dressing.  Mary
asked, "Where are we going?"

"To the theater."

"The theater?"  She could not have been more surprised if he had said
they were going to jump in the Potomac.

"There's a play you want to see?"

"Not exactly."  She waggled her fork at him.

"I know how to use this weapon."  He laughed.

"All right.

I was at the library this afternoon, catching up on what Washington
knows about the Colter Canyon affair.  While I was going through some
of the most recent papers I saw an opening night notice for Much Ado
About Nothing.  It's anticipated to draw quite a crowd because Yvonne
Marie is playing the role of Beatrice.  I may not have seen anything
but saloon-hall dramas these last few years, but even I've heard of
Miss Marie."

"I shouldn't wonder," Mary said tartly.

"She has her picture on cigarette packages.  I've seen them."  He
arched one dark brow.

"Really."

"We had patients at the hospital who swore her picture, if held close
to the heart, had healing powers.  It was not a notion well received by
Mother Superior."  Or Mary either, he suspected.

"Well, tonight she's live at the Regent Theater and I'd like to be
there."  He served Mary her portion of the broiled trout and parsley
potatoes.

"I

rather despise myself for saying this," she commented, "but I really
don't have anything to wear."  Ryder's gray glance slid smoothly over
Mary's dark green gown.  It was embellished with ivory lace at the
throat and cuffs, and she had found a brooch among her sister's things
to enhance the high neckline.

"You look fine to me."  She grimaced.

"That's because you haven't been to anything but saloon-hall dramas.
Someday I'll explain how insulting that comment is."  He changed the
wording a bit.

"You look beautiful, and you'll be fine for what I have in mind."  Mary
rolled her eyes.

"That's only marginally better."

"Trust me."

"I have to," she said.

"I have no idea what you're up to."  What Ryder had in mind did not
involve stepping foot in the theater.

Mary sat back in the carriage, propped her feet on the seat opposite
her, and sighed dramatically.

"And I did so want to see Miss Marie perform Beatrice," she said. Ryder
patted her foot absently as he continued to stare out the carriage
window in the direction of the Regent's front entrance.  He had a good
view of the six double doors that led into the theater. While carriages
waited in a very civilized line along the wide avenue to pick up the
theater patrons, none blocked the entrance, and therefore, none blocked
Ryder's line of vision from across the street.

"I can't imagine what you think you'll see," Mary said, stifling a
yawn.

"It will be at least ten minutes before the final curtain."

"People are enamored of the theater to different degrees," he said.

Ryder put Mary's feet on his lap and massaged her ankles.

"Someone may always leave early."  She hummed her pleasure as his
fingers worked over her ankles and feet and didn't bother to disagree
with him.  Once the play was ended there would be a well-bred, mannerly
rush to the street to exit the entertainment hall, but leaving prior to
the first round of applause was simply not done.  This last thought was
barely a complete sentence in her head when the doorman stepped forward
to open the doors on the right side of the entrance.  Mary caught the
movement out of the corner of her eye, and she sat up straighter,
removing her feet from Ryder's lap.  She leaned closer to the carriage
window and immediately had to clear the condensation of her breath on
the glass.

"Washington," she said, low, reminding herself of their location.

"This wouldn't happen in New York."  She heard Ryder chuckle under his
breath, but she ignored him as two couples exited the theater.  Both of
the men were wearing Army uniforms.  Mary didn't know enough about
insignia to identify their ranks.

"Do you know them?"  she asked.  Ryder didn't answer her.  He was
frowning, studying the soldiers with a narrowed, incisive gaze.

As Mary watched, the doorman went to the curb and waved for a hack.

A hansom detached itself from the long line of waiting cabs, and the
driver smartly guided his horse and hack to the entrance.  Her view was
blocked by the carriage momentarily, and when the hansom moved on, the
doorman was once again a solitary figure outside the Regent Theater.
Mary leaned back again, turning her attention to Ryder.  He was no
longer looking across the street, but his eyes, though trained in
Mary's direction, were not seeing her either.

"Ryder?"  she asked.

"What is it?"  He didn't answer immediately, and when he did, the reply
was cryptic.

"The unexpected," he said.  Mary had no patience for that.  Her foot
connected with his shin.  She nodded, satisfied that she now commanded
his complete attention.

"You kicked me," he said accusingly.

"I nudged you," she said.

"There's a difference."

"Tell that to my leg."  He rubbed it a moment.

"I thought I recognized one of the men, that's all," he said.

"I'm probably mistaken."  Mary wasn't convinced that Ryder would make
that sort of mistake.  For some reason she couldn't divine, he wasn't
prepared to tell her more.  She decided to share what she knew
instead.

"Neither of them were high-ranking officers," she said.

"Nor have they been in Washington very long."  Ryder regarded her with
interest.

"How do you surmise that?"

"The hansom that was summoned for them is rented, just as ours is.  The
carriages lining the street on the other side belong to their owners.
If those men were more permanent residents of the city, and if they
could afford it, they would have had their own carriage meet them at
the entrance.  It makes a more proper presentation, and even in
Washington, perhaps most especially in Washington, presentation is as
important as substance."

"What else?"  he asked, intrigued.

"Neither one of them has been an officer long," she said.

"Their uniforms are slightly faded, but the insignia is new.  It was
much brighter under the theater lights than even their buttons."

"And?"

"And they didn't go to West Point," she said with assurance.

"They would have learned some manners there if they hadn't been taught
any at home.  They should not have left the theater early.  Illness
alone might provoke that action, but you could see very well that none
of the party was ill."  Mary's smile was a trifle smug as she
concluded, "And the women they escorted were as rented as the hacks."
Ryder was not surprised she had noticed that.

"It's really not appropriate to hire a ... a .."

"An escort," Ryder supplied.

"I think that's the word you're searching for."

"It's not," she said honestly.

"But it will serve.  As I was saying, it's not appropriate for an
opening-night performance.  Husbands quite properly escort their wives
to an event like this.  They don't even take their mistresses unless
they want to embarrass them or publicly humiliate their wives.  It's
simply not done.  Now, tomorrow evening is an entirely different
matter."  Ryder's lip curled derisively as he considered the mores and
mandates of polite society.

"How does one learn these things?"

he asked with a touch of sarcasm.

"My point exactly," Mary said.

"One learns by living with them.  These rules aren't written down
anywhere.  They're rarely spoken of.  Yet they often are accorded more
respect than the Ten Commandments, and they are enforced with more
exacting punishments than the plagues God visited upon the Egyptians.
Those two men who just exited don't know the rules or they didn't care
enough to observe them.  Now, if you thought you recognized one of them
it only makes sense to me that you met the man in the West."  Mary gave
Ryder a firm, questioning glance.

"So?  Are you going to tell me something more than you have or do I--"
Ryder held up his hand as all the double doors in front of the Regent
were opened with considerable flourish.  The opening-night patrons
began to spill onto the sidewalk almost immediately.

"You can wait here or come with me," he said, as a handsomely gilded
carriage approached the front doors and blocked their view.

"But if you come, stay by my side and don't draw attention to
yourself."

"As if I would."  Leaning forward quickly, Ryder kissed her quickly on
the cheek.

"You can't help it, Mary.  Cover your hair."  He opened the door of the
hansom, jumped down, and held out his hand to her.  Mary raised the
hood of her cape before she took the proffered hand.  Ryder told their
driver to move on, circle the block, but not take another fare.  He
assured the man they would be making the return to the boarding house
with him and they would pay for his time.  Mary was going to remark on
the wisdom of this, in light of their reduced funds, when she felt
Ryder tug on her arm to get her to cross the avenue.  The pace was more
frantic now as hansoms vied with each other to collect their owners and
the hired hacks moved in to snare the patrons who didn't have their own
means of transportation.  Ryder and Mary dodged horses and hansoms as
they crossed the wide thoroughfare.  They slipped behind a hack just
pulling up to the sidewalk, then took their place as part of the crowd.
Ryder wove Mary skillfully through the throng until they were able to
stand just beyond the gaslights on the shadowed perimeter of the
theater.

Mary did not know who he was looking for or what to expect, but she was
able to identiiy a number of people in the sea of faces.

"That's Alvin Schafer," she whispered to Ryder.

"And his wife Carolyn.  Over there, in the blue, just coming out now.
He's a social reformer, and very well connected politically.  I've
heard him speak in New York.  They take up the cause of orphaned
children in the cities."  Ryder was only listening with half an ear. He
gave the couple a cursory glance and continued to scan the faces in the
swarm in front of the theater.

"There are the Dodds."  She stood on tiptoe to get a better view of the
pendant at Mrs.  Dodd's throat.

"Why, I believe that's paste," she said, astonished.

"She must have sold the original and had a copy made.  I can tell you,
the original is not half so large as that garish item.  And look at the
way she refuses to close her cape.  She's inviting everyone to ogle
it."

"Perhaps they don't have your discerning eye," Ryder said dryly.

"Or perhaps she's inviting a thief."  He glimpsed Mary's questioning
frown.

"If it's insured, then she would be reimbursed for its loss."  Mary was
left to wonder at it as the Dodds disappeared into their waiting
carriage without incident.

She pointed out several other people to Ryder and received little
comment in return.  It was obvious to Mary that he was searching for a
very particular face in the crowd.

"There's Warren Hamilton," she said, as the senator exited the theater.
There was no mistaking the sharp features of the Massachusetts
politician.

In most cartoons Mary had seen he was unimaginatively represented as a
hatchet.  In person, it seemed the cartoonists had been kind.

"Is that who you've been-" Mary stopped because she felt Ryder stiffen
as the senator stepped to one side and revealed the presence of the
young woman on his right.

"Oh," she said, her voice hushed.

"She's the one we've come to see."  Ryder placed a hand on Mary's
shoulder as she came up on tiptoe and began to crane her neck in order
to catch a better glimpse of their quarry.

Feeling a bit like an unruly puppy who has just been ordered to heel,
Mary nonetheless shrank back into the shadows.  She had seen enough to
form an initial impression.  Anna Leigh Hamilton was acknowledged as a
beauty for very good reason.  The woman's sunshine yellow hair caught
the eye, and her flashing eyes and smile held one's gaze.  She cut a
dainty figure on the arm of her tall, angular father.  She was as
ebullient as he was sober, as generously proportioned as he was spare.
His impatient air faded only when he cast an indulgent smile in her
direction.  Ryder retreated a step backward into the safety of deeper
shadows when Anna Leigh glanced in his direction.  She did not see him,
but looked past him instead, trying to spy the location of the carriage
that was meant for her and her father.  The doorman also saw her look
and immediately stepped forward to search for Senator Hamilton's
carriage himself.

"She's a princess," Mary said softly.

"Everyone does her bidding."  Ryder nodded.

"Let's go.

I've seen enough.  She's here and we can follow-" Mary laid her hand on
his forearm, stopping him.

"Wait," she said.

"Isn't that your uncle?"  Wilson Stillwell emerged from the theater,
accompanied by two gentlemen.  Mary recognized neither of them, but she
was struck by the fact that they nodded politely to Anna Leigh and
addressed her father while Wilson Stillwell made no acknowledgment.

"Your uncle has as little time or regard for Miss Hamilton as you do,"
Mary said.

"He cut her and her father dead."

"I doubt that it was on my account," Ryder said dryly.  Mary sighed.

"You might give him the benefit of the doubt.  Miss Hamilton maligned
you, and your uncle is responding to it in the only way left to him."
Ryder did not argue with Mary's interpretation.  Certainly she was
correct in that Wilson Stillwell had made a direct cut.  Ryder was just
unsure of the motivation.

He tore his attention away from his uncle and surveyed the thinning
crowd.  He and Mary could not afford to stay much longer as they would
be noticed by the doorman who had returned to his post.

"Come on," Ryder said.

"Our driver's circled the block for the third time.  We need to go."
Mary let her arm be taken.  She was briskly escorted across the avenue
just in time to meet the hack as it completing its final tour.  As Mary
clambered into the cab, she vaguely heard Ryder give the order to their
driver to follow Senator Hamilton's carriage.  She had her face pressed
to the hansom's window as Ryder settled himself in the seat.

"What are you still looking at?"  asked Ryder.  Mary did not pull back,
turning her head sideways to keep her vision trained on the same point
when the hansom began to move.

"Your uncle's not gotten into the carriage with his companions," she
said.

"I believe he's going around to the side of the theater.  Why yes,
there he goes.  What do you suppose he intends to do."

"Miss Yvonne Marie," Ryder said.

"What?"  asked Mary.  Then, "Oh.  I see.  He wants to make the
actress's acquaintance."  She turned away from the window.

"He's never married?"

"Briefly.  Years ago.  My aunt died in childbirth.  The child died a
few days later.  He never remarried."

Mary was genuinely moved.

"How sad for him.  Then you're all he has."

"It may explain Wilson's actions," Ryder said tightly, thinking of his
own dead wife and child.

"It doesn't justify them."

"No," she said quickly.

"Of course it doesn't."  Ryder sighed.

"I'm sorry."  He patted the space beside him, and Mary came across the
swaying carriage willingly.

"I know you had hopes that he could help us."  That comment surprised
her.

"I haven't given up.  Perhaps he still can.  You saw how he was with
Senator Hamilton and Anna Leigh.  He might be willing to help if for no
other reason than to get his own revenge.  I've not seen or heard
anything that makes me think we shouldn't ask."  Ryder slipped his arm
around Mary's shoulders.  He gave her something else to think about.

"I need to get into the War Office records," he said.

"I'd be pleased to entertain some ideas as to how that could be
accomplished."

"I'll do it," she said immediately.

"What are you looking for?"

"Out of the question."  He leaned forward as the hansom slowed to take
a corner.  Ryder looked out the window, marked the street, then relaxed
and settled back.

"I want to see the transfer orders and records for anyone connected to
Fort Union."

"You could find those things there?"  He nodded.

"Every document finds its way to the War Office sooner or later."  Mary
considered what Ryder might be after for a moment.

"This has something to do with those men who left the theater early,
doesn't it?"  Ryder smiled, not at all displeased that she had put it
together.

"No one will ever accuse you of being slow off the mark," he said.

"Yes, it has to do with them.  The taller one was vaguely familiar, but
I recognized the other one.  He was a private when I last saw him.  I
can't think of any reason for those stripes he's wearing now except
that he was one of the two men who brought me in."  Mary's eyes
widened.

"You mean at Colter Canyon?"

"Patrick Carr," Ryder said.

"He accompanied Davis Rivers up to the ridge to search for me and Anna
Leigh after the raid."

"I met Lieutenant Rivers," Mary said slowly, trying to place the time
and situation.

"It was my first day in Arizona.  The lieutenant and a small party of
soldiers accompanied my family and me from Tucson to Fort Union.  I
don't recall ever seeing Carr."

"You weren't at the fort very long," Ryder reminded her.

"And he may have already been transferred back here."  His dark brows
were drawn together as he tried to make sense of it.

"His part in the trial was done a while back, but it's still surprising
that he would have been brought East.  No one moves privates around
like that."

"But you saw that he's an officer now."

"A sergeant," he said.

"It still seems unlikely that he should find himself in Washington. And
the promotion was accomplished rather quickly.  He was still a private
when he testified against me."  Now Mary was frowning as well.

"What can it mean?"

"That's why I have to get into the War Office," he said.

"Apply yourself to solving that problem.  I'm known to too many people
there to simply walk in and ask to see enlistment and transfer rolls."
There was no time to give it any thought as their hansom slowed again.
They looked out together and saw that Senator Hamilton's carriage was
leaving the street to enter a wide, semi-circular drive in front of a
gray stone mansion.

