fearless hearts
by
linda castle

Linda Castle is a third generation New Mexican.
She is married, the mother of four and the grandmother of two.  Linda teaches
part-time at San Juan College, and she is embarking on two new projects:
dog-showing and home-teaching of her two youngest kids.  She loves heroes
with a past who meet heroines looking for the future.  When she's 'resting,"
she rides, swims and collects antiques.

For my soul mate, Bill--who taught me about romance, who never wavers in his
passion, love and belief in my quest--and for my children's endless patience,
I thank ~ Thanks, Denise, for the first book.  I am eternally grateful to
Fabio for luring me inside the cover, to Laura Kinsale, Marylyle Rogers,
Marilyn Campbell, Judith Steele, Shannon Drake and V'ul~lia Henley, for
enchanting me with their words while I lingered there.  For Arm and Merline's
advice; Margaret O'Neill's bean; Elaine Davie's conviction and all who
encouraged me daily.

You know who you are, thank you.

FEARLESS HEARTS

MILLS BOON

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was reported
unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor the publisher has
received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of
the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name
or names.  They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or
unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part
in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin
Enterprises I. B.  V.  The text of this publication or any part thereof may
not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical including photocopying, recording storage in an information
retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the
publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by trade or
otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the
prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MILL & BOON, the Rose Device and LEGACY OF LOVE are trademarks of the
publisher.

Harlequin Mills & Boon Limited, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond,
Surrey TW9 ISR Linda L.  Crockett 1995

ISBN 0 263 79874 7

Set in mes Roman 10 on I1 ~ pt.

04-9610-93460 C

Printed in Great Britain by BPC Patterson Ltd

Chapter One.

New York City
November 1884 The woman's kid boots made crunching noises in the snow as she
stepped out of the hansom cab.  Slipping the money into the driver's hand,
she readjusted the hat with the softly shirred veil that covered her entire
face.  Pure feminine mystery.

The driver, wearing fashionable livery, watched with interest, wondering what
she looked like under the veil.  He could just make out the outline of her'
face but nothing more.  He didn't try to hide his curiosity as he stared at
her.  The horse pawed the frozen ground, anxious to leave, as the driver
watched her climb the steps.  Someone, probably the old caretaker, John, had
swept the snow from them recently.  She gave him no indication that she knew
he was observing her, and she walked up to the big doors of St.  Michael's
Hospital for the Blind.

The gray stones looked cold and forbidding as she placed her foot on the last
step and approached the double doors.  There was a bell rope, but she didn't
even look toward it.  Instead, she placed her gloved hand on the brass knob
and shoved.

She inhaled deeply when the big door swung open.  Odd, how the smell of
ether, starched linen and strong lye soap felt so comforting to her.  She
walked down the long corridor.  She smiled beneath the concealing veil, but
no one who passed her could know.  Nothing could penetrate the protection of
her veil.

Nothing and no one.

A nurse wearing a stiff white uniform stopped and smiled warmly in greeting.
The veiled figure hesitated for only a moment and nodded once before
continuing down the Spartan hospital corridor.  As she approached a battered
door at the end of the hall, she began to unbutton her heavy gray velvet
coat.  She removed the coat and her matching kid gloves, but not the hat with
the veil.

Just as one slender hand was poised and ready to knock, the door opened
abruptly.  Pro, older man with sharp piercing eyes looked at her in annoyance.

"So, it's you.  You're late.  Did the snow hold you up?  Here let me have
your coat and gloves."  He spoke gruffly as he took the garments.  He hung
the coat on a worn coatrack, which tilted precariously under the weight of
its burden.  The kid gloves were dropped to the top of his scarred maple
desk.  The man's features were sharp and hard, his eyes penetrating.  He bore
a stalking resemblance to an eagle.

The hat turned in his direction, and a clear voice came-from behind the veil.

"No, it wasn't the snow.  Claire came' to visit Mother at the last minute,
and you know how are.  I couldn't get away any sooner."

"Bellami" -- his voice grated with exasperation you take off the damned hat?
It's me.  You don't so uncomfortable with me.  " He never took his eyes from
the figure before him.

A deep sigh issued from the female.  She looked toward the worn chair in
front of the old rolltop desk.  Sitting down, she took out the hat pin.  With
one hand, she lifted the hat from her head and carefully placed it in her lap.

"Much better, Bellami~" Dr. Malone looked at her and smiled.  He saw her
every day, and yet he'd never gotten accustomed to the color of her hair.
After thirteen years, the sight of it still made him catch his breath.

Once, years ago, the Russian crown prince had come to New York.  Doc had seen
him at the theater in a tall fur hat.  It had been this exact color.  Sable.
Bellami James's hair was pure, rich and dark.  With her gray-blue eyes it
made, without a doubt, the most striking combination Dr. Malone had ever
seen.  He felt a pang of sympathy for her.  She'd been as beautiful and as
vibrant as any girl in the city, before the accident.

"I got your message.  Now what's this all about, Doc?  There's not some
problem with my work here, is there?"

She looked directly at him, and he saw an expression of apprehension and pain
flit across her face.  After seeing him daily, he supposed, she'd gotten as
relaxed about him looking at her face as she would ever be.  But that wasn't
saying a whole lot.  He accepted it, the same way her family did.  But if
this had been anyone else, anywhere else, the hat would've stayed on, and Doc
felt sad just knowing that fact.

"I've had a request from an old friend," he said, pausing to look at her with
his sharp bird-of-prey eyes, "in the West.  My friend needs someone with
experience like yours, Bellami."

"I see you've been meddling again.  Please go on, Doctor."  She leaned back
in the chair and smoothed the folds of her heavy dress in her lap.

He ignored the hard edge to her voice.

"There's been.  an accident involving my friend's son."  He detected an
immediate yet subtle change in Bellami.  He knew it, he'd been right, by
golly!  Give her a wounded soul to care for and fuss over, and she became as
easy to manage as an angel.

"He's been blinded, and the prognosis is.  not good.  Evidently he is not
making the adjustment very well."

Bellami tried to keep the ironic grimace from her lips.  How often she'd
heard the same phrase used to describe her after the accident.

Not making the adjustment very well.  "Please continue."  She tried to
swallow the lump that formed in her throat as she imagined the scene.

A young boy, full of life and energy, suddenly finding his world changed.
Forever altered.

"My friend wrote and asked if I would suggest someone who might come to New
Mexico to instruct his son.  You know, the basics--dressing, bathing, getting
around his home without his sight."

Doc paused and let the words sink in.  He'd learned long ago that the best
way to deal with Bellami was to let her absorb all the information before
making suggestions.  Usually she arrived at the same point he did, at the
same time, even if they frequently took different routes to get there.

"I thought of Richards, but he's not nearly as patient as some others I could
find."

Bellami frowned.  Richards.  Dr. Samuel Richards--brilliant, but one of those
people who thought any kindness or sympathy to someone who'd been injured
only slowed then recovery.  And the all-important factor--the adjustment.
She clenched her jaw involuntarily, just thinking about it.

Richards would breeze in, giving orders like an commander.  Then he would
begin to preach about the productive life ahead, telling the boy to forget
the if it had never existed, Bellami knew the speech well.  been on the
receiving end often, when she was first hurt She swallowed hard.

"What would this mean, Doe?"  She brushed her hand across her cheek.

Dr.  Malone exhaled as he leaned back casually chair.  He tried to keep the
smile off his face.  He Bellami very well.  She was interested.  Now all was
reel her in like a fish.

"Well, they need someone to come to the territory of New Mexico.  To stay
with the boy, teach him to take care of himself.  The usual things, Bellami;
Except this will all be done at home, and not in a hospital.  There aren't
any hospitals nearby.  It's pretty remote, near a town named Socorro.  My
friend has lived there for years.  He owns a large ranch.

He's a widower with four--no, it's five children.  " Dr. Malone tented his
fingers and stared at a crack in the plaster ceiling while he talked.

"It would be quite an adventure for" -- he raised a bushy graying eyebrow
"--someone."

"It sounds like it.  You'd like that someone to be me, wouldn't you, Doc?"
she said evenly.