Ryder slid back the communicating panel and ordered their driver to
keep going down Jefferson Street.  When they were out of sight of the
Hamilton residence, he had the driver stop.  He got out of the
carriage, helped Mary down, and paid the driver.

"We won't be needing you any further," he said, adding a generous tip
for the man's time.

"Now what?"  Mary asked when they were alone on the street.  In the
distance she could hear the approach of another carriage.

"Do you have any plan?"  The words were drawn out of her rather
breathlessly as Ryder was pulling her off to the side where a row of
sturdy, bare-limbed oaks lined the avenue like palace guards.  He took
her behind one of them so they were completely out of sight of any
passersby.

"What are we doing?"

she asked, leaning back against the tree.  The bark was wet from the
earlier rain and droplets of water fell from the limbs overhead.  She
wiped one away from where it splattered her cheek.

"Ryder?"

"We're waiting."

"Waiting?  But-" He pressed a finger to her lips.

"Shhh."  Mary stilled instantly and listened with all of her senses.
The night air was cool and crisp, and it seemed to sharpen the
occasional dropping of water, the rhythmic click of carriage wheels,
and clop of horses hooves.  She became aware that the carriage in the
distance wasn't coming any closer, but had turned.  Sound and rhythm
were altered as the equip page moved over gravel instead of wet
cobblestones.  She looked up at Ryder and saw he was looking intently
in the direction of Anna Leigh Hamilton's home.  There was almost
nothing he could see from such a great distance.  His view was
obstructed by the iron fence bordering the property and the row of
hedges that lined the driveway.  But they both could hear Anna Leigh's
clear melodious voice raised in greeting.  The words were not clear,
but the intention was, and her guest-only one voice was raised in
reply-was invited inside.  The carriage left immediately and passed
within a few feet of them.  It was a hired hansom and offered no means
to identify who had arrived in it.

"Apparently we were not the only ones following Anna Leigh's father,"
Mary said.  Her eyes narrowed on Ryder's face.

"But I think you suspected that."

Ryder nodded.

"I saw the hack when I looked to see where we were turning."  He
pointed to the house.

"I'm going over there to look around.  I want you to wait here."  Even
in the dark Ryder had no difficulty seeing that Mary's mouth was pursed
to one side in obstinate disapproval.

"All right," he said, giving in because there was so little choice.

"But you follow me-follow me quietly."

Mary saluted smartly.

"Very amusing," he said in a tone that made it clear that wasn't so.
She shrugged unapologetically and gave him a small push in the
direction of the house, then became his shadow.  The carriage that had
deposited Anna Leigh and her father at their front door had been taken
to the rear of the house.

Crouching low, Ryder led Mary along the hedgerow until they had to
cross the driveway openly to reach the front porch.  This was
accomplished quickly, the light spilling from the house marking their
path.  They stole across the low, wide porch silently, stopping when
they reached the first lighted window.  Ryder gestured to Mary that she
remain where she was while he ducked and crept beneath the window to
stand on the other side.  His first look inside was brief, and it
appeared their stealthy approach was all for naught as the room on
which he peered was empty.

Disappointed, Mary sighed audibly.  In the next moment she cried out,
startled this time by the sudden movement of the interior curtains and
the subsequent crash of a vase.  Ryder's disapproving look had no
impact on Mary because her eyes were squeezed shut in anticipation of
being found out.  She felt herself being swiftly dragged to Ryder's
side of the window where he held her tightly.

She did not mistake that he had comforting her on his mind.  He wanted
to make certain there were no more outbursts.  His hand was hovering
very close to her mouth, ready to clamp it if she squealed again.  From
inside the room there was another noise, and since Ryder hadn't made a
move to leave the porch, Mary opened her eyes a fraction.  A fat tabby
cat sat on the interior sill and peered at its own reflection in the
glass.  Mary grimaced as she realized her sigh had caused the cat to
jump and in turn to frighten her.

The tabby was supremely uninterested in the broken vase or the pools of
water on the hardwood floor.  She licked her paws, preening
beautifully.  As interested as she was in the cat, Mary didn't see the
approach of Anna Leigh until the young woman's hands closed around the
cat and lifted her off the sill.  Mary would have jumped back if Ryder
hadn't held her.  She wondered why Ryder didn't move until she realized
that the gaslight inside the house made the windows reflect only the
interior of the room back to the occupants.  Mary looked through the
delicate web of lace curtains to the door that was opening a little
wider.  She saw Anna Leigh turn away from the window, still stroking
the cat.

"It's only the cat," she said.  Her voice was a trifle muffled through
the glass but perfectly understandable.

"She's broken a vase.  It didn't wake Papa, did it?"  For the first
time Mary realized the person standing just outside of her vision in
the doorway was not Anna Leigh's father.  She squinted, but couldn't
make out the shadowy form.  Was it a servant?  she wondered.  Or Anna
Leigh's guest?

And who would the senator's daughter be entertaining after her father
had retired for the night?  Anna Leigh raised the tabby and rubbed her
cheek against the soft fur.

"Clumsy cat," she said affectionately.  Then to the person in the
doorway: "Oh, I think I do hear Papa.  Tell him what happened and that
everything's all right.  There's no need to trouble anyone.  I'll clean
it up myself."  The reply was inaudible, but Anna Leigh seemed
satisfied with it.  She put the cat down, shooed her away, and knelt to
begin picking up damaged flowers and shards of glass.  Mary winced in
automatic sympathy as Anna Leigh cut her fingertip.  Anna Leigh dropped
the flowers and several pieces of glass to nurse the wound.

Simultaneously the door to the library opened fully, and now the voice
could be clearly heard, rich and resonant, a man's voice, too intimate
and too concerned to belong to a servant.  Ryder's hand closed over
Mary's mouth as the man stepped into the room.  Ryder was prepared.  He
had recognized the voice almost immediately.  He had heard it giving
long, damaging testimony at his trial.  Mary's acquaintance with it was
brief, so he was not surprised that she needed to see Anna Leigh's
guest to identify him.  Lieutenant Davis Rivers crossed the library
floor quickly and knelt beside Anna Leigh.  With his bright blond hair
so close to hers, the strands were almost indistinguishable.  His
handsome features were boyishly expressive in their concern, sweet and
disarming.  He took Anna Leigh's hand, examined the wound, and kissed
the break in her skin himself.  There was a drop of blood on his lower
lip when he drew away.  Ryder pulled Mary back from the window, but not
before she glimpsed Miss Anna Leigh Hamilton lick her own lips
lasciviously and launch herself into the lieutenant's arms.

Chapter Fifteen

Ryder's sleep was restless that night.  The Colter Canyon raid made up
the tapestry of his troubled dreams, and in none of them was a solution
revealed.  He always woke at the same point: Anna Leigh Hamilton
standing above him, accusing him of rape, while Lieutenant Rivers
consoled her and Private Carr prepared a rope for hanging.  He was not
surprised when he woke late, only that Mary had let him sleep.

He imagined that she had been anxious to do something about what they
had learned last evening.  She was not one for cooling her heels. After
leaving the Hamiltons' they had argued about going to his uncle. Ryder
was not ready to do it; Mary was adamant that it was time. Stretching,
Ryder rose from bed.  He felt soft and sluggish, and regretted now that
he hadn't taken his blankets to the floor and tried sleeping there.  He
paused at the French doors to examine the sky.  It was clearing, with
large patches of blue highlighting the distinct presence of the sun. 
Evidence of yesterday's dismal rain was on the glazed streets below,
and a collection of icy water droplets ran along the edge of the stone
balustrade.  Ryder turned away, hopeful the change in weather was a
portent of changes elsewhere.  He glanced in the sitting room on his
way to wash.  Mary was curled under a mound of blankets on the sofa. 
Obviously his restlessness had disturbed her as well.  Ryder resisted
the urge to put her back in bed and instead took his time completing
the morning rituals of washing and shaving and dressing.  When he
finally stepped into the sitting room it was to discover that Mary
hadn't stirred.  Ryder nudged the pile of blankets gently and succeeded
in uncovering two pillows and Mary's night dress-but no Mary.  He threw
the blankets down angrily and searched the room for a note.  Had she
merely gone for breakfast?

Or had she gone, as he suspected, to see Wilson Stillwell?  Was he
reacting to an assumption and not to fact?  When Ryder could find no
note he went straight to the front desk to see Doc Stanley, the logical
place for Mary to have left a message.  Doc had seen Mary leave two
hours earlier, but she had given him no note for Ryder.

"She didn't stop to chat," Doc said, adjusting his spectacles.

"Asked me to get a hansom for her and that was that."

"Did she give you the address to tell the driver?"

"No.  Told that to him herself, and I didn't catch it It never occurred
to me that you didn't know where she was going this morning."  It
hadn't occurred to Ryder that Mary would strike off on her own, but he
didn't say as much to Doc.

"Yes, well, she's an independent sort."

"The worst kind," Doc said sympathetically.

"Mark my words, the very worst kind."  Ryder ordered and ate breakfast
in the second-floor dining room.  From time to time he glanced up when
someone entered, but he never really expected to see Mary on the
threshold.  He considered trying to follow her, but the thought was
fleeting.  He was less clear on her destination after talking to Doc
than he had been beforehand.  The fact that she hadn't asked for
directions gave him hope that she hadn't gone to his uncle.  He had
never told her where Wilson Stillwell lived, and the man's address
wouldn't necessarily be known to every hack driver in Washington.  As
far as he knew Mary's familiarity with the city was what she had gained
the previous evening, and her list of acquaintances was probably
confined to the people she had pointed out at the Regent Theater.

How could any of them be of assistance to her?  Ryder finished his
coffee and returned to the room.  The door was ajar, and he distinctly
remembered closing it.  He entered cautiously.

"Where were you?"  Mary asked, coming to her feet.

"I was worried.  Doc said you were looking for me, and then I couldn't
find you.  Didn't you think to tell him you weren't coming straight
back to the room?

How was I supposed to know where you might have gone?"  Ryder finished
stepping into the room and closed the door behind him.

"It won't work," he said.

"Those are my questions and you know it."  Mary's posture lost a bit of
its militant stance as Ryder called her on her attack.

"I was worried," she said.

"I believe you."  He simply looked at her then.  Silent.  Waiting. Mary
did not hold up well under that sort of scrutiny.

"I wish you would use thumbscrews," she said after a few moments.

"I really can't tolerate that expectant silence."  When Ryder's
features remained unchanged Mary sighed.

"Very well.  I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was leaving, but I know you
would have wanted to come or would have argued with me about going at
all and I just don't believe it would have been in your best interest
to do so."  As an explanation it didn't begin to suffice.  Ryder gave
her an arch look, warning her she would do well to be more clear.  Mary
pointed to the valise by the door.

"Would you hand me that?"  she asked.

"I can explain everything."  Ryder gave her the valise, glad that he
hadn't realized she had taken it with her.  It would have only
increased his concern tenfold.  Pushing aside the blankets on the sofa
to make room for herself and the valise, Mary sat down.  She opened the
case and began setting pots of creams and dyes and powders out on the
end table.

"You asked me to apply myself to finding a way for you to get into the
War Office," she said, continuing to empty the valise.  A pair of
spectacles was added to the array of pots along with hairpieces of
assorted lengths and colors.

"And that's what I did.  I have a collection of items here that can be
used to make a credible disguise.  I have also had some instruction on
using these things.  It's not so simple as it may seem.  The face paint
has to be applied carefully if one is going to pass the disguise off at
close quarters.  I was assured, however, that I have a knack for it, so
you needn't worry that you'll look hopelessly out of place when I've
finished with you."  Ryder sat down himself now.  He looked at the odd
assortment of pots and jars and hair on the end table, then to Mary.
Her expression was one of serene pleasure.

"Mary," he said finally.

"Where exactly was it that you went?"

"To the Regent Theater," she said, as if it were obvious.

"It came to me this morning that the one person who could help us was
Miss Yvonne Marie herself."  Ryder knew Mary's plan had a better than
even chance of succeeding when Doc himself didn't recognize them as
they passed through the lobby.  She flagged the hansom, while Ryder,
looking remarkably frail beside her, leaned on her arm.

"You're still going to be a handsome old man," Mary said when they were
settled and the carriage was underway.  She leaned forward, "Here, let
me straighten your mustache.  I told you not to fiddle with it until
the glue dried."  Ryder suffered her attentions with little grace.

"It tickles."

"That can't be helped."  Mary patted the graying mustache in place so
that it fit smoothly above his upper lip.  It was a full, thick
mustache, and the ends brushed his lip when he talked or smiled.  She
had already warned him he would do well to do little of those things.
Sitting back, Mary studied Ryder's appearance again and pronounced
herself satisfied.  She had used a grease pencil skillfully to create
age lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes and across his
forehead.

Yvonne Marie had showed her how to blend the pencil marks into the skin
to emphasize the weathered appearance.  Mary had used a gray hairpiece
to cover most of Ryder's own healthy hair and had added touches of gray
to Ryder's temples to merge his coloring with the desired one.  A pair
of wire-rimmed spectacles rested on his nose, and side whiskers had
been added to give fullness to his face.  His eyebrows had been
lightened with the same paint and powder mixture she had used for his
temples.

"You're holding yourself too straight," she said.

"Can you round your shoulders a little?"

Ryder complied.

"Better?"  When she nodded, he asked, "If I have to be an old man, why
don't you have to be an old woman?"

"It would be too much," she said practically.

"We don't need to invite scrutiny."  A rich, chestnut-colored wig
covered Mary's brighter red-gold hair.  Her eyebrows had been darkened,
and she had added touches of color to her face to lend her complexion a
deeper shade of peach.  Mary smoothed back the coiffeured red wig with
a delicate touch.

"It feels as if I'm wearing a helmet," she said.

"I was seventeen the last time I had this much hair piled on my head."
It would have suited Ryder if Mary had changed nothing about herself
and had remained behind, but she had presented a convincing argument
that her presence would be a diversion of sorts and thereby make him
less likely to be carefully questioned or watched.  Ryder watched Mary
fix her hair and retouch her lips with a bit of rouge.  She was
actually looking forward to this, he thought.  The hours spent in Miss
Marie's company this morning had certainly had their influence.  It
wouldn't have surprised him now if Mary announced she was taking up the
stage.

"Did you really tell Miss Marie the patients clutched her picture to
their chests?"

he asked.

"Of course I did," she said.

"It's true.  Well, perhaps 'clutched' is overstating their attachment
to those cigarette photographs, but they did collect and admire them.
Miss Marie was touched."

"I'm certain you made sure she was."

"She helped us, didn't she?  What's more, I was able to discover she
recalls your uncle.  Senator Stillwell did indeed make her acquaintance
last night as you suspected.  She remembered him being very pleasant
and offering her a proper congratulation on her performance."

"My uncle has a glib tongue.  If he's polite, he has reason to be."

"Miss Marie was impressed with him," Mary said, then added gently, "it
wouldn't hurt to keep an open mind about your uncle."  Ryder made a
small, cantankerous grunt befitting the old man he was supposed to be.
The subject was closed.  At the War Office, Mary did almost all of the
talking.

She introduced herself as the widow of Samuel Conklin, Ryder as her
father-in-law.  They were interested, she said, in records from the War
Between the States, most especially in anything to do with the battles
at Shiloh and Vicksburg.  She explained she was trying to locate a
journal her husband had begun when he'd enlisted and that was not
returned with the rest of his belongings after his death.

Her tone was quiet, her manner dignified.  She let the fabricated facts
speak for themselves and didn't attempt to push or cajole anyone into
making exceptions for her.  Ryder watched her entrance everyone she
spoke to.  As a result of her performance very little attention was
paid to him.  They were given a room off the main records room.  It was
small and windowless, a cubbyhole really, but it was furnished with a
table and chairs and two oil lamps.  In the beginning the Army clerks
brought the records into the room, but as the afternoon wore on and
Mary never found what she pretended to want, they allowed her to search
in the larger room herself.

While she pored over letters of commendation and enlistment ledgers
from a war that was about a score of years in the past, Ryder made free
with more recent files that accounted for most of what had happened in
the Western Campaign.  The clerks never noticed he was looking at
papers different from the ones Mary perused.  On one occasion they
found him in the wrong area of the records room, but it didn't raise
their suspicions.  Thinking he was lost, they simply turned him around
and shooed him in the direction of the right stacks.  Their manner was
solicitous but vaguely condescending, and Ryder abided it only because
it served his purpose.  Mary scribbled notes as she read.  Except for
the things Ryder asked her to take down most of them were nonsensical.
She would have preferred to read the same accounts as he, but she knew
her role was to divert suspicion and she had to be satisfied with that.
On the way out she made a point of thanking everyone who had been so
kind to her.  She was particularly gracious to the clerks, calling them
by name.  When Ryder began to make impatient noises about leaving, she
apologized for him but allowed that it had been a long afternoon and
had dredged up many memories.

Outside the War Office Mary heaved a sigh of relief.

"This is one widow they won't forget anytime soon.  That's good, don't
you think?"

"Very good.  You were very good."

"Don't kiss me," she said quickly, looking up at him.

"At least not the way I think you want to."

"It shows, does it?"  She nodded, glad that it did.

It boded well for the future when he really was an old man.  Taking his
arm, Mary led him down the stone steps.

"Let's walk awhile," she said.

"An afternoon of sitting in close quarters has done me in.  I'm as
stiff as you're supposed to be."  Feeling the need to stretch his own
legs, Ryder agreed.

"Well?"  she asked when they had gone only a few feet.

"You're going to tell me, aren't you?

What did you learn?  Certainly nothing I read was of any help."

"And it wasn't supposed to be," he said.

"Do you really want to know now?  I'll only have to repeat myself when
we get to my uncle's."  Wilson Stillwell's Washington home was a large
white clapboard Victorian house with blue shutters and gingerbread
molding.  Unlike the Hamiltons' fenced-in property, this senator's
grounds were separated from his neighbors on either side by a low,
neatly trimmed hedge.  There was no circular drive at the front of the
residence.  Carriages would deposit their passengers on the street and
guests would follow the walk to the front door.  The view from the
street was cheerful and bespoke a comfortable and unfussy elegance. The
interior was much the same.  Mary and Ryder were shown to the front
parlor to wait as the senator was not home when they arrived.  Rather
than return later they elected to stay.

Once the housekeeper left them alone, Mary wandered about the room,
trying to learn something of the man from his furnishings.

"The housekeeper didn't see through your disguise," she said, picking
up a delicate jade figurine.  There were a number of Oriental carvings
in the room, most of them jade, a few ivory, all of them quite
exquisite.  Ryder stretched out in a mauve brocade wing chair.

"She's never seen me before."  he said.

"That's why."  Mary glanced at the mantel which was crowded with
photographs.

"I

don't know about that."  she said.  She replaced the figurine and went
over to the mantel.  Picking up an ornate gilded frame, she studied the
photo within for several moments.

"This is you as a West Point cadet."  Ryder nodded.

"It's all for appearances, Mary.  It's what he thinks makes the best
impression on his constituency.  He wants to show good taste but not to
excess.  He would abhor Hamilton's mansion."  Sighing, Mary replaced
the photograph and looked at the others.  She recognized Ryder as a
young boy in a family picture with his mother and father.  His sister
Molly was still a babe in arms.  Ryder's appearance, a blend of his
father's hard profile and his mother's coloring, was very solemn as he
stared at the camera.  She could imagine even at that early age he had
had no trouble remaining still.  There was a wedding photograph of
Wilson and his wife, another of Ryder's parents.  The last frame didn't
hold a picture at all but a lock of baby-fine golden hair.

"His daughter's?"  Mary asked, holding it up for Ryder to see.

"That's right.  A poignant touch, isn't it?"

Mary gave him a sour look.

"This sarcasm of yours is not becoming.  I can't think of one reason
your uncle would be moved to help us if you continue to act in such a
manner."  Ryder drew in a breath and let it out slowly.

"I'll do better," he said quietly.

The housekeeper chose that moment to return.  She carried a tray with
tea for Mary and wine for Ryder.  She served both, waited for their
approval, then left as silently as she had come.  Mary eyed Ryder's
wine glass suspiciously.

"You don't drink," she said.

"Why did you choose that?"  Ryder had specifically asked for Montrachet
and had even noted the year he wanted.  Mary thought it a strange jest
on his part until the housekeeper appeared with the bottle.

"My uncle's secret vice," he said, raising his glass.

"His wine cellar is where you can find the excess that appears nowhere
else in this house.  In the short time I lived here he had it expanded
twice to accommodate his growing collection.  He's very particular
about the temperature and the light down there, and he has one servant
who's responsible for seeing that the bottles are uniformly and
regularly turned.  Do you want to see it?"

"I'll let him show me," she said.

"You wouldn't do it justice."  Ryder sipped his wine.

"It's a remarkable vintage."

"And completely wasted on you," Mary said.

"You asked for that to be spiteful."

He couldn't disagree.  Recalling that he'd promised to do better, he
put the glass aside.  Petty revenge really did have a bitter taste, he
decided.  Getting to his feet, he went to the fireplace and laid a log
on the meager fire the housekeeper had laid.  After brushing off his
hands he began removing the mustache, side-whiskers, and hairpiece that
Mary had carefully applied.  He gave them to her to put in her
reticule, then took out a handkerchief and began to wipe away the face
paint and grease-pencil lines.  The front door opened and closed, and
there was a hushed exchange in the hall before the pocket doors to the
parlor were parted.  The housekeeper gaped when she saw Ryder standing
at the mantel, removing the lines from his face, and Mary on the settee
critically eyeing a helmet of hair on the end of her fist.

"It's all right, Mrs.  Shanahan," Wilson Stillwell said.

"I

know these people."  He gave her his hat and coat.

"Nothing to drink for me," he said when he saw the bottle of wine Ryder
had ordered.

"Just bring a glass.  I can see my nephew has already made a good
choice."  He stepped inside and closed the pocket doors behind him.

"Ryder," he said shortly, nodding once.

"Unexpected hardly describes your presence here."

"Wilson," Ryder said with equal terseness.  He finished removing the
face paint and stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket.

"This is Mary McKay."

Mary made quick work of thrusting her chestnut wig into her reticule.
Her cheeks were flushed as Wilson Stillwell made a stiff bow in her
direction.

"Senator," she said, injecting warmth into her voice.

"I'm pleased to meet you."

"McKay?"  Stillwell said, not returning her sentiment.

"I understood you were one of Jay Mac Worth's .. ."  There was a slight
pause.

"Daughters," he finished.  Mary's eyes narrowed, and she raised her
chin a notch.

She understood that hesitation because she had heard it before when
people wanted to make certain she knew that they knew she was a
bastard.

"She's my wife," Ryder interjected.

"Wife?  When did this happen?"  Wilson Stillwell had a sternly grave
face that darkened slightly with displeasure.  In spite of that, his
austere visage was handsomely molded and his blue eyes glittered like
ice chips.

"It doesn't matter," Mary said, coming to her feet.

"We haven't come for your blessing or even your approval.  We've come
for your help.  If you can't offer that, then we've already wasted too
much time.  Yours and ours."  The senator seared Mary with his
brilliant blue eyes for a moment, studying her stiff back and proud
stance.  He raked his hair back in a gesture that was reminiscent of
one Ryder frequently made and nodded slowly, appreciatively.

"You have a lot of your father in you," he said in the manner of giving
a compliment.

"Go on.  Sit down.  If I've offended, then I apologize."  He glanced
behind him.

"Where's Mrs.  Shanahan with my glass?"  he asked of no one in
particular.  He pointed to the unfinished glass of wine on the tray.

"Are you going to drink that, Ryder?"  Ryder shook his head.

"Help yourself."

"Indeed," Wilson Stillwell said deeply.

"You certainly did."  He sat in the chair that Ryder had recently
occupied and looked from his nephew to Mary and back again.

"I was at the fort when you made your escape," he said.

"I even stayed a week to see if they would apprehend you.  When it
became clear Gardner's men weren't up to it, I left.  I told the
general you wouldn't stay in the territory, but even I couldn't have
predicted this."  He raised his glass to his sternly set mouth.

"An explanation seems in order."  Mary held her breath, wondering if
Ryder would comply.  The request was reasonable.  Something in the way
it was stated made it seem less so, however.  Jay Mac had never
suffered fools gladly, and Mary suspected the same was true of the
senator, yet there was a distinction in their manner that widely
separated the two men.  Jay Mac did not shy from confrontation, neither
was he deliberately provoking.  She wasn't certain the same could be
said for Wilson Stillwell.  Mary listened with half an ear as Ryder
gave his uncle a review of the events that had led to their visit.  She
watched the senator take in the information while revealing little of
his thoughts.  When the housekeeper arrived with the glass, he sent her
out with a dismissive wave of his hand, never taking his eyes from
Ryder, for all appearances mesmerized but reserving judgment.  She
could not recall ever having seen a political cartoon of the senator.
His handsome, even features did not lend themselves well to caricature.
There was no single attribute that could be easily emphasized except
perhaps the eyes, and it would be difficult to capture their piercing
brilliance in a black-and-white line drawing.  Wilson Stillwell was a
little better than average height, his posture and demeanor adding
inches in the perception of others if not in fact.  His hair was brown
and would have been nondescript if it weren't for the threads of iron
gray at his brow and temples.  His mustache and side-whiskers were both
neatly cropped.  As Ryder had noted, his uncle was not given to any
excess the public could see.  Although his build was on the lean side,
his shoulders were broad, and they gave him the effect of sturdiness
and dependability.  He asked sharp, incisive questions of Ryder.

Mary had no trouble imagining that the senator could hold his own in a
debate.

"So you've been in Washington a little more than twenty-four hours," he
said.  He reached for the black lacquered cigar box on the table at his
side and removed a cigar.  He drew it under his nose once, more out of
habit than to appreciate the aroma, then cut off the tip and lit it.

"And you're only now getting here."  He drew on the cigar deeply, then
exhaled slowly, with obvious relish.

"Are you going to tell me what caused the delay?"  Certain that Ryder
would say he wasn't convinced he should have come at all, Mary did not
allow him to answer.

"We were gathering evidence to present you," she said.

"It was important to us that you know Ryder's innocent."

"I think I know something about my nephew's character."  Which, Mary
realized, was neither an endorsement or an indictment.  She did not
take issue with the statement, preferring to get to the heart of their
findings at the War Office.

"We're convinced we know who orchestrated the raid at Colter Canyon,"
she said with quiet confidence.

"Your help now could be invaluable."  One of the senator's brows rose.
He looked through a haze of blue-gray smoke at Ryder.

"Is that right?"  he asked.

"You know?  And that's why you've come here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well?"  Stillwell's eyes narrowed fractionally.

"Let's hear it.  And for God's sake, sit down."  Ryder hesitated.  He
had no liking for the command or the tone.  It was only when he saw the
gentle encouragement in Mary's eyes that he left the fireplace and sat
in the chair opposite his uncle.

"Mary and I spent most of the day at the War Office," he said.

"I was interested in the records of assignments, transfers, and
discharges for Fort Union and we-"

"Why?"  asked Stillwell.

"Because the short time we've been in town we've already seen two men
who escorted the gold wagons through Colter Canyon."  There was a
slight indication of surprise on the senator's part as he exhaled
sharply.  Ryder continued.

"It made me curious as to who else might be around."

"And?"

"I can't say with any certainty that they're here in Washington," said
Ryder.

"But to a man, they've received transfers from Fort Union or were
discharged from the Army."  The senator's brows pulled together as he
squinted at Ryder.  He lowered his cigar slowly.

"You're saying," he said deeply, almost growling, "that no soldier who
survived the Colter Canyon massacre is still stationed at the fort.  Is
that right?"

Ryder and Mary nodded in unison.  Mary's look was more expectant than
Ryder's.

"Well," Stillwell said impatiently, "what's so blasted unusual about
that?  The Army thought they could be more useful elsewhere after their
experience.  Hell, I'd have put in for a transfer myself."

"And it's doubtful it would have been granted," Ryder said.

"One man.  Two.  Maybe a half dozen could have been expected to be
permitted to transfer, but not all of them.  And they were fresh
recruits, newly assigned to the post just before the gold shipment was
supposed to take place."

"Do you see?"  Mary asked eagerly when Stillwell didn't respond.

"They were assigned to the fort for just one purpose-to be part of
escorting and protecting the gold."

"Of course I see," he said.

"But what does it mean?  They were assigned, did their job-poorly, I
might add, or the Apache raid wouldn't have been so successful-then
they were transferred.  You two have drawn some conclusion other than
the one I have settled on."  Mary shifted to the edge of her seat and
asked earnestly, "Senator Stillwell, do you believe Ryder's innocent of
the charges leveled against him?"  There was no hesitation.

"Of course I do."

Satisfied, she nodded once.

"It's Ryder's contention that there were no Apache involved in the
massacre."  The senator's attention turned to his nephew.

"You've said that before, but you've lacked evidence to support it."
Ryder rested his forearms on his knees.

"It was impossible for me to prove it wasn't a Chiricahua raid," Ryder
said frankly.

"I wasn't allowed to return to the canyon after my arrest.  I believe
investigators who did go saw things that were placed there purposely to
support the stories of the surviving soldiers.  Only one Army
scout-Rosario-was permitted to comb the area, and he had his own
reasons for concealing the truth."

"And the truth is ..."  Stillwell sounded both impatient and expectant.
Mary broke in.

"The truth is that the massacre was a surprise attack by the new
recruits against the old ones."

Complete silence followed her announcement.  The senator exhaled very
slowly, his narrowed eyes moving thoughtfully from Ryder to Mary, then
back to Ryder.

"Did you put that idea in her head?"  he asked at last.

"I gave her the information," Ryder said.

"Mary's quite capable of putting things together on her own."

"You realize what you're saying, don't you?  You're talking about
brother against brother here.  A bloody little civil war right in
Colter Canyon, Arizona."

"That's what it was," said Ryder.

"Except it had no purpose other than greed."  Stillwell stubbed out his
cigar.

"They sure as hell weren't able to execute this plan all on their own."
Ryder nodded.

"You're right.  This kind of operation-the dates, the assignments, the
route-demanded help from someone who had access to all that
information.  I was one of those people."

"Except that Ryder didn't have the authority to transfer men in or out
of Fort Union," Mary said.

"He could have suggested certain men to General Gardner, but that was
the extent of his influence."  The senator's frown deepened as he tried
to take it in.

"Then you're saying Gardner put this attack together and framed you?"
Ryder shook his head.

"I'd never believe that.

It was someone who could wield more power than the commander."

"But who--"

"Warren Hamilton," said Ryder.  Stillwell was in the process of raising
the glass of Montrachet to his lips.  He paused in mid motion
stunned.

"Hamilton?"  he said softly.

"That doesn't seem-" Mary nodded understandingly.

"We know.  It will be hard for anyone to believe, and that's why we
need your help."  She began to click off points on her fingers.