"Yes, I would, Bellami.  You know I've felt it's been too easy for you to
hide, at home and here in the hospital.  Your family's position insulates you
from the world.  Of course, I'm just as guilty.  The work you do here hardly
forces you to get out.  You're only twenty-six years old, Bellami, far too
young to put yourself on the shelf."

"You know I'm already on the shelf.  No man will ever look at me twice.
Anyway, I'm content.  My family doesn't spoil me any more than they always
have.  My work here, with you and the children, is enough for me."

"Your family has spoiled and protected you but I don't want to get into
that.  I'd like you to consider this opportunity, if for no other reason so
you can see a bit of the world besides New York.  You're a bright, caring
woman, Bellami.  I'd like to see you get on with your life."

"What's the matter, Doc?  Don't you think I've made an adequate adjustment?"
A touch of bitterness could be heard in her voice, but she.  smiled at the
old physician.

"Go home, Bell.  Think about it.  I told my friend I'd let him know before
February fifteenth.  He has sent funds to cover the tickets, food--every
possible need."

"Doc,~ if I decide to do this, you know very well money won't be an issue.
I'll talk it over with Mother and Daddy.  I'll let you know."

She rose slowly and put her hat on.  When she had secured it with the
crystal-tipped hat pin, she reached up to pull the veil over her face and
tucked it securely under her chin.

Again an aura of mystery surrounded her.  She shrugged her arms into the coat
Doc held for her.  Methodically, out of long habit, she pulled on the soft
kid gloves.

When Bellami reached the office door, Doc spoke again.  "I think if anyone
can help the young man, Bell, you can."  He took her hand and gave it an
affectionate squeeze, and then she stepped past him into the quiet hall.

Dr.  Malone watched her walk away, her back straight as a rod as she
approached the door to the outside world--or at least the very small part of
the world she allowed herself.  It made him unbearably sad to know what went
on under her veneer of genteel composure.  It damned near broke his old
heart.

The brownstone looked inviting even in the cold gloom of late Dex~mber in New
York.  Bellami felt a surge of contentment as she climbed the steps to the
door.  Fat flakes of snow collected on her coat before she reached the
shelter of the porch.  The oval in the frosted glass framed a picture of
domestic bliss and tranquillity.

There they sat in the parlor, enjoying the warmth of a roaring fire.

Her family, her anchor, her shield.

A board game was spread out on the 'low walnut table.  Bellami'smiled.

It was Bulls & Bears, a Wall Street game.  Her older brother, Rod, had
surprised them all by bringing it home just before Christmas.  The game
pictured William Vanderbilt and Jay Gould, as Bull and Bear respectively,
shearing investor sheep!

Bellami felt deliciously wicked each time she played the silly game.

Having met both Mr. ~ Gould and Mr. Vanderbilt at one of her sister's parties
only served to increase her enjoyment.  She stepped inside and closed the
heavy door quietly behind her, not wishing to disturb them, but a gust of
cold air announced her arrival.

They stopped their play and conversation as she entered the room.

Tilly, the maid, appeared from nowhere and whisked off Bellami's coat and
gloves.  The girl stood waiting for her hat as Bellami removed the hat pin.
Tiny snowflakes melted in the warm room, leaving droplets of moisture on the
veil.

"Bell, we were beginning to wonder."  Patricia James' silver-gray hair was
piled high, in the latest fashion.  She regarded her daughter lovingly with
blue-gray eyes.  Her dainty, slippered feet rested on a needlepoint-covered
footstool near the fire.

"I was at St.  Michael's, Mother."  Bellami answered as Tilly took the last
of her apparel and left the room.

Rod handed Bellami a crystal cup of egg hog He was frowning.

"I

thought you took the month off, to rest after the holidays.  , "I did.  Most
of the children are at home with their families for a visit.  Dr. Malone
asked me to stop by.  He wanted to speak with me."

Bellami sat down on the velvet sofa near the marble fireplace.  Flames
reflected off tiny cupids on the polished brass andirons, and she watched the
play of color.

"How is the old bird, anyway?"  Donovan James bit the end off a slim brown
cigar and spit it into the flames.  Before he struck the match he was
holding, he glanced at his wife.  He stepped to the fireplace and leaned
toward the carved hearth so that the smoke would draw from the room.
Patricia wasn't fond of the habit, but she'd never chide him in front of his
children.

"He's fine."  Bellami wanted to discuss the job offer Dr. Malone had
mentioned, but something made her hold back.  Unaccustomed to making
decisions alone, she found the prospect both exciting and a bit intimidating.
She felt reluctant to speak of it until she'd given it more thought.  In
truth, the idea of leaving home frightened her.

A handsome young man with sable hair and gray-blue eyes entered the room and
sat beside her.  He leaned over and affectionately kissed the tip of her nose.

"What's that for, Brooks?"  Bellami'raised her eyebrows in question.

She felt that familiar tug at her heart when she looked at her brother.  The
manliness of his face--and the scar on hers--were the only things that kept
them from being identical.  Of course, those small details made all the
difference in the world.

He grinned and winked.

"Oh, no reason.  I just thought I'd give my favorite twin sister a kiss.
What did Doc want to talk to you about, Bell?  Is he after you to get married
again?"  Brooks leaned back comfortably and patted the back of his siSter's
hand absently.

Patricia watched her youngest children.  Even now, at twenty-six years of
age, they liked to be near each other.  There was a special connection, a
private link, completely undefinable but quite strong.

She found herself remembering that horrible day, and the accident.

While Bellami had been under ether during surgery, Brooks had slept the same
amount of' time.  Patricia had feared that if Bellami died, Brooks would
perish, as well, It was one more reason she had tried so hard to protect
Bellami and keep 'her safe ever since.  The sound of Bellami's voice shook
Mrs. James from hex memories.

Bellami's lips curled into an affectionate grin.

"We all know I am an old maid, Brooks.  Please, don't try to be coy.  of all
the people in the world I expect to be honest with me, I expect it of you the
most."  She lightly cuffed him on the cheek.

Brooks watched his sister's eyes cloud over.  The urge to hold her
overwhelmed him.  Brooks never looked at his sister without asking himself
why?  Why couldn't it have been him, instead of her?  O~a a man, it would've
added a touch of mystery.  He would've looked rakish, like some piratical
rogue.  Seeing what the accident had cost Bellami broke his heart.  He wished
he could find a way to draw Bell back i society.

The sound of Rod clearing his throat made them tun look at him in unison.

"Speaking of marriage, Bro when do you plan on getting around to finding one
suit girl?"  Rod pinned his younger brother with a penetrat stare.

The subject of Brooks's many girlfriends had been ce ing up alot this holiday
season; The bills had started c ing in from Tiffany's in early December.  At
the ti Donoran and Rod had stared to wonder if they were h boring a Don
Juan.  Bellami grinned as her brother shifted uncomfortably.  Brooks courted
many different lady frie from New York's social elite.  But these little
baubles h suddenly taken to purchasing had sent her father into sho Brooks
had been ordering identical ear bobs for all his mantic interests.  The last
tally hovered somewhere arou two dozen, and the season wasn't over yet.

Bellami s pressed the urge to laugh when Brooks blushed and ~ justed his
waistcoat.

Brooks spoke without looking up, while he plucked a tiny bit of thread on his
brocade vest.

"Bell and I are' t young to be married... in fact, we may buy a browns to and
be eccentric twins.  Wouldn't Patricia's bridge gro have a time with that?"
He rolled his eyes expressively, i itating one of the matronly ladies his
mother frequently ~ tertained.

Rod frowned at his brother's humor.  Bellami glanced Brooks from the corner
of her eye.  She'd been wonderi lately if Brooks could really 'be serious
about remainin[ bachelor.  He'd been 'mentioning the subject a lot recent She
had the uncomfortable suspicion that she was the n son behind it.  He felt
responsible for the accident.  It wot be just like Brooks to think he should
sacrifice his futt happiness for her.  She wished she could tell him what ~
in her heart.  Of course, none of them ever talked about I accident.  The
whole subject made them all so uncomfortable--Bellami had never really talked
to anyone about what had happened.

Donoran took a last deep draw on his cigar.  He tossed the butt into the
fire-grate with a flick of his broad thumb.  The tobacco caught, flaring
brightly for an instant, then diminishing to become invisible in the ash of
burned logs.