"We know these things:

Senator Hamilton is a member of several committees that oversee
expenditures to the War Department; he has been supportive of the
Western Campaign from the outset; he has financial interests in Holland
Mines; he was influential in helping Northeast Rail secure a land grant
for the railroad in that area; he was at the fort at the time of the
raid; and" Mary drew a quiet breath and let her fingers fold back into
a loose fist "and his daughter was instrumental in supporting the
charge of treason against Ryder."

"My God," the senator said again, softly this time.  He straightened a
little and added flatly, "You realize, of course, that most of your
points could be made about me.  I wasn't at the fort at the time of the
raid, and Anna Leigh is not my daughter, but other than that .. " He
drank some of his wine.  His eyes were fixed on a point beyond Ryder's
shoulder.  He was a man caught in his memories.

"Until the debacle at Colter Canyon and his daughter's ridiculous
charges, I counted Warren Hamilton among my friends.  We served
together..  . had the same outlook.  And when we didn't"-he smiled
slightly-"we enjoyed wrangling like two young bucks."  He came out of
his reverie and looked hard at his nephew.

"I don't believe it.  What was his motive?"

"His share of the gold.  It was a rich prize."

"Perhaps, but I don't think he would risk so much for it.  It doesn't
fit with the man I know-or knew."

Mary's shoulders sagged a little.

"Then you won't help us prove it?"  she asked.

"I didn't say that."  Stillwell refilled his wine glass.  This time
when he sipped, it was apparent he was deriving more pleasure from the
experience.

"Warren Hamilton," he said slowly, drawing out the name as if it were
the first time he had ever heard it.

"It just doesn't seem possible.  You may be headed in the right
direction, but I think you've jumped a track or two.  Why don't you let
me make a few inquiries into this.  I'd be happy to--"" Mary stood
now.

"No," she said clearly, forcefully.

"Forgive me, Senator, but for too long this has been left to other
people.  Every day that Ryder and I spend in Washington is dangerous.
There's no telling at what point one of us will be recognized and
turned in.  If that were to happen much of what would follow would be
out of our control.  That's an unacceptable risk.  We need your help
now, and we need you working with us, not on your own.  Stillwell
considered Mary thoughtfully, then looked to his nephew.

"You agree with her?"  he asked.  Ryder nodded.

"I can tell you that from the beginning she wanted to come here.  I
didn't.  But yes, in light of what we know now, I agree with her."  The
senator's expression didn't change.  Ryder's statement was not an
unexpected response.

"Give me something else," he said at last.

"I do believe you're innocent, but I'll be damned if I'll believe
Warren Hamilton is behind this.  You must have something more."  Ryder
and Mary exchanged glances, and Mary gave Ryder an almost imperceptible
nod of encouragement.

"Last night," Ryder said, "Mary and I waited outside the Regent
Theater."

He saw his uncle stiffen slightly.

"Yes, we saw you there, and we saw you intentionally not acknowledge
them.  It's what gave Mary hope that you could be persuaded to assist
us."

"Go on," Wilson Stillwell said.

"After the performance we followed Anna Leigh and her father home.  We
had no intention other than to see where and how they lived."

"Then you observed for yourself that Warren Hamilton does not need
money."

"On the contrary," Ryder said.

"I

observed someone whose particular way of living requires a great deal
of money."

"You saw what you wanted to see."  Mary's hands curled into fists at
her sides.

"We saw," she said pointedly, "Anna Leigh and her father greet
Lieutenant Davis Rivers moments after they arrived home."  Wilson
Stillwell merely stared at her, his features nearly expressionless.

"Davis Rivers," she repeated.

"The man who was promoted after the raid for capturing Ryder was a
guest in the Hamilton home."

"It doesn't prove anything," Stillwell said carefully.

"It doesn't-"

"More to the point," Mary interrupted.

"Rivers and Anna Leigh Hamilton are lovers."  At first there was no
reaction that she could detect on the part of Wilson Stillwell, then
Mary glanced at the hand holding the wine glass.  His knuckles were
white on the delicate stem of the crystal.

"You know this?"  the senator asked.

"We saw enough to be confident of our conclusion."  She added primly,
"It would have been unseemly to witness more than we did."  Wilson
Stillwell set his glass aside.  He raised one hand slowly to his face
and rubbed his brow hard with thumb and fingers as he thought.  The
lines on his forehead deepened.  His eyes were almost closed now.

"He'd do most anything for her," he said, more to himself than his
guests.

"I always knew she was his weakness.  He could never tolerate a word
being said against her.  Too much like his wife, she was, in looks if
not character.  Warren never could get past one to see the other."  He
sighed heavily and his hand dropped away.  He studied Ryder for a long
moment.

"She's a better motive than greed," he said finally.

"I don't think you'd ever have convinced me Hamilton would have done it
for the money .. . but for her-for Anna Leigh-he might very well have
sold his soul."

"I

think he did just that," Ryder said quietly.  Mary went to the
fireplace and poked at the logs.  Fire crackled and spit at her.

She brushed the hem of her skirt, but didn't move away.  She was cold
to her marrow.

"We can't know how the plan was first conceived or who may have
suggested it.  I don't even know how much that matters now.  It seems
clear, however, that Senator Hamilton was in a position to orchestrate
it."  Ryder went on.

"I was assigned to Fort Union to organize the delivery of the gold
shipment.  I was responsible for almost every aspect of that mission,
and you were influential in getting me that appointment."

Stillwell chuckled humorlessly.

"Hamilton suggested it.  Said it would be a feather in your cap, and in
mine."  He topped off his wine glass and said under his breath, "The
bastard."

"The records at the War Office indicate that Davis Rivers was an
attache to General Norman Dalton here in Washington before his
assignment to Fort Union.  His transfer and that of about thirty-five
other men can all be traced back in one way or another to Warren
Hamilton."

"Hamilton can't make the transfers you suggest.  No senator can.

That's the province of the Army."  Mary regarded Senator Stillwell
frankly.

"Are you saying that you don't have enough influence to see the thing
done?"  she asked.

"A word in the right ear?  A promise to the right person.  A favor
extended?"  Mary saw immediately that she had him.  For the senator to
deny it would be admitting that his leverage and authority was not as
extensive as he wanted others to believe.  If he admitted that he had
the power and prestige to accomplish such a task, then he was also
saying that someone like Hamilton could do the thing as well. Stillwell
regarded Mary consideringly.

"You're a very clever young woman," he said at last.

"Perhaps too clever for your own good."  Out of the corner of his eye
he saw Ryder shift slightly and recognized that he needed to tread
carefully.

"But, yes, you're correct.  I could arrange it if that were my desire.
It's not easy to admit that Hamilton carries as much in the way of
clout as I do, but it's true nonetheless.  There are ways it could be
accomplished."

Satisfied, Mary returned to the settee.

"Then a reasonable conclusion is that Senator Hamilton helped arrange
the assignments of a group of men who had no real purpose at Fort Union
except to steal the gold shipment."  Ryder's long fingers intertwined
and became a single fist.

"In carrying out their mission, they murdered an equal number of men
assigned to escort the wagons, planted evidence to make it seem as
though it were a Chiricahua raid, stole the gold, and arranged very
neatly for me to assume the blame."

"Miss Hamilton," the senator said softly.  Ryder nodded.

"Mary suspected her part in this long before I did.  The senator's
daughter was instrumental in making certain I was unavailable at the
time of the massacre."  Stillwell's lips compressed.  He sighed
heavily.

"Why weren't you killed?"

"I might have been if it weren't for Miss Hamilton's successful
playacting and her sordid account.  I think it was decided it was
better to have someone to accuse for the mission's failure than to
leave an open-ended investigation into the matter."

"Ryder was the perfect choice to take the blame," Mary said.

"He certainly was," Stillwell agreed.

"My God, he certainly was."

"The hangman was supposed to silence me."  Wilson Stillwell's mouth
curled upward in a humorless smile, but his eyes alighted
appreciatively on Mary.

"And he would have if it hadn't been for Mary here."

"More or less," Ryder said enigmatically, refusing to explain her real
role in his escape or that of Florence Gardner.  His quick glance at
Mary cautioned her as well.  The senator raised his wine glass again
and sipped.

"Obviously there's something you don't wish to tell me," he said.

"I have no problem with that, but do you know where the gold is?"

Ryder shook his head.

"We don't think it's in Arizona any longer.

It was Mary's idea to follow Miss Hamilton in the hope she would lead
us to it."

"Well, she led you to Lieutenant Rivers and to her father.  I'd say
Mary's instincts are good ones.  Who can say where the gold might turn
up?"  He leaned back in his large armchair.

"I've heard quite enough to make my decision."  He sipped his wine
again, then regarded them both over the rim of his glass.

"How is it that I can assist you in bringing Hamilton and his slut of a
daughter to justice?"  Mary blinked, taken aback by an underlying
viciousness in the senator's almost genial tone.

"Do I shock you, Mary?"  he asked matter-of-factly.

"Did you think I wouldn't take this information so personally?  I don't
know what my nephew's told you about our relationship, but I can assure
you I take this all very, very personally.  Not only was Ryder cruelly
maligned, but I was unwittingly duped into offering myself up for
public ridicule."  Mary suspected it was the latter situation that
Wilson Stillwell found most difficult to accept.  Still, it no longer
mattered why he wanted to help, only that he did.

"I do not suffer fools," he said lowly.

"And neither will I be made one.

No one does that to Wilson Stillwell.  No one."  Mary had an urge to
look at Ryder, but she resisted.  There was a fierceness about the
senator's announcement that she found unsettling, even dangerous.

"It's good of you to offer your help," she said evenly.

"Ryder and I both appreciate it."  Mrs.  Shanahan parted the pocket
doors to the parlor and announced that dinner was ready.  The senator
rose, took Mary's arm, and escorted her to the dining room.

Ryder followed with interest, watching Mary's reaction to his uncle.
There were small signs, imperceptible to someone who didn't know Mary
as well as he did, that she was not eager to be in Wilson Stillwell's
company, that she didn't like linking arms with him or matching her
step to his.  The senator seated her at the long walnut dining table,
then took his place at the head.  Ryder sat on his uncle's right.  Each
time Mary turned to him, a question in her forest green eyes, his own
expression was carefully guarded.

Clams were served first, then cream of potato soup.  More Montrachet
filled their glasses, but before a servant carried in the tender bass
fillets, Stillwell ordered Amontillado and Rauenthaler be brought up
from the wine cellar.  The fish course was followed by cucumbers and
thin slices of rare roast beef and more wine.

"Ryder tells me you have a fine collection of wines in your cellar,"
Mary said.  Dinner did not lend itself to important conversation.
Although she wanted to do nothing more than finish the discussion that
had begun in the parlor, she held back, following Ryder's lead.

"What I've tasted thus far is certainly proof of that."

"I imagine your father has a similar cellar," Stillwell said modestly.
Mary shook her head.

"Nothing like yours, I'm sure.  He appreciates a good wine, but admits
he has no real taste for the distinction between them."

"It can be learned," Stillwell said.  He savored the Rauenthaler.

"I'd be proud to show you the cellar."

"And I would be honored to see it."  The conversation proceeded in just
that fashion, simple exchanges with no consequence or purpose except to
fill the silence between the sorbet and the salad.  This situation
lasted until coffee was served.  Stillwell drew another cigar from the
lacquered box that was presented to him and lighted it with relish.

Ryder declined a second time.

"You haven't explained," Stillwell said, "what it is I can do for you.
You understand that simply going to the papers with what we have won't
be enough.  The fact that you're my nephew, Ryder, means that whatever
I say in support of you will be critically examined.  I feel certain
that Hamilton will be able to provide explanations for the assignments
and transfers, and it will become my word against his.  That won't do
at all.  The papers will also be very cautious in regard to Miss
Hamilton.  You can't level accusations at her pretty head without
proof."

"We know," Ryder said.

"That's why we think nothing less than Senator Hamilton's confession
will serve."  Stillwell hadn't expected that.

"His confession?  You think that cagey old bird is going to give it to
you?"

"No," Mary said.

"But he might to you."

"Tell me?"  The senator was astounded.

"With us listening," Ryder added.

"And some other people who have an interest in this."

"Reporters, you mean," Stillwell said.

"Them.  But also one or two commanders from the War Office.

General Hatcher comes to mind as someone who's consistently fair and
willing to listen.  You could pick someone else, of course.  It doesn't
matter as long as you think he'd be fair and impartial, and would act
accordingly."  Wilson Stillwell rubbed his chin with the back of his
hand.

"Let me see if I understand this.  You want me to coerce a confess-"

"Not coerce," Mary interrupted.

"Confront and cajole.  Dare him into telling you the truth."

"In front of witnesses," Stillwell said, unconvinced.

"No," said Ryder.

"He wouldn't be able to see the witnesses.  You could do it right here,
in this house, in this room.  The witnesses only need to assemble on
the other side of the door and-" Holding up his hand, the senator shook
his head and effectively silenced Ryder.

"It won't work."

"Then another place," Mary said.

"It doesn't have to be here."

"No, that isn't what I meant," Stillwell responded.

"Here is fine.  In fact, here is very good.  I can arrange that with no
difficulty, but Warren Hamilton won't step foot in my home.

The general public isn't aware that his daughter is the young woman
mentioned in the Colter Canyon affair, but he has to be careful to
maintain appearances.  People who do know would find it odd that
Hamilton came here, what with my connection to Ryder, so he wouldn't
come and he would be suspicious if I invited him."

"Then we should find a way for you to go to him," said Mary.

"Meet in some neutral place where he would be less suspicious."
Stillwell shook his head.

"You're focusing your sights on the wrong target."

Mary tilted her head to one side, puzzled.  She glanced at Ryder and
saw that although his eyes had narrowed slightly, there was a glimmer
of understanding in them.  He was beginning to nod his head, slowly at
first, then more firmly as his uncle's idea took hold.

"What?"  asked Mary, impatient that she alone did not understand.

"What are you both thinking?"

"He's right," Ryder said.

"Warren Hamilton is the wrong target.  It's Anna Leigh who can give us
what we want."

"Exactly," Stillwell said.  There was pride in his voice as he spoke
the single word, pride that his nephew had come to the same conclusion
and had seen the wisdom of it.  Mary darted between Ryder and his
uncle.

"How in the world will Anna Leigh be persuaded."  Drawing deeply on his
cigar, Stillwell said, "Miss Hamilton will come here.  That's not a
problem."  Mary frowned.

"But how-"

"Let me worry about that.  It can be arranged.  Will you trust me?" His
brows rose fractionally when Mary's answer was not immediately
forthcoming.  He looked to Ryder questioningly.

"Yes," Ryder said.

"I believe you can do it."

Mary caught herself blushing at her rudeness.

"Yes, of course.  I didn't mean that I didn't trust .. . it's just that
.  Well, I'm surprised..  . That is .. ."  She trailed off because the
senator was paying her no attention.  He was staring at the flower
arrangement in the middle of the table, clearly not seeing it, but
working out things in his own mind instead.

"Yes," he said quietly, blowing a wreath of smoke above his head.

"It can be arranged with perfect ease.  Not only Miss Hamilton, but I
think we can include the lieutenant as well.  Two birds with one stone,
as it were."  Mary wouldn't have been surprised if he had licked his
lips.  The tips of her fingers whitened as she gripped her coffee cup
but this was the only sign of her uneasiness.

"You mentioned General Hatcher, Ryder," Wilson Stillwell was saying.

"I think he's a good choice for this.  I know him, of course, but he's
not a close acquaintance.  That would make him seem to be less on
anyone's side save that of the truth.

I'll have to give some thought to which reporter I would trust with
this story.  There's Marcus Asbury.  He's good.  And Des Richards.

They're with rival papers, but that could be to our advantage.

Get the word out more quickly.  The New York Chronicle has a reporter
in town.  I could interest him in the story."

"That's certainly sufficient to our needs," Ryder said.  He looked to
Mary.

"Are you satisfied with that?"  She nodded slowly, wondering at her own
reticence.

"It makes sense.  How soon can it be arranged?"

Senator Stillwell did not bother to consult clock or calendar.

"I need only twenty-four hours," he said.

"I'll have the players here.  The two of you will have to write the
script."

Chapter Sixteen

"You're very quiet."  Ryder stroked Mary's silky hair.

The red-gold ends of it curled around his fingertips.  They brushed her
shoulders and fell sleekly past her nape.

"Mmmm," she hummed softly, fitting herself more comfortably against
him.  They had declined Senator Stillwell's offer to stay in his home
and had returned to the boarding house.  Neither of them had spoken
about the encounter.  Indeed, neither had had much to say about any of
the day's events.  They undressed in silence, slipped into bed, and
fell asleep wrapped in their own thoughts instead of each other's arms.
Sometime in the middle of the night that changed, though who reached
for whom would never be established with any certainty.

The truth was, it didn't matter.  The need was mutual, the desire was
shared, and they woke completely simultaneously only moments before a
shattering climax.  Neither fell back into sleep, although both made a
pretense of doing just that.  For a long time Mary lay on her side,
staring toward the French doors.  Blue-white moonlight was filtered
through the gauzy lace curtains.

Occasionally some raucous sound came from the street below: an outraged
bellow as one drunk assailed another, the cacophonous clatter of milk
cans being rushed for delivery.  Mostly it was quiet enough to hear the
soft tread of a boarder in the hallway or the plaintive mewling of a
stray kitten.

"Talk to me, Mary."

Raising himself on one elbow, Ryder touched her bare shoulder.

Moonlight covered his hand.

"What are you thinking?"

"Only that it will be over tomorrow."  She turned onto her side, toward
him.

Their knees bumped.

"Or most of it will be.  Have you thought of that?  Of what it will
mean to us?"

"It means we can stop hiding and running and wearing ridiculous
disguises."

"I'm serious."

His smile was gentle.

"So am I," he whispered.  He moved his hand a fraction and kissed the
warm curve of her shoulder.

"I have some money put aside, not much, but enough to buy land around
Flagstaff.  I have a friend there, a retired general, who's encouraged
me to settle near him.  He'd be the one selling off a portion of his
land.  It's beautiful country, Mary.  Mountains.

Clear, cold streams.  Good grazing for cattle.  We could have a ranch
there.  We'd never be rich, but we'd be self-sufficient."

"We'd be very rich," she said, but she wasn't talking about money.

He found her hand under the covers and threaded his fingers between
hers.

"It's what I want," he said.

"But what about you?

Can you see yourself living like that?"

"I can't see myself living any other way," she said quietly.  Her
meaning was clear.

Sharing a life with him interested her more than any particular
lifestyle.  Still, she had her own dreams, and she knew they were no
less important to Ryder than his.

"I'm going to teach someday," she said.

"If there's a school in Flagstaff."  He laughed softly.

"If there isn't, there will be."  He'd build her one, he thought, and
they would fill it with their own children if no one else had any use
for it.  Ryder squeezed Mary's hand.

"It's going to work out," he said.  The small vertical crease between
her brows didn't disappear.

"Mary?  What is it?"

"Your uncle seems almost eager to bring down Warren Hamilton."  So it
wasn't their distant future she was thinking about now, but their more
immediate one.

"He explained that to you.  He doesn't like being made a fool."

"None of us do," Mary said.  She laid her free hand over his, absently
stroking the back of it.

"I don't know .. .

It's just that..."  Her fears were vague ones, difficult to put into
words.

"How will he ever persuade Anna Leigh to come to his home?"  Ryder
shrugged.

"Is it important?  He said he could do it, and I believed him.  Did
you?"

"Oh, I believed him.  But does it make sense?"

"That you believe him?"

"No," she said a bit impatiently.

"That he should be able to do it."  She removed her hand from his and
lay on her back.

"If Warren Hamilton would think twice before he stepped foot in your
uncle's home, why wouldn't his daughter?"  The easy answer was that
Anna Leigh was a flighty, cotton-between-the-ears young woman.  It was
also the wrong answer.

Anna Leigh Hamilton had already proved that she was sharp and deviously
single-minded in pursuit of something she wanted.

Nothing good could ever come of underestimating her.

"My uncle must know something we don't," Ryder said at last.  It was
the same conclusion Mary had come to.

"I know," she said softly, almost distantly.

"But what?"  It was agreed that Mary and Ryder would arrive at the
senator's house just before dinner, at eight o'clock.  Wilson Stillwell
had promised that all other parties would arrive shortly thereafter.
Mary dressed with care, but with no enthusiasm, for their engagement.
Her dinner dress was ecru satin, with pearl buttons from the rounded
neckline to the waist.

Three large satin rosettes enhanced the right side of the draped skirt.
The sleeves were three-quarter length, pointed toward the wrist and
decorated with seed pearls.  She had spent the afternoon thinking about
the impending meeting and letting out the hem a half inch.  Now the
dress looked as if it had been made expressly for her and not her
sister.  Mary made a quarter turn in either direction, critically
eyeing the dress and her handiwork.  She smoothed the beaded front and
straightened the sleeves.

French-braiding her hair had given her green eyes a faintly exotic
look, and pinching her cheeks had added color to her complexion.

When a tendril of red-gold hair fell over her forehead, she blew it out
of the way in exasperation.  Behind her she heard Ryder's deep chuckle.
She stepped to one side so she was no longer blocking his reflection in
the mirror.  He was wearing a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and a
tailored two-tailed coat.

"No one would ever know you're equally comfortable in buckskin and
moccasins," she said.

"I know," he said pointedly, drawing nearer.

"I have something for you."

"Aaah," she said knowingly.

"Finally an explanation as to where you were all morning."

"Not quite.  This has nothing to do with that."  He reached inside his
coat pocket, withdrew a small velvet-covered box, and held it out to
Mary.  In way of explanation, he said, "Doc just delivered it a few
minutes ago."  Mary's eyes held Ryder's in the mirror for a moment
before she turned to accept the gift.

"If you don't like it I can-" She stopped him with a telling look and a
single arched brow; then she opened the hinged box.  The polished
turquoise stone that Ryder had given Mary in the Cavern of Lost Souls
now rested in an exquisite silver setting on a bed of black velvet.

"Oh my," she said on a slender thread of sound.

"How did you .. . when did you?"  It was difficult to complete a
thought.  Ryder gently took the box from her, removed the ring, and
raised her left hand.  He slipped it on and the fit was perfect.

"Oh, Ryder ... it's lovely."  In spite of Mary's obvious pleasure he
felt compelled to point out, "It's not a diamond."  She raised herself
on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth.

"Who wants a diamond?"  she whispered.

"I thought..."  He hesitated.

"I noticed you looking at your hand when we registered here at the
boarding house."  He saw Mary's flush as she recalled the incident.

"You didn't say anything, but I saw it wasn't right that you didn't
have a ring.

Not here, not among these people."  Ryder lifted her hand and studied
the fit of the ring.  The silver setting was a delicate complement to
the large blue-green stone.

"I should have thought of it before Doc brought it to my attention.  My
uncle noticed it, but he had better manners than to stare as pointedly
as Doc.  I didn't want you to be embarrassed again."  Mary removed her
hand from his, laid her head against his chest, and embraced him
hard.

"I'm not embarrassed to be your wife."  She tilted her head back,
offering him a slightly wicked smile; and tapped him lightly on the
chest with her forefinger.

"And with or without this ring you're my husband."  He wasn't likely to
forget it or to want it any other way.  Ryder set Mary away from him
and looked her over from head to toe.

"Beautiful," he said.  Then he basked in the warmth of her smile.  For
a moment.  She added an arch look and said, "If this ring isn't the
reason you were gone all morning, then exactly where were you?"  His
cool, frost-colored eyes flickered for a moment with something like
amusement.  Nothing changed in the shape of his mouth.  With grave
import he said, "Scouting for the cavalry, my dear."  Mary and Ryder
were shown to the dining room immediately upon their arrival.  Wilson
Stillwell was at the sideboard, pouring himself a glass of wine.  Mary
accepted a sherry for herself while Ryder declined to drink at all.

"As I remember, your father didn't drink either," Wilson said.

"He didn't have anything against it," said Ryder.

"He just didn't particularly like it."

"Can't understand that myself."  The senator raised his glass and
touched the rim of it to Mary's.

"To our success."

"Success," she murmured.  She sipped gently, wanting as clear a head on
her shoulders as she could manage.

"I

take it that Miss Hamilton has accepted your invitation."

"And Lieutenant Rivers.  There was never any doubt."  Again Mary felt a
surge of disquiet.  Why was there no doubt?  she wondered.  How could
Senator Stillwell be so certain of Anna Leigh and Davis Rivers?  She
glanced at Ryder to see if any measure of concern could be detected on
his features.  He appeared completely at ease with this information.

"They'll be here soon?"

"The invitation was for dinner," Stillwell replied.

"Fifteen minutes after the hour."

"What about General Hatcher?"  asked Ryder.

"And the reporters you mentioned."  Stillwell nodded.

"All taken care of.

I spoke personally with Hatcher this morning and with all three
reporters this afternoon.  Believe me, they were eager to come.

I had to tell them very little to whet their appetites.  Mrs.

Shanahan is expecting them at the back door.  She has been instructed
not to show them into the hall until after Miss Hamilton and her escort
arrive."  Stillwell finished his glass of wine.

"You understand you'll have to speak up.  It isn't as easy to hear from
the hallway as you might think.  I experimented myself today with Mrs.
Shanahan."

"You seem to have covered everything," Ryder said.

"As promised."  He started to pour himself another glass of wine, but
stopped when he heard the arrival of his other guests.

"That would be Miss Hamilton and the lieutenant," he said, putting down
his glass and bottle.  He looked from Ryder to Mary.

"You both know how you want to handle this?"  he asked.

"I've left that up to you.

"I was certain you had," Ryder said.

"We're prepared."  Detecting an undercurrent in Ryder's words, Mary
shot him a sideways glance once the senator's head was turned.  Not
only did Ryder not respond to her overture, he very pointedly ignored
her.  Mary had an urge to poke him in the ribs with her elbow.  It took
a great deal of self-control to resist.  When Senator Stillwell left
the dining room he did not close the doors completely.  Mary and Ryder
were able to hear him greet his guests and to follow the innocuous
conversation that followed.  Mary winced as she heard Anna Leigh
Hamilton's practiced, trilling laughter.  It was so obviously affected
that she was surprised the woman had such success with it.  Senator
Stillwell parted the doors with a grand flourish and ushered his guests
inside.  His mouth was curved in a narrow, satisfied smile as he
stepped into the room.

"I believe you all know each other," he said calmly.

Shutting the doors behind him, the senator intentionally ignored
everyone and went straight to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of
wine.  Anna Leigh stared at Ryder.

"My God," she said softly.

She placed a hand to her heart as if to keep it in place.  Mary thought
this last gesture was overdone.  She regarded the younger woman
skeptically.  Anna Leigh's slender hand was arranged artfully over her
low-cut neckline in order to bring attention to her breasts rather than
hide them.

"McKay," Rivers said stiffly.  His eyes went to Mary next, and his
acknowledgment of her presence was equally stilted.

"Miss Dennehy."  Mary noticed that with their sunshine yellow hair and
striking blue eyes, Anna Leigh and Davis Rivers were like a pair of
perfectly matched bookends.  The lieutenant's boyishly handsome
features complemented Anna Leigh's dainty beauty.  It struck Mary
suddenly that their attraction for each other had a great deal to do
with how much each was in love with his or her own image.  She was hard
pressed not to comment on it.  Anna Leigh's hand dropped away from her
bodice as her gaze narrowed on Mary.

"So," she said, drawing out the single word thoughtfully, "you're the
fallen angel who came to Ryder's aid.

You were a nun, weren't you?"  She did not ask the question to
encourage a response.  She knew the answer.  She looked Mary up and
down critically.

"I don't suppose that after being without a man for so long you minded
being raped by a half-breed savage."  Mary didn't hesitate.  She
crossed the short distance to Anna Leigh in less than a second and
slapped her so hard the younger woman was knocked sideways against the
wall.

"You ever say anything like that again," Mary warned, "and I won't use
the flat of my hand."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Lieutenant Rivers was
preparing to restrain her.  She leveled him with a cold stare.

"Keep your hands to yourself or I'll put you on the floor beside your
bitch."  The lieutenant's face flushed with color.  In spite of that he
drew in a breath and puffed like a banty rooster, prepared to take
issue with Mary.  She was not backing down.

"I

think you'd better see to Miss Hamilton," Ryder said significantly,
catching the lieutenant's eye.

"She appears to have been bloodied in the first round."  Rivers
hesitated, rocking on his feet slightly as he held off the forward
motion that would have had him toe to toe with Mary.  He let out his
breath slowly as if he were finding control rather than being deflated,
and went to Anna Leigh's side.  Mary turned her back on the lieutenant
as he drew out a handkerchief.  She could see that Ryder was not
pleased with her performance, but she was unapologetic.  She came to
stand at his side again and said quietly, "It had to be done."  Still
standing at the sideboard, the senator raised his glass in the
direction of both couples.

"I take it that we're off to a fine start," he said.

"Salute."  With the lieutenant's assistance, Anna Leigh straightened.
She pressed the handkerchief to the right corner of her mouth.  The
tears that made her blue eyes glisten were no artifice.  Mary's slap
had been a stinging blow, and her cheek felt as if it were on fire.
Anna Leigh looked to Rivers and said calmly, "Kill her."

"Oh, for God's sake," Stillwell protested.

"Haven't you any more imagination than that?"

Mary's brows rose a little at that.  She could have sworn the senator
was enjoying himself.  What about the reporters and General Hatcher?
she wondered.  Had enough time elapsed for them to be positioned on the
other side of the door?  Were they finding this exchange as
entertaining as Senator Stillwell?  Mary looked to Ryder for direction
and saw nothing in his implacable calm that supported her own disquiet.
Lieutenant Rivers made no move to carry out Anna Leigh's order.  He was
not wearing a weapon, at least not one that was visible to the eye, but
he gave no indication that he was likely to have obeyed her in any
event.

"Be quiet," he said calmly, recovering some of his own presence of mind
as he faced Ryder.

"What is it you want, McKay?"  Ryder's answer was simple.

"The truth about Colter Canyon."

"The truth?"

Rivers scoffed.

"You were there."  His eyes straying to Anna Leigh for a moment.  Ryder
said, "No, I wasn't."  Before the lieutenant could reply, Anna Leigh
interrupted, "Are you going to just let this go on?"  At first Mary
thought Anna Leigh was speaking to Rivers, but when the lieutenant
didn't answer Mary followed the direction of her militant, expectant
look.

"A little like leading sheep to the slaughter," Wilson Stillwell said
almost apologetically.  Mary's initial confusion was compounded as she
turned and saw that the senator had exchanged his glass of wine for a
gun.  It was slowly borne home to her that his weapon, like his
comment, was not intended for Anna Leigh and Lieutenant Rivers.

He was aiming both at her and Ryder.  Wilson Stillwell jerked the Colt
revolver once, indicating the lieutenant should approach Ryder.