Bellami thought about Doc's offer.  If she left New York for a while, perhaps
Brooks would not feel as if he had to worry so much about her and her future.

"Dr.  Malone told me about an interesting offer this afternoon,"

Bellami blurted out.  Everyone stopped what they were doing and waited for
her to continue.  Tilly entered the room at that moment to refill their cups
with fresh egg hog She glanced at the group self-consciously, suspended as
they were in silence.  Bellami waited quietly while Tilly hurried from one
cup to the next.  After the blushing girl left the room, she spoke again.

"Doc has an old friend in the New Mexico Territory who has advertised for
someone like me."

Rod pulled himself up an inch or two straighter.  He took on a familiar
stiff-necked, protective posture she knew so well.  He'd been doing it since
Bellami returned to school after her long stay in the hospital.  Each time
someone asked about her face, he would appear from nowhere to place himself
between her and the inquisitor.  She had the feeling he was doing that right
now.  Bellami felt a rush of love f her older brother, and it made her more
determined his steely gaze.

"Just exactly what is someone like you, Bell?"  Rod acted as if the phrase
had been xneant as a derogatory ramark.

"Someone with my experience teaching blind children, silly."

"I see."  Rod obviously didn't see, but Bellami knew it had seemed like the
sensible thing to say at the moment--so he'd said it.  He'd never been happy
with Bellami's choice of work.  The fact that she worked at all disturbed
him.  She didn't need to, as he so often reminded her.  Bellami had never
been able to make any of her family understand that working with the blind
made her feel useful.  When she found herself wallowing in self-pity during
her recovery she found another child, more needy, to care for.

"Do go on, dear," Patricia said, and moved to a large leather armchair near
the door.

"Doc thinks I should go out West and work with this boy, until he'smore able
to cope with his injury."  The last part came outin a rush of words.

"You can't be serious!"  Rod whirled around to face Bellami.  His face was a
mask of shock.  She looked at her father and saw the same outraged expression.

"Why do you say that?"  Bellami hadn't thought Rod or her father would he
enthusiastic, but she hadn't expected quite this reaction.

Rod paced a few feet back and forth in front of the fireplace.  His dark
eyebrows knit into a deep-scowl.

"New Mexico Territory?  Why the idea is preposterous!  Alone, unprotected?
It's clear across the country, for God's sake!"  Rod proceeded to give her
all the masons why she would he mad to consider it.  He ticked off the
dangers and disadvantages on his fingers; one by one.  Bellami watched while
her family discussed the idea as if she were not even in the room.  She
shifted uncomfortably as she looked from one dissenting mere her to the
other.  Only Brooks remained silent.  He seemed tohe waiting to hear what
Bellami had to say.  Donovan and Rod finally blustered themselves out, and
the room became tense with silence.

"Bell, I'll miss you," Brooks said simply.  Three,pairs: of eyes turned to
look at Brooks and Bellaml, sitting side by side on the velvet sofa.  She
felt their eyes on her face, and from nowhere a scrap of memory flitted
through her head.  A wave of nausea swept along with it.  Her throat burned
and she gasped for breath as she experienced a brief flash of the accident
and the remembered painl Wringing her hands within the folds of her dress,
she tamped down the despised memories.

She swallowed hard, forcing them back into the recesses of her mind.

"Doc is a wise old man.  You said the man in New Mexico is a friend of his?"
Brooks asked softly, trying to see beneath her carefully rehearsed
expression.  He tried to read her mind, but all he could see was her mask.  A
mask she presented to the people within her corner of the world.

Bellami took a deep breath and felt some of the tension leave her body.

"Yes, his friend's son.  Actually, a young boy--some sort of accident.  I
don't imagine I'd be gone more than six' or eight mgnths, at the most."

"Go, Bellami.  I think you should go."  Brooks gave her hand a squeeze before
he rose from the sofa.  He went to stand in front of the hearth.

"Brooks, have you lost your senses?"  Rod asked.

"No, I don't think so.  Bell's a grown woman.  I think she should make the
decision.  If she wants to go, then she should go.  We'll be right here when
she comes back.  New York isn't going anyplace."

"Bellami does spend too much time indoors," Donovan said.

"A trip would do her a world of good.  She's been looking awfully pale to me
lately.  In fact, I was thinking of taking her to the farm upstate."

Bellami frowned.  Her parents meant well, but they never asked her what she
wanted to do.  The lure of independence and some time making her own
decisions beckoned.

"Patricia, it's late.  Will you accompany me?"  Donovan helped her to rise,
then took her elbow and guided her to the staircase.  As he passed Bellami,
he gave her a kiss on the top of her dark head.

"Good night, dear.  I'll give this some thought and tell you what I decide at
breakfast tomorrow."

Bellami could almost hear Doc's voice telling her this could be her last
chance.

The sun slanted through the leaded-glass window across Bellami's bed.

She stirred and stretched, and her eyes drifted lazily open.  The lavender
canopy on her bed seemed to he illuminated by the light.

Bellami savored the tranquil picture for a moment before she slid her feet
over the side of the bed and stood up.  She'd never been one to linger abed
in the morning.  : She prided herself on her discipline and self-control.
She walked to her closet and selected a dress for the day, choosing a bright
rose-colored velvet.  The subtle shade made her light skin and dark hair glow.

After she finished dressing, she picked up her silver-backed brush.

Her hair crackled as she pulled the brush through the heavy mane for one
hundred strokes.  Bellami's hair was her one true vanity.  There were moments
when she thought she should cut it, that it had he come too much work, that
it took too much time from the children at the hospital, but she could never
bring herself to do iL She picked up aset of tortoiseshell combs and walked
to the highboy between the long windows.  Wrapping the full length of her
dark tresses around her hand, she wound her hair into a fat loop.  Before she
placed the combs in the thick' coil to hold it in place, she looked into the
mirror.

Bellami had grown accustomed to the sight of her cheek.  It was the way
people treated her that she could not adjust to.  Whenever she met new
people, their eyes focused on her face or they self-consciously looked away,
Or, worst of all, they would whisper sad words of sympathy to their
companions.  That was why she'd retreated behind the veil.  It wasn't for
herself---not really.  It was for the people she met As long as she remained
behind the veil she didn't make people uncomfortable2 Her life seemed almost
as normal as others'.

Strangers didn't have to look away; they treated her as if she were just an
ordinary person and not an object of pity.  That was what Bellami wanted more
than anything else in the world.  She wanted to be judged on her abilities
and accomplishments and not treated like a fragile china doll because of the
accident.

Dr.  Malone had tried.  He bullied the family and suggested they all come to
grips with it and let Bellami get on with her life.  He'd always felt they
should face it, as Bellami had done.  They hadn't taken his advice.

Bellami had tried to talk about it, but her family had gotten so upset she
finally gave up.  Now it had been so long, she didn't know if she could talk
about it.  Her family was absolutely determined to keep her from having to
examine her feelings about the accident and what had happened her face.

Bellami sighed.  She hid her face from the outside but she never hid it from
herself.  That was the reason started each new day with a long look into her
mirror:'~ Bel!  ami faced each new day of her life with no knew what she
looked like.  She accepted the fact that her life would never be like other
women's.  She had no hopes, no dreams.  Her life as it was now was the sum
total of ever would he.  Pretty women were loved and cherished.  Bellami knew
she'd never again be called pretty.  When she looked at her face, memories of
the old taunts and remarks echoed through the room.  The cruel words of
childhood still had the power to batter her ego.

"Ugly.  Bellami James is ugly.,"

The words, spoken in a moment of surprise, w~re still like a knife blade
ripping through her heart.  Tears would come close to spilling over.  Bellami
took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry.  She hadn't allowed herself
to shed a single tear since the day Dr. Malone took off the bandages.

Besides, what would he the point?  Nothing would change.  Tears couldn't
erase the past.  She was an adult now; she was strong.  She had learned how
to cope, and she had come to grips with her face.  She had learned to find
joy in giving to others, and it was enough.

"It is enough.  Your life is good and full, and you sho be content.