"See if he's carrying a gun," he ordered.

"And for God's sake be careful."  Rivers crossed the distance in a few
strides.

Mary, who had moved protectively in front of Ryder, felt his hands
gently come around her waist and move her to one side.  Then he let her
go and raised his arms, permitting Lieutenant Rivers to pat him down.
Rivers completed his check efficiently, then straightened and stepped
back with almost comical quickness.

"There's no gun," he told Stillwell.  One of the senator's brows arched
as he regarded his nephew.

"I'm surprised.  I expected you not to leave anything to chance."
Lowering his hands slowly, Ryder said, "We all make mistakes."  He
placed one hand lightly on the small of Mary's back in a gesture that
was at once a warning and a protection.

"I couldn't anticipate things would go quite this way."  Stillwell
smiled.

"No one could, nephew.  No one could."

Keeping his revolver aimed at Mary and Ryder, he said, "Show them to
the cellar, Lieutenant.  Anna Leigh, open the doors for them.

You may as well assist in the capture.  All the glory can't be mine."
Anna Leigh removed the handkerchief from her mouth.  The bloodstained
cloth had hidden a superior, malicious smile.  She looked from the
handkerchief to Mary.

"A pleasure," she said sincerely.

"A real pleasure."  Mary's only satisfaction was that Anna Leigh winced
when her smile became a bit too fulsome and had to quickly bring the
handkerchief back to her lips.

"This way," Davis Rivers said tersely.

"Miss Hamilton.  The doors."  Anna Leigh drew them open and stepped
into the hallway.  Rivers took a step backward and gestured for Ryder
and Mary to follow Anna Leigh.

Mary didn't move until the hand at her back increased its pressure
slightly and she understood that Ryder wanted her to go.  Shoulders set
squarely, her hands curled into fists, Mary expressed her protest with
her body as she left the room.  Once she was in the hallway she saw
there were no reporters and no General Hatcher.

Mrs.  Shanahan and the other staff had evidently left as well.

"You too," Rivers said to Ryder.  Ryder paused to regard his uncle with
pale, expressionless eyes.  He moved on only when Wilson Stillwell was
the first to look away.  Anna Leigh demonstrated her familiarity with
the house as she marched down the hallway and chose to open the second
door on her right.  Throwing the bolt, she waved Mary toward the dark
entrance.

"This way.  It's the wine cellar.  You're not afraid of the dark, are
you?"  There was enough light from the hallway for Mary to make out the
narrow stairs that led below.  She looked over her shoulder at Ryder.
He nodded slightly.

"No," she said.

"I'm not afraid of it."

"You should be."  Anna Leigh was poised to give Mary a smart push at
the top of the stairs when she glimpsed Ryder's cold, taut
expression.

She had no doubt that if she touched Mary he would kill her.  It didn't
matter that his uncle had a gun pointed at his back and was prepared to
use it.  Ryder had the look of a man who was prepared to accept that.
Anna Leigh let her hand drift back to her side.

She stepped out of the way to give Ryder room to follow.  Mary raised
her gown and began to descend the stairs carefully.  The edge of each
step was slightly damp and there was no rail for support.  Ryder was
right behind her, proceeding into the dark, yawning cavity with similar
caution.  Without warning there was a cry above them.  Mary recognized
Anna Leigh's high-pitched squeal, then Lieutenant River's guttural
shout of surprise.  Even though Mary knew what to expect, she froze on
the stairs.  Ryder grabbed her by the waist and lifted her, abandoning
caution in favor of getting down the stairs as quickly as possible.  He
took them blindly, two and three at a time, moving only a heartbeat
faster than the two bodies that came tumbling after them.  Anna Leigh's
long scream rose and fell in pitch as she was bounced and jolted and
scraped by the hard edges of the steps.  In contrast, after his first
hoarse cry, the descent of Davis Rivers was eerily quiet.

Ryder lost his balance when his feet hit the cool brick floor of the
wine cellar.  He protected Mary from the worst of the fall by twisting
so that he hit the floor first.  For a moment he couldn't breathe. Mary
was sprawled on top of him, her elbow planted solidly against his ribs.
She tried to scramble off but Anna Leigh somersaulted down the last
three steps and landed hard on top of them both.  Davis Rivers followed
at a slower pace, his body slipping limply down the stairs as if it
were a corrugated sliding board.  Ryder had a glimpse of his uncle
silhouetted at the top of the steps before the door was shut and the
wine cellar returned to complete darkness.  Mary raised her head
slowly, trying to make out Ryder's features.  She expected his silver
eyes would glow in the dark.  They didn't.

"If this is how your uncle gives tours of his wine cellar," she said,
"I don't think I approve."  Ryder managed to draw a rattling breath and
to chuckle at the same time.

He had no difficulty finding her face.  He patted her cheek lightly.

"You've gained some weight."  She snorted.

"Anna Leigh's on top of me."  Mary unceremoniously shifted her position
and pushed the younger woman off her.

"Better?"  she asked as Anna Leigh's landing caused the beauty to emit
an unladylike grunt.

"Almost," Ryder said.

"If you would just take your elbow out of my ribs."

"Oh!"  Mary pushed herself upright and off Ryder.  She blinked, trying
to adjust her eyes to the darkness.  It wasn't possible.  The blackness
around them was every bit as deep and penetrating as it had been in the
Cavern of Lost Souls.  That experience had prepared her for this.  She
didn't fight against what she couldn't change.  Ryder sat up, drawing
his legs toward his chest.  He had some pain in his right knee, but
nothing was broken.

"You're all right?"  he asked Mary.

"A few bruises.

I'll be fine."

"Miss Hamilton?"  There was a small groan in response.

"Not doing as well," said Mary.  She reached out in the direction of
Anna Leigh's whimpers, found the other woman's shoulder, and gave it a
firm shake.

"Rise and shine, Miss Hamilton," she said sweetly.

"The senator's decided you're no better than the rest of us."  Anna
Leigh found enough strength to push Mary's hand off her shoulder.

"Get away from me."  Mary was happy to oblige.  She brushed her hands
off smartly.

"She's as good as she ever was," she said to Ryder.

"Don't start a cat fight he warned her.

"I can't see to separate the two of you."  Before Mary could take issue
with that, Ryder asked, "What about Rivers?"

"I don't know where he is."

"I don't think he ever made it to the bottom."  He held Mary back when
he felt her start to move.

"I'll check on him," he said.  Ryder got stiffly to his feet.

"Don't let me step on you."  Mary pulled in her arms and legs, giving
Ryder a wide berth as he searched for the stairs.

She heard him stub his foot on something.  Anna Leigh's shrill
expletive helped her identify what it was.

"Get out of his way, Miss Hamilton," said Mary.

"He's trying to help your friend."

Anna Leigh pushed herself upright, curling her legs under her.

"What's happened to Davis?"  she demanded.

"Is he-" Ryder didn't let her finish.

"He's out cold.  Not dead."  He dragged Davis off the steps and laid
him on the floor.

"He's right here, if you want to tend to him," he told her.  Anna Leigh
wasn't of a mind to minister to her unconscious lover.  Going to the
origin of Ryder's voice, she crawled to the steps and stood.  Before
Ryder knew her intentions she was scrambling up the stairs to the door.
She tried the handle first, and when it wouldn't turn she began
pounding on the wooden panels.

"Wilson!"  she cried.

"Let me out of here!

Wilson!"  She paused long enough to listen for a response.  When none
was forthcoming she began again.

"You can hear me!  I know you can!  Let me out!"  The pounding
continued for several minutes.  It was interspersed with strident
demands to be released.

As Anna Leigh's banging became weaker, her demands turned to tearful
pleas.  Eventually she just slid down the length of the door and cried
quietly.  Ryder wasn't moved, and he didn't expect that his uncle was
either.

"I don't think he cares much what happens to you," he said.  Anna Leigh
stayed where she was at the top of the steps.

"Shut up."  Mary got to her feet and brushed herself off.  The brick
floor of the wine cellar was too cool for sitting on.

"Ryder?"

"Here, Mary."  He held out his hand.  After a few misses, she managed
to find him.  They sat down together on one of the lower steps.

"I suppose you want an explanation."

"I

suppose I do," she said tartly.

"You seem to know a lot more about what's going on here than I do."  He
called up the stairs to Anna Leigh, "You'll be certain to correct any
mistakes I make, won't you?"  She sniffed.

"Go to hell, half-breed."  Ryder felt Mary stiffen.

"Let it go," he said.

"It's a compliment, not an insult."  They both knew Anna Leigh hadn't
meant it that way, but Ryder learned of Mary's acceptance from her
small sigh.

"Very well," she said softly.

"But you can't protect her forever."  He gave her hand a small squeeze.
At their feet he heard Davis Rivers stir once.  The lieutenant grew
still again.  He wasn't going to wake anytime soon.

"You don't understand either, do you, Anna Leigh?"  Ryder said
politely.

"I believe you and Rivers here thought the senator was going to give
you some of the credit for my capture.  The lieutenant might even have
received another promotion out of it.  No one else can say he captured
Ryder McKay twice."

Although Anna Leigh was silent, Ryder suspected he had her full
attention.

"Did he tell you why he changed his mind before he pushed you down the
steps?"  There was no answer.

"No?  Well, I suppose there wasn't time."  Anna Leigh waited, but Ryder
didn't say anything else.  She ticked out thirty more seconds in her
mind before she finally screamed in frustration, "You bastard!  What do
you think you know!"  The silence had been so complete that Mary
actually jumped at Anna Leigh's outburst.  She had no difficulty
understanding it.  She was on tenterhooks herself.  Ryder didn't raise
his voice but spoke in a matter-of-fact, conversational tone.

"The senator knows about your affair with the lieutenant, Miss
Hamilton."  It was on the tip of Anna Leigh's sharp tongue to call him
a liar when she realized there was no explanation for how he knew about
the affair.  Calling him a liar would only confirm his statement.
Perhaps he was only guessing.

"What are you talking about?"  she asked with deliberate coolness.

"What affair?"  Mary had no patience for the woman's prevarication. She
turned her head in Anna Leigh's direction.

"Don't try to be too clever," she said dryly.

"It only undermines you.  Ryder and I saw you with the lieutenant at
your home.  There was no mistaking that you're lovers."  Anna Leigh
raised her hand to her mouth, but not in time to stifle her gasp.

"The question in my mind is," Ryder said casually, "whether you were
lovers before you were involved in the Colter Canyon raid or if it came
later in the celebration of the success of your scheme."  When Anna
Leigh didn't answer, Ryder went on.

"I suspect it was later.  Perhaps since you returned to Washington.  It
would have been difficult for you to act on any attraction you felt for
each other at Fort Union.  Too many observers, including my uncle.  The
news about you and Rivers came as a surprise to him.  He never
suspected that you'd taken another lover."  Mary blinked widely.

"Another lover!"  Her voice blossomed with surprise.

"You mean your uncle and Anna Leigh."

Ryder's affirmative response was drowned out as Anna Leigh began
pounding on the door again.

"Wilson!  Let me out of here!  They're wrong about me and Davis.  They
lied to you!  Wilson!"  The door rattled with the force of her blows,
but it didn't budge.  No answer came from the other side.

"I'm telling you, Wilson!  Ryder and the bitch lied.  I'm not having an
affair with Davis.  I'm not!"  Mary waited for Anna Leigh's pounding to
subside, then she said, "The senator might find your protests more
compelling if you didn't use the lieutenant's Christian name."  Anna
Leigh practically hurled herself down the stairs.  Her move was so
unexpected that Ryder had to push Mary aside in order to take Anna
Leigh's flailing blows himself.  He grappled with the Hamilton woman
for several seconds before he managed to get her arms crossed in front
of her and to force her wrists back.  She quieted once she realized
Ryder was securing her with her own arms.  The more she struggled, the
tighter his hold got.  As soon as she was calm and Ryder was certain
Mary was out of Anna Leigh's immediate reach, he set Anna Leigh down
hard on one of the bottom steps.

"Stay there," he said.

"Until I tell you to move.  I won't be so gentle the next time you try
to attack Mary."  Anna Leigh tossed her head disdainfully.  It was an
ineffective gesture in the dark cellar.

"Do you understand, Miss Hamilton?"  he asked.

"Yes," she said tightly.

"Mary?"  Ryder said.

"Hmmm?"

"Behave yourself."

"All right," she said pleasantly.  Ryder stepped over the lieutenant's
body again to move away from the stairs.  He found Mary, took her hand,
and led her out of Anna Leigh's reach once more.  His shoulder bumped
one of the wooden wine racks.

"Here," he said.

"Sit right here.  You can lean against the rack."  Mary thought better
of protesting that the floor was cold.  She bunched her train and
bustle under her and sat down.  Her fingers idly traced the shapes of
the smooth bricks by following their edges as Ryder spoke to Anna Leigh
again.  Mary's nails began to chip away at loose bits of mortar.

"It doesn't appear my uncle is going to let you out," he said.

"I think Mary's right.  He doesn't believe your story."

"He'll change his mind," Anne Leigh said.

"You'll see."  Mary gave her credit for the confidence she forced into
her tone.  Only the slight quaver at the end betrayed the woman's fear
that it was misplaced.

"Tell me about Colter Canyon," Ryder said.

"It will pass the time."

"Oh?"  she said archly.

"You mean there's something you don't know."

"There are a few things," Ryder admitted easily.  Anna Leigh felt blood
trickle from her lip again.  She dabbed at it with her handkerchief,
cursing Mary silently.

"Why should I?"  she said sullenly.

"What do I gain?"

"Your freedom."  She hadn't expected that.

"You mean you can get out of here?"

"Yes."

"Then do it," she demanded.

"What are you waiting for?"  Ryder didn't answer immediately.  He felt
Mary lean her head against his thigh.  He stroked her hair lightly. She
had trusted him so completely, had been so certain of his ability to
protect her that she had been fearless in facing the senator's gun.

If she weren't so curious for the truth about Colter Canyon, Ryder
believed she was nearly comfortable enough to fall asleep against his
leg.  It was different with Anna Leigh.  Even in the darkness, Ryder
could sense her agitation.

"Waiting is not always a means to an end," he said quietly.

"It has its own rewards."  Anna Leigh snorted.

"What does that mean?"  she asked sharply.

"Some Apache nonsense, no doubt."  Mary felt Ryder's shrug and smiled
to herself.  Anna Leigh would never understand about the waiting.

"You'd do well to answer him, Miss Hamilton," she said.

"Ryder's rarely in a hurry.  We'll grow very old here.  Just as Senator
Stillwell intends."  Ryder doubted that was all his uncle intended, but
he didn't point it out.

"Colter Canyon," he said.

"In exchange for your freedom."  Anna Leigh carefully stretched her
right leg.  She could just touch Davis Rivers's body with her toe.  She
nudged him several times, but got no response.  There would be no help
from that quarter.  He hadn't even armed himself, so there was no
weapon she could steal.  More disgusted than distressed, Anna Leigh
drew back her leg.  Her skirt rustled softly.

"What is it you want to know?"

"How my uncle planned it," said Ryder.  Anna Leigh's short laughter was
without humor.

"Wilson said you suspected it was my father's scheme.  What changed
your mind?"

"My uncle did."

"Wilson?  How?"

"When he said he could arrange for you and the lieutenant to come here.
He could offer no explanation.  Only the certainty that it could be
done.

Mary said from the beginning that it didn't make sense.  She was
right... and wrong.  Mary's only mistake was her refusal to change her
premises.  It didn't make sense if my uncle was innocent, but if he was
involved .. ."  His voice trailed off and he let Anna Leigh and Mary
draw their own conclusions.  Mary raised her head, disappointed that
she hadn't guessed it for herself.