Think of the poor children--think of the li blind boy.  " She admonished her
own reflection aloud.  ~ hardly noticed the jagged four-inch scar running
hair.

Brooks looked up from the morning paper in time to Bellami walk down the
stairs.  One slender, long-finge hand slid down the polished wood of the
banister.  Her fi was bathed in morning sunlight.  He could see the profile
her straight nose, the soft mouth, the curve of her right j Smiling
unconsciously, he felt a surge of pride.  Bellami !  ~ such grace and poise.
If only he could make other people ~ what he saw.

He'd tried to find suitable bachelors, but they always s the wrong things.
The one thing Bellami could not abide ~ pity.  She'd hidden her face from
their nervous stares z whispered words, and she'd been hiding ever since.
But had never cried.  Brook wondered if tears might wash av some of her
pain, and some of his guilt.

She turned to him as she reached the bottom stair, and felt the cold blanket
of self-loathing rest heavy on shoulders.  It never changed.

He felt this way every day of life.  First the pride, then the guilt when he
saw the sear.  would always feel responsible for putting that scar on l face,
and it tore at his soul.

"Good morning, Brooks, Rod.  Where are Mother a Father?"  Bellami planted a
kiss on each of her brothe cheeks.  She walked to the oak server to select
breakfast.

As usual, it held a nice variety of meat and eggs.  ~ morning, the cook, Mrs.
Wiggins, had fixed waffles--( of Bellami's favorites.  She piled food high on
her plate.

"Father took Mother out for a morning ride throttle Central Park,"

Rod replied from behind the morn newspaper.  He never glanced up from the
business secti Brooks watched Bellami's back while she sniffed the
blueberry muffins.

"What are you going to do today, Bell?"  he asked, grinning as a strand of
sable-colored hair escaped the comb.  It reached nearly to her hips and
swayed gracefully when she moved.

"I think I'll send a message to Doc, then I'll start packing."  Her voice was
steady, but Brooks saw the tremor in her hand.  He knew she was frightened.

"Are you sure you know what you are doing, Bellami?"  Rod's attention
turned abruptly from the stock market to his sister.  He laid the paper down,
his black eyes riveted on her.

She turned to look him straight in the eye for a full minute before she
spoke.  This would be her first test.  If she could withstand Rod's gentle
disapproval, then she could stand up to her parents.

"No.  But I think I have to do this."

Rod frowned, and his eyes darted to Brooks, Who sat stiff.  "All ri ht, Bell,
but remember, if you need anything, anything at all, send a cable and I'll be
right there to take care of you."  Rod coughed as he pushed himself away from
the table.

Bellami knew he was close to giving her oneof:his bone-crushing hugs.

She watched his straight back a left the dining room, and her heart brimmed'
with love for him,~ She sniffed and cleared her throat.

"Well, BrookS, you've been awfully quiet."  Bellami took her plate and Sat in
the chair beside him.  She picked up a fork and began Cutting her waffle into
bite-size pieces.

"I don't know why, Bell, but I think you have to go.  ,For both of us."
Brooks frowned.

She stopped her fork enroute to her mouth and.  turned to look at him.  It
was so eerie whenever it happened.  Neither one of them had ever really
gotten used to it.  She'd been thinking exactly the same thing at the same
time.  Being twins gave them some odd insight into each other's thoughts and
feelings.

Even though she was terrified of the unknown and of leaving the security of
home, she felt it was somehow necessary.  Why, she didn't know, but if Brooks
felt the same way, then maybe it was true.

He stood up and planted a kiss on top of her head before he turned to leave
the room.  When he reached the door, he paused.

"I'm sorry."

Bellami felt pain in her heart and a lump in her throat.  If she could have
gotten to her feet, she would have called him back, but her head was spinning
as the old, hurtful memo-ties engulfed her.

Eight trunks were being loaded into a dray.  Donovan James clenched a cigar
in his teeth as he surveyed the baggage.  "I certainly hope those poor folks
in New Mexico have an extra room.  They'll need it just for your clothes,"

I'll need all this," Bellami said.

"Spring is on the way, then summer.

"Either I take all this now, or I'd need new things made for the warmer
months."

Donovan James had the reputation of being a most indulgent father with all
his children, but most of all with Bellami.  She knew he tried to compensate
for her face by spoiling her.  It only made her love him more.

"Well, daughter, I guess we'd better round up the rest of the family, if
we're going to get you to the station on time."

As if on cue, Rod appeared at the door, with Patricia.  Brooks came running
down the stairs, pulling on his coat.  He'd nicked his chin shaving, and he
dabbed at the bloody spot with a clean linen handkerchieL "What time did you
say Bellami's train is leaving?"  Patricia asked Donoran as they walked down
the steps together.  He pulled out his pocket watch and opened it.

"It's scheduled to pull out of the station in twenty minutes.  I guess we
better hurry.  Bellami's train may leave without her."

The group piled into the enclosed carriage, and the driver snapped the
reins, encouraging the horse to a brisk trot.  The wagon full of trunks moved
ahead of the carriage.

Bellami cradled her hat in her lap, along with her white fur muff.

She nervously plucked at the veil as they swayed down the snow-covered
street.  She glanced across at her brother Rod, who frowned and looked away.

"Now, Rod, please stop looking like that."  Bellami reached across the
carriage and touched his arm.

He attempted to smile, but he resembled a man going to the gallows.

"This is the first time you've left home, since..."  His words trailed off
self-consciously, and he went a little pale.

Donovan and Patricia sat in stony silence, and Brooks coughed nervously.
They 'all turned to look out the windows of the carriage, suddenly interested
in the frosty lampposts, Bellami sighed.  This scenario had been played out a
hundred times before.  Brooks saying he was sorry a week ago had been the
closest that any member of her family had ever come to discussing Bellami's
face or the accident.  Dr. Malone had tried once again to persuade Bellami to
force the issue yesterday at his office when she told him goodbye.  His
arguments made sense, and she really had intended to do it.  But she found
herself terrified of the prospect and overwhelmed by another emotion' guilt
Bellami felt guilty about the accident.  She realized she felt guilty for
getting hurt--guilty for causing Brooks to feel responsible

Most of all she felt guilty for becoming ugly and being so imperfect she'd
never be loved.

She sighed heavily and watched as the well-ordered streets slipped by.  It
almost seemed like a dream.  She was really doing it.  She was leaving home,
leaving the loving protection of her family.

Bellami thought she might be sick if she didn't think of something else.

She looked out the carriage window when they approached Grand Central
Station.  Train smoke billowed in dark gray clouds over the heads of
sojourners.  Milling groups of people crowded the station.  Their breath made
little puffs of vapor in the cold as they shouted and waved to departing
loved ones.

When the carriage stopped, Rod stepped Out first, then Donovan, who offered
his hand to Patricia.  Brooks got out the opposite side and waited patiently
for Bellami.  She shifted her muff on her lap and put her hat on.  She stuck
the hat pin through, then she pulled the veil down to cover her face, With
her armor.  in place, she could meet the world.

A uniformed conductor walked through the crowds at the station, shouting
train departures, to faraway destinations.  Bellami shivered and jammed her
hands farther into her fur muffler when her train was announced.  In a flurry
of activity, she was soon on the train, waving at the shrinking figures of
her family in the distance.  She found herself seated next to a dour older
woman dressed in black.  The woman nodded briefly in greeting, then turned
tier face away from Bellami.

Well, at least she wouldn't be forced to make pleasant conversation.

As the train clattered and rocked down the tracks, she let her head fall back
against the padded leather seat.  The motion of the swaying car and the
endless snow-covered landscape relaxed her.

Images of a little blind boy filled her mind.  He needed her.  Bellami wanted
to be needed.  She looked forward to caring for the child and making his life
easier.  It was one thing she could do that had nothing whatsoever to do with
beauty.

Chapter Two.

 ~ ~ Well, Missy, is he in a better mood today?  " Clell asked as
he rubbed his hand over the gray stubble of his heard.

"No.  In fact, he's worse, meaner-than an old boar bear!  He threw his
breakfast tray at the door again."  The dark-eyed girl looked out the window
of the sprawling ranch house while she spoke.