"Then it was Senator Stillwell who arranged for your assignment--on his
own, not with Warren Hamilton's encouragement."

"That's right," Ryder said.

"He lied about that and a few other things."

"Your uncle's very good at lying," Anna Leigh interjected bitterly.

"I'm not so easily fooled as your dear Mary."  The last three words
were iced heavily with scorn.

"You were right.  He deceived Davis and me this evening.  We did expect
to be part of your capture, not our own."  She leaned back against the
step behind her.

"Your uncle and I were lovers for almost a year before Colter Canyon
was ever mentioned.  I knew Wilson had power and influence in Western
policies and the Indian campaigns, but I had no idea he could implement
something as stunning as the Colter Canyon raid."  There was the subtle
rise of excitement in her voice as she went on.

"Watching him maneuver people like pawns .. . he was brilliant.

I've never seen anything like it."  She suddenly seemed to recognize
that enthusiasm and admiration were not called for.  Now she spoke with
more deliberation, carefully modulating her voice.

"He didn't confide his plans right away.  He wasn't so certain of me in
the beginning of our relationship.  That took some time on my part .. .
a bit of maneuvering equal to his.  I never knew the full scope of what
he intended.  Never guessed that he meant for so many soldiers to die."
Mary felt Ryder's hand on her shoulder, cautioning her against
interrupting.  She doubted Ryder believed Anna Leigh was so innocent.
She certainly didn't.  But he wanted to hear all from her.

"My father could never have engineered such a plan," she said.

"I don't think it would have been a completely moral judgment on his
part.  He just wouldn't have had the stomach for it."  She paused.

"Or the brains, for that matter."  Mary's own stomach became a trifle
queasy as she listened to Anna Leigh speak with such disrespect and
disregard.

"Wilson Stillwell called in all debts to put his plan together.  Most
of the men he had assigned to Fort Union felt they owed him some favor.
Of course that was only a small reason they joined him.  There was the
gold, after all."  She drew her legs up, hugging them as the cool
dampness of the cellar sent a shiver through her.

"My father and I were there as part of Wilson's plan," she said.

"Not that Papa was aware.  As far as he knew his reasons for being
there were perfectly legitimate.  I understood that Wilson was setting
up another scapegoat in the event that you did not take to the role so
obligingly."  Ryder's deep chuckle was mirthless.

"I was everything you could have hoped for."  Protected by the
unrelieved blackness, Anna Leigh smiled, remembering.

"Yes," she said.

"Yes, you were.  I really was intrigued by you, you know.  I'd heard so
much about you.  Some from the women at the fort, much more from your
uncle.  He thinks of you as a half-breed.  He really does.

All those years among the Apache.  It's as if you're one of them in his
mind."  Anna Leigh's head tilted to one side.  She brushed away the
tangled hair that clung to her neck.

"It's hard to say how different things might have been if you hadn't
pushed aside my attentions.  You might have been killed during the
raid.  Who knows, I could have saved your life."

"But then, if my uncle's plan had unraveled, if it had been discovered
the Chiricahua were not behind the raid, your father stood to take the
blame.  I think you saw a way to make certain I stayed alive and was
fingered with the responsibility."  Anna Leigh was silent for a
moment.

"My father had been critical of Washington's policies on the Indians of
late.  He was recognized among his peers to be more sympathetic.

Wilson and my father... they were known to argue publicly--and
privately.  I think Wilson saw Papa as a patsy for his scheme long
before he recognized you were a better choice."  She tossed her
disheveled hair defiantly.

"And what if I did help Wilson to see it?  Better you than my
father."

"You could have turned everyone in," Ryder said with quiet
conviction.

"But then, there was the gold."  Anna Leigh sighed.

"I suspect you know me too well," she said.

"Betraying your uncle wasn't something I could do."  Mary couldn't help
herself.

"You seemed to have changed your mind."

Anna Leigh's voice was sharp.

"He's the one who deceived me," she snapped.

"I was referring to your affair with Lieutenant Rivers," Mary said.

"That's the betrayal that made him push you down these stairs.  Senator
Stillwell wasn't very interested in what we had uncovered about Colter
Canyon until we mentioned your tryst with the lieutenant.  That engaged
his attention.  He saw us as a way to get back at you."  Anna Leigh
shrugged.

"If he thinks about it he'll know it didn't mean anything.  Why would I
care for Davis when Wilson can give me so much more?  I have no
intention of being a lieutenant's wife."

"Even with all the gold you have?"  asked Ryder.

"That certainly would smooth out life's little bumps."

"All the gold?"  Anna Leigh said scornfully.

"What do you suppose was my portion when it was all said and done?  Not
much, I can tell you.  Wilson had the ore shipped and processed into
bullion.

That's not something that can be readily used as legal tender.  It will
be a while before anyone can spend it."

"But in the meantime you can dream about what it will buy."

"Your uncle took the lion's share and the rest was split between all
the men."

"That's only fair," Ryder said, his voice suddenly taut.

"They had to kill their bivthers for it."  Anna felt the vibration of
Ryder's tightly strung anger as if it were a wave in the cool, moist
air.

She found herself recoiling to avoid a slap that never came.

"They knew what they had to do for it," she rejoined.

"They accepted the assignment.  Most of them welcomed it.  You know for
yourself that none of them flinched when the time came.  No one was
left alive who could say what had happened in Colter Canyon except for
the men who had done the deed."  She raised her chin.  The brilliant
sparkle of her blue eyes was lost in the darkness.

"And none of them are talking."

"You certainly are," Mary said.  She rested her head against the wooden
wine rack and closed her eyes.  So it was true, she thought.  Anna
Leigh had confirmed the horrible truth of Colter Canyon.  One bluecoat
against another.  Not for flag or freedom, but for gold.  Her nails
continued to trace the mortar maze between the bricks in the cellar
floor.  Struggling for control she opened her eyes again.

"But then I suppose you still believe the senator will come to his
senses and take your side."

Anna Leigh didn't have to respond.  Mary knew it was the truth.

She touched Ryder's thigh.

"We have all the answers," she said.

"What do we do now?"  His response was long in coming, as if he were
shaking off the sadness.  Mary swore she could see Ryder's slowly
emerging smile when he finally said, "Celebrate, of course, and wait
for the enemy to charge."  Bemused, Mary let herself be drawn to her
feet and led between the tall racks of wine.

"Where are you going?"  Anna Leigh called a little uncertainly.  She
squinted, trying to see.

"Are you leaving me?"  Ryder ignored her.  Running his free hand along
the wall of bottles, he asked Mary, "Is there something in particular
you'd like to try?"  Mary frowned.

"Ryder, you know I don't drink much."

"I wasn't thinking that we'd drink it."

"Well then, what are we--"

"Break them," he said.

"Break them all."

"And wait for the enemy," she whispered slowly, understanding.

"Ryder McKay, I like the way you think."  She took a bottle by the neck
and removed it from the rack.

"I'll start with this."  Ryder found her face, cupped it, and kissed
her swiftly and sweetly on the mouth.

"Be careful," he said.

"I'll be at the top of the stairs."  She nodded.

"I

thought you would."  She heard him tell Anna Leigh to get out of the
way; then he climbed the steps.  Mary had to knock the first bottle of
wine against the floor a few times before it broke.

The sound was not as satisfying as she'd hoped it would be.  The thud
was too dull and the bottle didn't shatter easily.

"I don't think he'll hear that," she said.  Anna Leigh groped around in
the darkness until she came upon Mary.

"Here, let me try."  She gripped one bottleneck and pitched it hard in
the direction of where she knew a wall would be.  It shattered
nicely.

"You have to know where to throw it.  I've seen Wilson's cellar
before."

"How nice for you," Mary said dryly.  Anna Leigh's assistance now
wasn't going to make her a fast friend.  Mary hefted a bottle and
tossed it.  It broke easily.  She tossed anothet, then another.  Anna
Leigh joined her and they pitched the bottles in unison.  Overhead they
could hear the heavy thud of running feet.  Senator Stillwell was
pounding down the hallway to save his beloved collection of vintage
wines.

"He's coming!"  Mary whispered.

"Yes," Anna Leigh said.

"He is."  The last thing Mary saw was the sliver of light at the top of
the stairs as Senator Stillwell threw open the door.

She remembered thinking it was a good thing the bottle Anna Leigh
brought down squarely on her head didn't shatter.

"Look out, Wilson!"  Anna Leigh cried.

"It's a trap!"  Her warning came too late.  The senator had already
launched himself headlong onto the stairway, his revolver drawn.  Ryder
rose from his crouched position and drove a fist hard into his uncle's
midsection.  Wilson Stillwell groaned and lost his balance.  The force
of his headlong plunge knocked Ryder off his feet and for the second
time in the space of an hour, Ryder twisted and dove down the length of
the stairs.  Stillwell's gun was discharged as it thudded against a
step, its bullet exploding a magnum of Moet et Chandon.  Anna Leigh
screamed as she was struck in the face by champagne and shards of
flying glass, and she screamed even louder when she tasted blood mixed
with the bubbly.  Ryder wrestled the senator to the floor, taking a
surprisingly stiff blow on his chin as they both grappled for the gun.
Stillwell caught it once with his fingertips, but sent it skittering
along the bricks when Ryder reached for it, too.  The door at the top
of the stairs began to swing shut slowly, cutting off the hallway's
gaslight.  With the return of complete darkness Wilson Stillwell got
lucky.  His roundhouse punch connected with Ryder's temple, knocking
Ryder sideways and further wrenching his knee.  The senator threw
himself in the direction where he'd last spied the gun and began
flailing around for it.

Ryder caught him by the legs and pulled him back.  Stillwell's
aggressive chin got a solid thudding as he was dragged belly first
across the brick floor.  He groaned as Ryder straddled him and yanked
his arms behind him.

"Now what?"  Stillwell said tersely, one side of his face pressed
uncomfortably against the floor.

"You don't have anything for tying my hands."  Ryder had realized that
as well.

"I'm prepared to improvise."  Without any more warning than that, he
raised himself high enough to turn his uncle over, then he knocked him
out with a hard right hook.  Suddenly there was light at the top of the
stairs as the door was opened again.

Not certain what he could expect, Ryder rolled off Stillwell and sprang
to his feet.  Anna Leigh's screams had subsided into hoarse sobs.  Out
of the corner of his eye he saw Mary lift her head weakly and search
out the lump on her scalp.  Nearby Lieutenant Rivers was finally
stirring.  Only his uncle was singularly still.

The figure filling the doorway above took a step down to let more of
the light behind him filter into the wine cellar.  He made a quick but
thorough survey of the carnage, then looked Ryder squarely in the eye.
John MacKenzie Worth slowly raised his shotgun.

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't use this on you."

Ryder didn't blink or miss a beat.

"I was hoping you'd save it for the wedding, sir."  At the top of the
stairs, directly behind Jay Mac there was more commotion.  Some of the
voices he recognized, others he didn't.  That gave him hope.  He hadn't
expected to know them all, though some were tantalizing familiar.
Jarret Sullivan pushed his way through the throng clogging the
entrance, and Rennie followed closely on his heels.  Moira shouldered
her way into the fray and looked over her daughter's shoulder.

"Jay Mac," she said firmly.

"Put down that gun."  Ryder released a breath he hadn't realized he'd
been holding.

"Finally," he said softly.

"The cavalry."

Epilogue New York City July 1885 It wasn't a shotgun wedding.  Judge
Halsey, in spite of a life-long friendship with Jay Mac, his position
as godfather to Mary Michael, and his role in the marriages of all the
Dennehy women, absolutely refused to allow the weapon in his chambers.
Jay Mac, not one for accepting defeat easily, carried the shotgun as
far as the courtroom and left it propped in the hallway against the
wall.

The judge's chambers were really not big enough to accommodate the
crowd gathered in them.  He only permitted them access because they
were all related to one another and didn't seem to mind the squeeze. It
was the first reunion of the entire family since Mary Margaret's
graduation from medical school over a year ago, and their numbers
seemed to be swelling.  Certainly the bride was.

The Honorable Judge Halsey thought he detected a slight roundness to
Mary Francis's abdomen that hadn't been evident when she'd first
approached him about the wedding ceremony.  She had come to him in
March, he recalled, just after Senator Wilson Stillwell's dramatic
prison suicide had ended his sensational impeachment proceedings and
criminal trial.  Mary had told Halsey then that she was in no hurry for
the marriage to take place, that in her eyes, in her mother's and the
Marys' eyes, and she was certain that in God's eyes, she was already
very much married to Ryder McKay.  This formal ceremony was to appease
Jay Mac and New York civil law.

Judge Halsey didn't doubt that the former was more influential than the
latter.  The judge looked around his private chambers now.  He saw that
Moira Dennehy Worth was quite content to preside at her husband's side
over their brood of children and grandchildren.

Jay Mac kept his arm around his wife's shoulder and occasionally, when
his eye would catch one of the grandchildren in some antic reminiscent
of his own daughters, he would whisper in Moira's ear.

Her smile was beatific.  Mary Michael was there with her husband Ethan
and their two children.  Michael was the first to report the truth
behind the Colter Canyon raid for the Rocky Mountain News.

All the major eastern newspapers had picked up her story, and her
byline was once again known nationally.  She had had an advantage no
other reporter had.  She and Ethan were part of Ryder McKay's
"cavalry."  After following Jay Mac across the country to make certain
he did nothing foolish, they had ended up being called upon to assist
in the rescue.  Michael's reporting had a slant that was the envy of
all the news agencies.  Judge Halsey's eyes slid next to Michael's
twin.  Rennie was kneeling beside her own twins, wiping sticky red and
black licorice off their hands, and asking where they had gotten the
candy.  Cait and Lilly were almost comically mute in their refusal to
betray their father.  As for Jarret, he was busy tucking strings of
licorice out of sight in his inside breast pocket.  The judge's
slightly crooked smile faded as he noticed one youngster had occupied
the plush leather seat behind his desk and was energetically swiveling
back and forth.  He was about to say something when he noticed Mary
Margaret's attention was drawn from the babe in her arms to her
daughter.  She poked Connor gently with her elbow and nodded toward
Meredith.  Connor put his hand out, stopped the rotating chair, and
that was that .  until Meredith began rooting through the papers the
judge had been foolish enough to leave out.  At that point it was
easier for Halsey to look away than watch the carnage.  It was then he
caught Mary Schyler's eye.  She was laughing at him and making no
effort to hide it.  The sheer brightness of Skye's flame red hair and
flashing emerald eyes made the judge feel decades younger.  He found
himself chuckling in return, glad for all the clan that Skye had been
able to return from China for Mary Francis's wedding.  Her husband
Walker was the groom's best man.  Now Walker tapped Skye on the
shoulder lightly and passed their son into her arms.  It was then Judge
Halsey realized they were all waiting on him.  His complexion reddened
a little, and his starched collar suddenly felt tight.  He cleared his
throat, more out of necessity than for dramatic effect, and nodded to
Mary and Ryder.

"It appears we're ready," he said solemnly.  Mary Francis looked around
the room once, taking time to acknowledge everyone individually, to
thank them silently for all they had done.  When she turned to face
Ryder a faint wash of tears glistened in her eyes.  The full measure of
her family's love had swelled her heart.  Ryder took her hand and drew
her close as Judge Halsey began the ceremony.  Later they would both
admit they remembered almost nothing of what was said or done.
Separately, yet together, they had been transported to a still and
silent clearing in the Arizona Territory where their marriage, like all
other life, had been given its nascent moment in cool, crystalline
water.  It was the judge's expectant look, his nod of encouragement to
each of them that brought them back to the present.  Mary raised her
face and Ryder bent his head.  There was a collective sigh among the
witnesses when the kiss finally ended.