Missy O'Bannion had lived in this ranch house all her life.  She'd grown up
riding, branding and cutting cattle, just like her brothers.

She could handle just about anything, except what faced her now.

"I

just don't know what to do, Clell.  When I help him, it seems to make things
worsemand if I don't help him.  He can't shave, he can barely dress.  It
breaks my heart to see him like this.  " The rowels of her spurs jangled as
she turned to face Clell.  Shotgun chaps, showing signs of daily wear and
tear, hugged her body.  A loose, long-sleeved plaid shirt with the tail half
out made he seem younger than sixteen.

"Has your father heard any more from the doctor bacl East?"  Clell handed
Missy a cup of hot, strong, aromatic coffee.

As she turned to take the cup, her face brightened a little.  "Yes.

Someone's coming.  A Mr. Bellamy James.  I hope he'll be able to help Trace.
Pa said Mr. James worked at a hospital that trains blind people--he's the
best.  " It had been real hard for her to accept Trace'g blindness.  She
couldn't even imagine how he felt.

"Did you see Becky Kelly when you went to town the other day to mail that
letter?"  There was ice in CleWs voice.

"I thought about beatin' the hell outa the bitch!"  Missy's dark eyes snapped
like lightning in a black sky.

"Yep, the thought crossed my mind a time or two.  I suppose it wouldn't
change anything, but we might feel a little better."  He winked at Missy.

"You sure have been sending' an awful lot of letters to New York lately,
Clell.  Have you got a sweetheart back there?"

Clell turned and' narrowed his eyes.  A slow, cryptic smile curved his mouth.

"Now, don't you go poking your nose into my business, Missy O'Bannion,
There's things i do that's none of your concern."  He turned his back to her
and sipped his coffee in silence.  The set of his shoulders and the way he
braced his legs told Missy the subject of his letter writing was over.
There'd be no More discussion of it today.  Clell was nearly as stubborn as
She was.  She smiled at his stiff back.

Clell cleared his throat.  ,"I hope that--uh, Mr. James gets here pretty~
quick He.grinned at her over the rim of his cup.

She frowned.

"Well, I hope he's got a thick hide, a quick mind, and a strong pair of
fists.  Any man who thinks he,s going to be able to deal with Trace O'Bannion
in the shape he's in now is going to have a fight on his hands."  She brushed
a loose strand of unruly hair back from her face and took a sip of the hot
liquid.

"I've been thinking, Missy" -- his brown eyes narrowed and he rubbed his
stubbly beard with a gnarled hand and continued "--maybe I should take Trace
back to his house.  You know, sort of get him settled, before that fella
shows up."

Missy studied the weathered brown face.  She thought about Trace going home.
He finished the house over six months ago, for Becky Kelly.

He'd barely gotten moved in before he was shot.  How would he feel about
going back there now?

"What if it makes things worse?"  she asked, her eyebrows knitting into a
worried frown.

"Don't think things could get too much worse, do you, Missy?  I'll talk
to your pa.  If he thinks it'll be all right, I can tend him--as much as he
lets anybody tend him."

A crashing sound snapped their heads around in time for them to see Lupe
scurry from the direction of the noise.

"I guess that means he doesn't like lunch, either," Clell said dryly.

Trace O'Bannion threw the tray toward the sound of the dosing door.

He hoped like hell that.  it hit something.

No, that wasn't true.  Trace didn't really want to cause his family grief or
pain, but he knew that was exactly what he was doing with each passing day.
He knew deep down inside they were only trying to help, but knowing it just
seemed to make things worse.

Every time Missy or Shane showed him kindness, every fiber Of his being
screamed in rebellion.  He wanted to lash out, to hit, to draw blood.
Hewanted to rail and roar at the unfairness of it all.  He'd rather die than
be living this half-life.  He grimaced in pain.  Trace saw the stars and
lightning burst!  ng through his head, and he remembered that day.

He d woken up in his own bed at home.  The doctor from Socorro had been
there.  At first he'd been relieved, damned happy to be alive, in fact.
Being a deputy, he'd been shot before.  As gunshots went, the one in his head
had felt a damn sight better than some he'd suffered.

The bandage across his forehead and eyes had felt almost comforting.  )
Without thought, he moved his hand over his forehead.  His fingers touched a
scar at his temple, just like Becky Kelly had done that day when the wound
was fresh.

"How are you feeling?"  she asked as she stroked his face with her cool,
smooth fingers.

"Fine, honey, just fine.  In a few days, I'll be back on my feet."

"Well, don't you rush it, Trace."  She had leaned close and touched her lips
to his forehead.

"I'm tough as rawhide, Becky.  Besides, there's something mighty important I
want to ask you."  He had taken her hand and held it against his lips,
depositing soft kisses across her palm.

She had stayed with him for several days2 He'd felt stronger every day.
Things were going to be fine, just fine.

Trace fidgeted like a cat, waiting for the doctor to remove his bandages.  If
he'd known, if he'd had any Mea what lay ahead--he wouldn't have been nearly
so anxious to learn the truth.  Bitter memories made him squeeze his eyes
tight.  But when he opened them, the unrelenting darkness remained.

Blind, Trace O'Bannion was totally blind.

Before he even stopped reeling from that bit of information, sweet Becky had
taken the opportunity to explain a few things to him.  Sort of the facts of
life, you might say.

Bitterness and bile made him grimace.  Her lilting voice had echoed through
the room.

"Of course, Trace, I know you'll understand my position.  I mean--how can I
marry a man.  .2well an unsighted man?  After all, I'm young.  I have certain
expectations."  Her voice had sounded so sweet, so full of remorse, as she
pleaded for his understanding.

Heartless bitch!  Yes; of course he understood, he understood only too well.
He was half a man now.  He'd be damned lucky if any woman ever looked at him
as a man again.  Trace O'Bannion knew that if any woman did look his way,
there wouldn't be a look of love in her eyes.  No, not even lust.  It would
be pity.  Pity!  The one thing Trace couldn't stand.  The real reason behind
his rage.  The thing keeping him from allowing his family to help.  No matter
how hard he pushed or taunted, they put up with it.  And the reason was that
they considered Trace too weak and belly less to take it!  If one of them,
just one, would treat him like he was still a man.  God!  It was too much.
Even Missy, little Missy, for God's sake.  He'd rocked her to sleep, taught
her how to rope, how to throw and tie a calf!  Missy wiped his chin now, and
tried her best to shave him.

Shave him.  Like an invalid.  He'd been reduced to the point that his
half-grown sister had to shave him.  Trace O'Bannion covered his sightless
eyes with tough hands.  He wept like a baby.  It wasn't the first time.

Supper at the O'Bannion house had always been a rowdy affair.  The O'Bannions
didn't eat peas with their knives, or bring live chickens to the
table--nothing like that.  It was just that when they all got together it
turned out to be a loud, unruly gathering of Hugh and his five headstrong,
independent, free-thinking offspring.  No meal ever took place in the adobe
ranch house without some difference of opinion being aired.  Tonight, it
seemed, would be no different.

The absence of two family members only made it a little bit quieter.

Flynn was still in Albuquerque with Elfego Baca, while he awaited trial.
Trace had holed up in his bedroom, refusing to take meals with anyone.  Hugh
watched the faces of his remaining children with a frown on his face.  He'd
known they'd react like this.  He'd received nothing but sour faces and sharp
words since they'd heard he'd hired a teacher for Trace.  Each one of them
seemed all-fired sure they knew what should and should not be done for Trace.
Suddenly everybody in the O'Bannion family was an expert in the care and
handling of a blind man.

Oh, just wait until the mysterious teacher arrived.  Hugh shuddered, thinking
about the rough road ahead of him.  As soon as his little brood found out
what he'd really done--yep, there'd be hell to pay for Hugh O'Bannion.

His feisty offspring would probably turn their full wrath on him.

Life would be a fearsome sight for a while around the O'Bannion spread.

Hugh had fought nearly every tribe of Indian on the plains.  He'd faced
Comanche in Texas and Apache here in the territory without flinching, but his
children made him damned nervous at times.  Hugh hadn't told anyone, not even
Clell, that Mr. Bellamy James was really Miss Bellami James.  When they found
out, well, Hugh could just imagine the donnybrook.

It wasn't something he'd intentionally planned, but when everyone just
assumed Bellamy was a man's name, well, he'd just let 'em.  He frowned and
thought back to the first time Bellami James's name had come up in
conversation.

Clell and Logan had made the assumption it was a Mr. James, as he recalled.
He'd been smart enough to recognize a gift from God when he saw one.  The
Almighty was providing Trace with the only possible solution to his problem,
and that solution happened to be showing up in the form of a woman.  Maybe an
older female would be able to do what the family had not.  Trace needed to
heal, to mend both heart and body.  The rest of them had all failed dismally
in their attempts to care for him.  Maybe Miss James Could try a gentler
approach.  She could mother him, and maybe, just maybe, Trace would let her.
Trace had a real soft Spot for grandmotherly types and kindly old spinsters.

Trace's recent behavior was no big mystery to Hugh.  He was hurting and
scared, and he was too damned much like Hugh to admit it.  Men in the
O'Bannion family were taught early to fight against weakness.

They were supposed to stand on their own two feet.  A man in the territory
might not have to stand tall, but he damned sure had to stand up.

Asking for help, or needing it, was a frailty--a weakness that couldn't be
tolerated, especially not here.  Weak men, or women, for that matter, didn't
survive in this country for very long.

Hugh had been blessed with strong, smart, resilient children who had
toughened their bodies and their minds.  They could handle this country and
the people in it.  But this blindness of Trace's.  Well, it had taken the
starch out of the whole family.

No man would be able to handle Trace, not like he was now.  But there had
been a glimmer of hope when Doc Malone wrote.  He mentioned the lady who had
worked with him for twelve years.  Hugh frowned, thinking about that letter.
It had arrived from Doc Malone at just the right time--as if borne on the
wings of providence.

Almost as if some unseen force had guided it.  Of course, that was a silly
notion.  How could Doc have heard about Trace?  It was a long way from the
territory to New York.

Hugh hadn't hesitated a moment when he read that letter.  Twelve years was a
long time to dedicate to blind people.  This spinster, Miss James, would have
to be very dedicated and patient, downright devoted, in fact.  She might be
Trace's salvation.  A masculine voice broke into his musing.

"Well, I don't want to be around when Trace and this fella meet," Shane
O'Bannion declared, loud enough to be heard in Magdalena.

"He's gonna be killin' mad.

Trace ain't going' to like no prissy Eastern gentleman teaching him how to
shave and bathe and all.  " At twenty, Shane had reached the lofty pinnacle
of knowing everything about everybody.  Hugh couldn't wait for another y~r or
two to pass, to show Shane how ignorant he really wa~.  Hugh knew time had a
way of making young men stupider and old men smarter.

"Well, someone's got to teach him.  I think it may be easier coming from a
stranger."  Missy looked Shane straight in the eye as she spoke.  He might be
her older brother, but he hadn't cornered the market on wisdom, by damn.

Hugh frowned, laying down his fork in exasperation.

"Is it too much to ask for?  Just once I'd like to have a quiet meal in this
house.

It's done.  The teacher will be here in a couple of weeks, so let's say no
more on the matter tonight.  All this yammerin' is ruinin' my digestion!  "

Logan O'Bannion smiled mischievously.  It tickled him no end when Hugh used
that tone with his older siblings.  Logan, the baby of the family, was
spoiled rotten.  He admitted it--and he enjoyed it.  Being the youngest had
definite advantages.  They were all guilty of indulging him, and had done it
all his life.  Missy was the worst, but they were all guilty as sin.

When he was old enough to sit in front of Trace or Flynn, they'd bundled him
up and took him with them on the range.  He rode better than an Indian, and
looked like one, too.  Logan had inherited the black hair and eyes of his
mother, Sky.  Deep dimples creased his face when he smiled, which was often.
Now his eyes were twinkling merrily, with some undisclosed secret.  That was
another thing Logan had inherited from his mother.  He'd go to his grave
before betraying a confidence, or telling somebody's secret.

"Logan, you seem downright amused.  Will you share with us?"  Hugh asked,
clenching his jaw and fixing a stern gaze on the impish face of his youngest
son.

"Oh, not bing just thinkin' maybe you-all would be doin' Trace a favor if you
just left him alone for a while, He never did like people fussin' over him.
I think he needs some time."  The fourteen-year-old watched as his family
chewed on that a bit.

Taking advantage of the unusual silence, he continued,

"I saw Clell earlier, while I was ridin' fence.  He said he spoke to you, Pa."

Black eyes bored right back into Hugh's, as he defiantly waited for a
response.

"Oh?  And what did o1' Uncle Clell say?"  There was icy sarcasm in Hugh's
words.  Clell was like a brother to him, but sometimes his meddling burned
Hugh's butt.  He acted like a damned old mother hen, clucking around all the
time.

One black eyebrow rose as Logan tried to stifle a grin.  "He said he talked
to you about Trace going' home."

Shane and Missy riveted disbelieving looks at their father.

"Now don't you go lookin' at me like that.  It was CleWs idea, not mine!  I
sure ain't throwin' the boy out!  But CleWs got a point.  Trace needs to come
to terms with this, to learn how to function.  He wasn't living at home when
it happened, so why should he stay here now?  He's a grown man .... " There
was sorrow in Hugh's voice.  Trace would have it hard, and it sure didn't
help, that flighty Becky Kelly doing what she did, Hugh had known from the
start Becky was no good for Trace but he hadn't interfered.  Young men didn't
ever use their heads around women.  They didn't take time to think, all they
did was feel.  Trace felt too damned much for Becky.  She wasn't worth it,
not in Hugh's estimation.  But no man could tell Trace how to feel about
Becky, or about his blindness.  He'd just have to work through it on his own.

Hugh wanted to help him, tried to help him, but in the end it was up to Trace
to help himself.

Suddenly an angry voice cut into the silence.

"It's about damn time you-all came to your senses!  When can I get the hell
out of here?"  The sharp, bitter words made all four people wince.

They turned in unison to see Trace O'Bannion, wearing only his Levi's,
standing in the doorway.  His lips curled back in a sneer as he spoke.  His
sightless green eyes held a wild, untamed look.

It chilled Missy to the bone.  She adored her older brother.  He could shoot,
ride and rope.  There wasn't a mar alive tougher, except maybe Flynn.  And
Trace could be so gentle.  She had watched Trace spend hours nursing a sick
colt.  The look on his face now was anything but gentle.  He looked like he
wanted to commit murder, and he was staring in the direction of his own
family.

Abruptly Trace turned away.  Feeling his way along the wall, he inched his
way back toward his old room.

Everybody seated at the long pine table groaned when heard the sound of flesh
hitting wood, and the oaths followed.  Trace stumbled noisily over the coat
tree in hall.  If he couldn't navigate his childhood home, how we he ever get
along in the world, blind?

Trace woke up in a cold sweat.  It had happened net every night since he was
shot.  Terror made his pulse po in his ears.  Every muscle in his body
knotted tightly again the nameless horror as his heart pounded in his chest.
T was another sound, too.  What was it?

Lying there with his fists clenched tight, he tried to sh the fear back in
the perpetual darkness.  Suddenly he kr what the sound was.

Hooves, horse's hooves.

His gray stallion was raising holy blue hell--again.  Ev night since the
shooting, the stud had shrieked and ran al the fence line.  At first Trace
had thought a mare must b4 heat nearby, but now he wondered.

He'd raised Ghost from a colt.  One cold spring so: Kiowas had come through,
leading the scrawny foal.  Tn had felt sorry for the pitiful creature, so
he'd taken h home.  God knew how many hours he'd spent nursing hi The wild
LITTLE devil had had such a wary look in his ey Clell had said he'd never be
worth a plugged nickel, t Trace had refused to give up on him.  Clell always
said Tn had a soft spot for sorry horses and lost causes.

As the sickly animal grew and filled out, he'd beco magnificent.  The big
gray had a deep chest, a small he and powerful hindquarters.  He could go
all day long wi out breaking a hard sweat.

Trace threw back the sheet and rose from the bed.  Th, were times at night
when he pretended he could still s Pretty stupid for a grown man to pretend,
but he did it.  night, in the darkness, it wasn't so different from the wa,
had been before the shooting.