Flushed and a little breathless, Mary smiled, radiating joy.

Ryder selfishly kept the warmth of that smile for himself a moment
before he turned her gently so they might greet the family together.
They were mobbed.  A warm breeze swept up from the Hudson River,
crossed the field of wildflowers, and fluttered the lace curtains in
the corner bedroom of the summerhouse.  The scent of water, the
fragrance of larkspur, zinnias, primroses, and yarrow, the gentle,
almost ghostly movement of the gauzy curtains teased Ryder's senses
into wakefulness.  He rose from deep sleep slowly, turning on his side
with a lazy stretch, and buried his face into the coolest corner of the
feather pillow.  His hand slid beneath the covers, searching for the
familiar contour of Mary's slender arm or the shape of her rounded hip.
He opened his eyes to confirm what his blind seeking had already
divined.  He was alone.  Ryder smiled to himself, not alarmed by her
absence.  He knew where he could find her.  Mary surfaced and shook her
head.

The spray of water sparkled like diamonds in the moonlight, each
droplet was absorbed by the larger pool.  She turned in a slow circle,
letting her bare arm skim the surface and creating a ripple with her at
its center.  Except for Mary's own light, off-key humming, the clearing
around the pool was quiet.  She never heard Ryder's approach, yet she
knew almost immediately that he had arrived.  It was as if there had
been a shift in the very air.  She stopped humming and completed her
lazy rotation until she faced him.  Moonshine glanced off his naked
shoulders and set his features in sharp relief.  He was hunkered on the
lip of a rock, his predatory posture familiar to her now, more exciting
than threatening.  He watched her closely, his gaze gliding over her
face, her neck, her bare shoulders.  His quiet scrutiny infused Mary's
skin with warmth, and the water suddenly felt several degrees cooler.
Ryder's voice had a deep, husky edge.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting."  She said the word simply, but could not have imbued it with
more meaning.  She knew about the pleasures of waiting.  He nodded and
stood.

"I thought you might be."  He undid the button at the waist of his
jeans, the only one he'd buttoned, and hooked his thumbs into the
waistband and pushed the pants off, diving into the water the moment he
kicked them free.

His body skimmed Mary's as he surfaced.

"I missed you," he said.

Treading water easily, she placed her hand on the curve of Ryder's neck
and flicked away a strand of dark hair from his nape.  She leaned into
him and placed her mouth across his.  They sank beneath the water,
their lips fused in a breathless kiss.  Mary wrapped her legs around
Ryder's thighs and pressed her breasts against his chest.  Her hair
fanned out in the water, waving and undulating as they floated back
toward the surface.  They headed for a shallower part of the pool.
Mary's arms circled Ryder's shoulders as he lifted her.  Her thighs
clutched his hips.  Buoyed by the water and supported by him, she felt
nearly weightless.  She arched her back.  Sensation rippled from their
joining to her fingertips.  His mouth was on her breast, sucking. Cords
of pleasure tugged deeply within her, as deeply as her womb.  Her
fingers spread widely across Ryder's damp skin, and she clung to him.
His hands were on the small of her back, pressing her close.

As she flung back her head, his mouth found her throat, his lips almost
intolerably hot against her skin.

She felt him shudder, and the vibration of his body seemed to roll into
her.  Mary absorbed it as Ryder continued to stroke her.  He kissed her
deeply and kept his body flush to hers.  Her tender breasts rubbed
slickly against his chest.  She was expecting the climax, still, the
power of it took her by surprise.  Mary cried out, her body rocking
hard against Ryder.  He held her close but not tightly.  His loose
embrace secured her afterward when she sagged weakly against him,
replete and radiant.  Ryder carried her out of the water.  She pointed
to the blanket she'd brought from the house and he set her on it.  Her
cotton shift was bunched in one corner.  She raised her arms
languorously as he helped her put it on.  He gave her a brief parting
kiss that was more promise than passion before he went around the pool
to retrieve his trousers.

"You didn't have to put those on on my account," Mary said when he
returned.

"I know."  He dropped to his knees beside her and then stretched out,
propping himself on an elbow.

"I put them on because it's warmer in the water than it is out here."

"Do you want to go inside?"  she asked.  He smoothed tendrils of her
damp hair away from her temples.  Her complexion was bathed in
silver-blue moonlight.

"No," he said, studying her serene, uncomplicated beauty.

"No, I want to stay right here."  She smiled.  Only that.  It wasn't
important to say anything in return.

Ryder's fingers continued to sift the slick silky strands of her
hair.

"Did you ever think we should have had our wedding here?"

he asked after a time.

"It occurred to me," she said.

"But I didn't want to share this place that way--" She imagined that he
felt the same way.  After all, he hadn't broached the idea before their
wedding.

"I'm quite happy with the current arrangement.  My sisters and their
husbands and all those children are running up and down the stairs in
my parents' home while you and I honeymoon right here at the
summerhouse."  Ryder's palm slid from beneath Mary's breast to the
gentle swell of her abdomen.

"Our child will be running up and down those same stairs someday," he
said.  Mary shook her head.

"I'm going to teach him how to use the banister.

It's the quickest way between floors."  He chuckled.

"I believe you will."  He rubbed her belly idly, thinking.

"It's not a magic lamp, you know," Mary said tartly.  Frowning, Ryder
stopped.

"What?"  She was hard pressed to keep her stern expression, but she
managed to point to his splayed hand on her abdomen and tell him, "Your
son won't appear in a puff of smoke no matter how hard you rub."  Ryder
couldn't have removed his hand any more quickly if he had been
scorched.  His grin was sheepish.

"Sorry.  I didn't realize .."  His voice trailed off as Mary placed his
hand back on her swollen middle.

"I don't suppose I mind so much," she said.

"Just so you know these things take time."  By Ryder's reckoning it
would take four more months.  He had a particularly fond memory of a
shared bathing tub at Doc Stanley's boarding house.  Their child, like
their marriage, had been conceived surrounded by water.

"Do you really think it will be a boy?"

"No.  I don't have a sense of it one way or the other."  She studied
his face.  Did he want a boy because he'd already had a daughter?  Was
the memory still too raw, even after so many years?

"Does it matter?"  He shook his head.

"A daughter would be fine, Mary.  I'll cherish her as much as I do her
mother."  He raised his hand again, but Mary brought it back to her
belly quickly this time.  Her expression cautioned him to be still.
Beneath his palm he felt the surprisingly firm kick of his child.

"That's approval," Mary said softly.  Ryder laughed lowly.  He removed
his hand and lay back.

Mary nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder and laid her arm
across his chest.  Blanketed by stars in a midnight blue sky, they
enjoyed this moment in silence.  Too many times over that last five
months they had wondered if they would ever reach the sanctuary of this
Hudson Valley clearing.  The thought of being here, in just this place
and in just this way, was the vision they had kept secretly in their
minds' eyes as they'd faced down their critics and accusers.  Mary
Michael's story in the Rocky Mountain News had gone a long way to
helping Ryder and Mary, but it hadn't cleared every obstacle.  The
story was too big, the scandal at once abhorrent and compelling.  Even
John MacKenzie Worth couldn't stop the Army from interrogating Mary.
She'd endured hours of questioning, days of defending herself for
assisting Ryder in his escape and for every subsequent action that
she'd taken on his behalf or at his side.  She still struggled with the
irony of having to lie about helping Ryder escape the stockade in order
to be in a position to be believed about everything else.  Florence
Gardner herself had come East with her son when the general had been
summoned to Washington by the War Office.  She had met with Ryder and
Mary, had offered to admit the role she had played, but they had
declined.  General Gardner's career, already under a great deal of
scrutiny because of his handling of the Colter Canyon investigation,
would have suffered considerably more if it had been known he couldn't
control his own mother.  From the moment Mary's family had crowded the
wine-cellar stairway, it seemed there had been no end to the activity
and to the lack of peace.  Ryder's memory of the commotion in the
cellar was clearer than Mary's.  In spite of her sister Maggie's
immediate attention, Mary sported a lump the size of a plover's egg for
a week.  Mary was the first to admit it was an insignificant
consequence of her encounter with a wine bottle.  Anna Leigh Hamilton
had not been so fortunate.

Maggie's timely intervention only meant that the chance of infection
had been reduced.  The shards of glass had been painstakingly removed
from Anna Leigh's face and throat, and Maggie had bathed her eyes with
a steady flow of water, but no amount of skillful suturing would ever
restore Anna Leigh's complexion to its former flawlessness, nor would
the bathing restore sight to her eyes.  Anna Leigh Hamilton made a
tragic, sympathetic figure as she testified against Wilson Stillwell.
It was not difficult for her to twist the truth and paint herself as a
victim of an older man's promises and power.  She cleared Ryder McKay,
but she leveled charges at his uncle.  Anna Leigh's suffering on the
stand made it almost impossible for any of the other defendants to
point their fingers at her.  Still, they tried .. . and failed.  The
efforts of Lieutenant Rivers and Senator Stillwell to portray Warren
Hamilton's daughter as a temptress only succeeded in reminding the
press and the public and the politicians that the woman had been a
vibrant, spirited beauty, vital to dressing up the dullest Washington
dinner party.  The senator and the lieutenant could say nothing against
her that didn't go against themselves.

Lieutenant Rivers and a handful of key conspirators were hanged in
April.  The full entourage of soldiers who had committed the massacre
at Colter Canyon were sharing prison cells in and around Washington and
were scheduled to hang in groups of three or four over the course of
the summer.  They were mostly forgotten now as the nation began to put
the Colter Canyon tragedy out of its memory with the suicide of Wilson
Stillwell.  Editorials in The Times and The Herald all but came out and
thanked him for his decision to end his life and let the nation move
on.  The publisher of the New York Chronicle was a lone voice in naming
him a coward.  The senator died without giving up the location of his
share of the gold shipment.  While all the others involved in the theft
had turned over their unspent bullion, Wilson Stillwell never admitted
he had received any of the gold.  Mary thought long and prayed hard
before she decided to confess that she knew where the senator had
hidden his Judas payment.  Before she shared what she knew, she struck
a deal that a portion of the vast treasure would be turned over to the
families of the men who had died at Colter Canyon.  She also secured
the War Office's agreement that Ryder McKay was done answering their
questions.  To her way of thinking the Colter Canyon affair was closed.
The Army was in no position to argue with her.  She led her husband and
Army officers back to Senator Stillwell's home and into his wine
cellar.

"Revelations 21:21," she said.  When no one moved, she added, "The
streets of the city were of pure gold, like translucent glass."  Ryder
began to smile at that point, but the entourage of officers continued
to regard her blankly.  They sincerely hoped they hadn't followed her
to be quoted scripture.  Sighing, Mary said, "Don't look at me,
gentlemen.  The answer is under your feet."  Ryder was the first to
understand and the first to remove a penknife from his pocket and dig
at the bricks on the wine-cellar floor.  Gold was a soft metal, so he
had no difficulty chipping through the paint and revealing the precious
metal beneath.  The edge of his knife was flecked with gold.  He held
it up for the officers to see.  They worked hard at not being
impressed.  The Army had already scoured the senator's home, including
the wine cellar, a half-dozen times, and had found nothing.

"How did you know?"  Ryder asked her as he led her away.  So she told
him how during his interrogation of Anna Leigh, she had kept tracing
the mortared edges of the bricks in the cellar floor, and that when she
had looked at her hands much later she had seen flecks of gold under
her nails.  Like the good poker player she was, Mary had kept the
secret to herself; not showing anyone her cards until she was certain
she knew when and how to play them.  Ryder McKay was not acquitted as
loudly as his uncle was denounced.  The Army absolved him of all
wrongdoing and offered to reinstate him if he wished.  He didn't, for
which no one in the War Office was sorry.  They felt they had lived up
to their agreement with Mary and were happy to finally end this
affair.

His presence was an embarrassment, a reminder of the shoddiness of
their organization and of the rampant prejudice in the government's
Western policies against the Indians.  Ryder McKay was cleared, but he
wasn't a hero.  He was satisfied with that.  He preferred exile to the
property he and Mary had purchased at Flagstaff to a life of notoriety
in Washington or New York.  They had more than enough money to make a
good start at ranching.  His savings had bought the property, and Mary
had her trust from Jay Mac to purchase cattle and hire hands.  Then
there was the unexpected news from Rennie just a few weeks ago: Ryder's
prospecting map had led her and Jarret to a mother lode.  Rennie
arrived for the wedding carrying deeds and mineral rights and rights of
way for Northeast Rail.

She negotiated a deal with Ryder and Mary that would set them up
handsomely for the rest of their lives.  And, as Jay Mac pointed out,
it did no harm to Northeast Rail either.

"What is it?"

asked Mary.  She felt Ryder's soundless laughter as his chest vibrated
softly against her arm.

"What are you thinking?"

"That your father's a crafty man."

"In business they call that successful."

"Mmmm."  He bent his head and kissed the crown of her head.

"He was making noises about retiring.  I heard him talking about it to
Judge Halsey at the reception."

"I know.  I overheard some of it."  She shook her head.

"I imagine he'll always keep his hand in some way, but he's been
grooming Rennie and Jarret for a long time to take over Northeast.
They're ready for it, and Mama would be happy to spend her days
traveling the country and visiting her grand babies  Jay Mac doesn't
seem as averse to the idea as he once was."  Ryder agreed quietly that
it was true.

He felt Mary relax against him, her arm becoming a little heavier
across his chest.  Her breath was soft and her eyes were closed, but he
knew she wasn't sleeping yet.  Her lips were moving almost
imperceptibly.  Ryder could feel the whisper of her mouth against his
skin.  He smiled.  This was the time of night when she protected him
with prayers and gave thanks for every good fortune that was hers to
share.  He had been wrong to suppose that Mary had placed her trust
solely in him, that she had been certain he would protect her.  He knew
that now, and was able to recognize the real source of her great
strength and of her love.  Mary had placed her trust solely in Him.

To My Readers The publication of ONLY IN MY ARMS represents the end of
the Dennehy saga.  When I first began writing about Mary Michael
Dennehy in WILD SWEET ECSTASY I had no idea that she came from such a
large and interesting family or that I would be committed to writing
about them for the next five years.  I certainly didn't anticipate
developing a story around Mary Francis.  Letters from readers (and some
gentle prompting from my editor) convinced me to complete the chronicle
with Jay Mac and Moira's first daughter.

Readers who were kind enough to write to me and let me know how much
you enjoyed the Dennehy series, I would like to thank you.  I
appreciate your commitment in sticking with the stories.  I know you
had a long wait between each sister.  For those of you who read
hundreds of romances each year I was especially flattered that you were
able to keep track of all the Marys.  Although that probably says more
about your brain-power than my ability to spin a tale, I choose to be
flattered.  Thank you again.  About the Author Jo Goodman lives with
her family in Colliers, West Virginia.  She is the author of fifteen
historical romances (all published by Zebra Books) including her
beloved Dennehy sisters series: WILD SWEET ECSTASY (Mary Michael's
story), ROGUE'S MISTRESS (Rennie's story), FOREVER IN MY HEART
(Maggie's story), ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS (Skye's story) and ONLY IN MY
ARMS (Mary's story).  Jo is currently beginning work on an exciting new
trilogy.  She loves hearing from her readers, and you may write to her
at Zebra Books.  Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if
you wish a response.