~e when l~e was a boy.  He'd wake up in the middle of the night and walk to
the window.  Trace did it now, and for a fleeting moment he did not feel the
horrible, disoriented awkwardness that plagued him since the bandages had
been removed.

Why was it so different at night?

Were some of his problems tricks his own mind was playing?  He knew every
inch of this house.  Missy hadn't moved one stick of furniture, and she'd
threatened to horsewhip anyone who did, so why did he keep running into
things?  Trace pondered the question as he stepped toward the window.

He felt the coolness on his face before he reached the glass pane.  No one
had bothered to pull the curtains.  There wasn't any need.  Trace's own
place, the house he'd built for Becky, was five miles away.  There were no
other neighbors in between here and there.  Nothing but miles of prairie
grass and sage from here to San Marcial.  It wasn't like anyone would be
looking in the windows.  Lu and Maria, the only women around besides Missy,
had seen the O'Bannion brood naked so many times, they'd most likely lost
count.  In the summer, the whole bunch swam buck naked in the creek back of
the house.

Standing at the window in the darkness, Trace felt the vibration of the big
gray's hooves through the wood floor.  He dosed his eyes, imagining h'mself
on the animal's back, the wind in his face.  He felt a surge of excitement as
the stud gathered power.  Muscles rippled beneath him as the horse's stride
lengthened.

"Stop!  Stop doing this to yourself!"  he growled, raising his dosed fists to
his sightless eyes.

"You're only half a man now.  You'll never ride again."

Clell loaded the saddlebags with the rest of Trace's clothes into the wagon
and tied Ghost to the back.  It was heartbreaking to see the boy like this.
Trace had always been so r~artess Hearts 35 proud, so self-assured.  Even as
a child it had rankled him to need other people's help.  Clell could see the
toll it was taking on him now.  Once Trace heard Clell's offer to take him
home, he'd grabbed on to it like a drowning man grabbing for a rope.

Trace O'Bannion shuffled onto the porch of the big ranch house.  He took
slow, hesitant steps.  His boots hovered in the air above the steps of the
porch as he gripped the smooth cottonwood railing.  Missy walked about a half
step behind with her hands held up slightly to catch him if he stumbled.

Clell flinched inwardly when Trace did exactly that.  When the proud blind
man felt Missy's hands at his sides, he shrugged violently, to throw them
off.  His pride was hurting now, even more than the rest of him.  Clell
wondered if Trace would ever get the bitterness out of his system, Like the
poison of a rattler, it worked its way through his body and his heart.
Mighty powerful stuff.

Hugh stepped out onto the porch, with Shane and Logan at his heels.

They watched silently as Trace stumbled toward the buckboard.

"Trace" -- Hugh couldn't finish.  He just hoped that his son knew what was in
his heart.

The blind man turned back to face the ranch house, his emerald-green eyes
staring blankly ahead.

"I know you all tried to help."  Saying no more, he swung up onto the seat.

Clell noticed that damn little of Trace's strength or agility was gone.  He
settled next to Clell on the narrow wooden-plank seat before the old man
gathered the reins.  With a snap of leather on the bay's rump, they headed
for Trace's house.

Clel[ could feel the tension in Trace's body.  He watched the play of
emotions on Trace's face from time to time.  It was obvious the man was being
torn apart.  Clell was glad Sky wasn't alive to see her son like this; it
would've destroyed her.

The sun had dropped low in the western sky before they reached Traee's home.
Ghost's head came up, and he let out a piercing scream.

Evidently the horse missed his familiar stomping grounds.  Clell saw a brief
smile touch Trace's lips when he heard the horse.

"Why don't you ride that gray devil?"  he asked suddenly.

Trace flinched at the sound of Clell's voice.

"Damn you, Clell.  I'll never be able to ride again, and you know it."  The
words held a hefty measure of self-pity.  Trace's mouth twisted, and his face
hardened.

"Why?  You rode at night, didn't ya?  How much different could it be?

The horse ain't blind.  " Clell spit the words at Trace as he wrapped the
rems around the hand brake and swung to the ground.

"You're just being' plain ornery about this, Trace.  There's still lots of
things you can do."

"Such as?"  Trace stepped to the ground.  He stood be, side the buckboard.

Clell walked to him and shoved a well-worn saddle into his chest, hard.

"Like carryin' your own damn saddle."  He grinned when Trace's hands came up
instinctively to grip the weight.  Trace's reflexes were still damned good.

The old cowboy turned away, grinning, and he took a good look at Trace's
house.  Solid and sensible, even pretty to look at.  Built with a wife and
family in mind.  Thick adobe walls would keep it cool in the summer months to
come.  It was large, with a steep tin roof to shed the winter snow.  Since
the railroad had come through in 1880, things such as metal roofs had become
common.  Clell remembered a time when such things had been a luxury.  Just
like the balcony and railing running all the way around the upper floor.
Mighty fancy place, and too damned big for a single man.

Metal against metal sang an endless sor~g as the breeze turned the windmill.
New Mexico was a desert, but where water flowed an abundance of living things
could be found.

The stream running through Trace's land was home to ava-fiety of animal and
plant life.

He'd constructed his house near the stream since the well brought water fight
into the house, and for the view Clell guessed.

Cottonwoods grew in a line along the stream.  The dusty pink blooms of salt
cedar mingled with the fuzzy green-and-brown spikes of cattails.

Geese stopped both in the spring and in the fall.  Bobcats, coyotes and an
occasional badger shared the water hole with deer and antelope year7 round
Yep, it'd make a mighty pretty sight to see, if a body could see.

Cle!  l turned back to Trace, who was still standing with the saddle clutched
tight against his chest.  His knuckles were white, and his face was a pensive
mask as he stared toward the gurgle of the stream.

Clell wondered what images and memories were flooding through the blind man's
brain.

Trace bit down hard, clenching his jaw against the assault.  The smell of
damp earth and new growing things brought back a rush of remembered
pleasures.  Not long before the shooting, Trace had been restless one night.
He'd stood in the twilight,: looking toward that stream.  A blur of fur
reflecting in the water had turned out to be a lobo she-wolf.  He smiled,
remembering how she'd slunk, sneaking silently to the water.  Amber eyes
glowing, she'd completely ignored the antelope nearby.

An unspoken truce was in effect at the watering hole.  It was the way Of
things here.  Water meant life.  Trace adopted a kind of live-and-let-live
attitude fight along with the critters who shared his backyard.  If the local
predators respected his space, he would respect theirs.  So far, it had
worked out just fine.  He didn't figure he lost any more cattle to predators
than any other rancher.

Certainly no more than his share--and he'd the pleasure of watching the
animals.

When he could see, that is.

The man clenched his jaw tighter.  Another small joy in his life, now lost
forever.

Trace woke to a harsh pounding on his bedroom door.  He wasn't so sure this
had been a good idea after all.  Clell was meaner than sin, and, if possible,
getting worse each day.

"Coffee's on the stove.  You want it, git it yourself."  His gruff voice
faded as he walked away from the door.  He was long gone by the time Trace
managed to pull on his dirty pants.  He rubbed his hand over his chin,
feeling the long, thick beard.  It felt at least two inches long.  He
wondered for a minute what he looked like.  Snorting in disgust, he groped
around the room, searching for a shirt.  What the hell did he care what he
looked like?  Nobody'd been out since he and Clell had gotten here.  Not even
Logan or Missy.  What the hell--probably for the best all the way' around.
The everyone left him be, the better he'd like it.  He raised his arms to
pull on his shirt and got a noseful.  How long had been since he took a bath?

"Oh, well, the nice thing about being that people quit expecting anything
from you, or shayin'," he muttered to himself as he opened his bedroom door.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled his nose.

with his hand on the banister he made his down the stairs.  He could smell
overcooked bacon biscuits, too.  The kitchen was quiet as he crept in.  he
felt his way to the cups hanging on the fingers around one, taking it from
the little metal Then he held his hand over the stove, testing for heat.  he
located the wire handle of the coffeepot, he grabbed tail of his unbuttoned
shirt to grasp it with.

He managed to pour coffee into his cup without more than the front of his
pants with the hot liquid.  cooled quickly in the cool spring air, and he
corn[ himself.

"Pretty good... better than yesterday."  He set the back on the hot stove.
Again he let his hand hover above stove, trying to locate the biscuits.  He
found them ar couple of brittle strips of bacon.  Trace jammed the twc get
her and took a bite.  One thing for sure, no one could cuse Clell of coddling
him.  The old devil cooked, lea just enough for Trace to survive on.  If he
wanted it, he to get it himself.  If he couldn't manage, then he went h gry.
Trace shoved the biscuit in his mouth.  Keeping hand free, he felt the air in
front of him as he walked, coffee sloshing over the edge of his cup with each
fare step.

Clell opened the back door and stepped inside.

"We see you managed to make it down today."  There was not whit of pity in
his voice.  He rode Trace hard, putting spurs to him every chance he got.  He
saw Trace flare nostrils.

Trace sucked in his breath.  Clell should try to get aro blind and see how
he liked it.  The least he could do we be to ease.  up a bit.

Trace took the biscuit from his mouth with one hand set his cup on the table
with the other.

"Get the hell off back, will you, Clell?"

the blind man snarled.

"Oh o, I see you still got a little fight left in you.  Goo thought the boy I
helped raise was gone."  Clell's wt dripped with sarcasm.

"What the hell do you expect me to do?"  Leaning v both his hands splayed on
the table, Trace shouted pl; tively in the direction of CleWs voice.

"I expect you to fight, boy!  Not lay down like st whipped dog!"  Clell
yelled louder as he moved closer.  '" smell like a dead buffalo, and you look
like one, too, ~ that damned hair and beard.  When was the last time dragged
a comb through that mane?"

"How the hell am I supposed to shave and clean u1 Trace asked, his voice
ringing with self-pity.

Clell felt his temper rising to a dangerous level.  No child of Sky's should
act like this.  Her proud, wild blood flowed through Trace's veins.  She'd
been a fighter till the day she died.

"Damn you, Trace.

Crawl to the stream, fall in the damn water and wash.  That's what I expect!
You ain't no damned baby, you're a man, so why don't you start actin' like
one?  " Clell's voice was brittle with rage.  He'd seen men lose arms and
legs, and much more, in the war.  Trace had gone soft, and it made him sick
to see it.

"I can't do it, Clell!  Do you understand?  I can't do it!"  Trace slammed
his fist onto the table, then turned away.  He groped along the wall, feeling
his way back to the stairs.

In a few moments, Clell heard the slamming of a door.  He dragged his hand
through his hair.  Maybe he'd gone too far this time.

The old man sat down at the table, staring at the speckled cup of coffee.  A
tiny tendril of steam still rose from the hot liquid.  He wondered if Trace
would ever pull out of this.  That teacher better get here soon.  If
something didn't change pretty damned quick, Trace would be beyond help.
Clell felt disgusted with himself for chewing on Trace.  It was all getting
mighty discouraging.  Rising from the table, he went outside to resume his
chores.

As he threw scratch to the chickens, he caught the unmistakable smell of rain
on the breeze.  He hurried, trying to finish before the shower hit.  The
first rain of spring.  None too early, either--he'd felt winter's chill to
the marrow of his bones this year.  He was getting old.

Chapter Three.

Bellami enjoyed the trip.  Rod made sure she had the best
accommodations.  The sleeping car on the train was wonderful.  It provided
the only sanctuary where she could remove her hat and veil, and she cherished
those private moments.  Little by little the train left the gently rolling
land she was accustomed to behind.  The woods became sparser, until finally
they disappeared completely.  The earth flattened out.  Expanses of snow
stretched on mile after mile as they crossed the vast prairie near Fort
Kearney.  She changed trains only once, in Independence, Missouri.  This
train would take her all the way to the New Mexico Territory.  A sense of
discovery raised its sleepy head within her.  As the picture outside her
window changed, so did she.  The barrier she'd constructed to insulate her
feelings thinned out a little.  For the first time, Bellami found her lack of
beauty mattering less.  She saw men and women with tough, weathered faces in
each town when they took on new passengers and water.

Bellami watched in fascination as Chinese men, in loose clothing, boarded the
train.

"Where are they going?"  she asked the conductor when he walked by her.

"Bound for the mines in the New Mexico Territory.  Laborers headed for a
place called Kelly, miss."  He touched the bill of his cap and continued up
the aisle.

She felt a surge of excitement.  They were all going to the same wild place!
As the miles wore on, Bellami busied herself by trying to put a face to all
the names Doc had given her.  One in particular kept her occupied.

Trace O'Bannion.  Doc Malone hadn't really told her much about him.

Only that the poor child had been blinded in some sort of an accident.  She
imagined a small face with large brown eyes that would be full of sorrow.
Bellami smiled when she thought of how happy the little boy would be when he
could manage a little on his own again.

She'd seen fi lot of frightened children come to St.  Michael's over the
years.  Her greatest joy--her only joy, really--had been helping those
children.  This case promised to be especially rewarding because she'd be
doing it all alone, without Doc Malone to help her.  Bellami sighed in deep
satisfaction just thinking about it.

It would be nice to have a little boy's friendship and affection.

Bellami liked being around children; they were so innocent and trusting.
They gave their love unconditionally.

They never minded so much what a person looked like.  It was what was inside
a person that counted.  She found her self saying a silent thank-you to Doc
for persuading her to take this position.

The conductor walked ahead of Bellami down the narrow corridor.  She
hurriedly pulled the veiling down over her face.

"Socorro, New Mexico Territory.  One-hour stop."  He repeated tunelessly over
and over.  The Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway depot was located at the
east end of Manzanares Street in Socorro.

Bellami stepped up to the conductor as he pulled a shiny gold pocket watch
from his coat.

"Is there a mercantile nearby?  I need to buy a present for a little boy,"
Bellami asked the man as he flipped opened the watch with his thumbnail.

"Any of the storekeepers here should be able to help you, miss.  Just head
straight up this street to the plaza."  He raised a muscular arm and pointed
west.  Bellami nodded her thanks and walked in the direction he instructed.

The beauty of the bustling town surprised her.  She allowed herself a few
extra minutes to look at the San Miguel Mission.  Bellami had never seen
anything like adobe.  She found it hard to believe that bricks made of mud
could be pretty, but they were, One of the priests explained how adobe was
made.  His deep voice and Mexican accent charmed her.  Bricks made from the
materials at hand, baked in the hot sun.  Trees were scarce here, so the
resourceful residents adapted to their environment.  And they had done it so
well, she thought.  The church seemed to be a part of the country, it blended
so well.

Thanking the priest, she resumed her trek toward the business district.
Bellami needed to find a present for Trace.  Several stores fronted the
plaza, and Bellami found an amazing variety of goods for sale within walking
distance.  There were several Chinese laundries, and there was a very large
building with a sign proclaiming the Best Beer in the Territory In a short
time, her arms were full of parcels.  She carried something for each member
of her family but she had not found anything for little Trace yet, and the
entire hour was almost gone.  She was due back at the train depot soon.
Bellami gathered her packages and hurried down the street.

For a long time, Flynn leaned up against a post at the plaza just watching
her.  He couldn't see her face, not with that contraption she wore for a hat.
What a god-awful thing it was, too.  Did all women back East dress like
that?  How on earth could a man see what he was getting?  He rolled a smoke
and let his eyes follow her movements from one store to the next.  She
seemed to be buying anything and everything for sale in Socorro.  Flynn
admired the way her traveling suit hugged her shoulders and chest.  A real
looker, all right.  As she walked, the fabric of her long skirt showed the
contours of her legs, and Flynn felt his curiosity growing.  He didn't
usually spend much time admiring women.  It was not something his line of
work allowed.  He usually just took quick action, you might say.  When he saw
something he liked, he generally went after it.

Every so often he took a ride up to White Oak to visit the whorehouse.
During the Lincoln County Wars ten years ago, he had acquired a taste for
what they offered, and he saw no reason to change.  This woman, though, she
could rein in a man.  Mysterious, and appealing--probably the effect of the
damned hat.

Flynn couldn't pass up an opportunity like this.  He just had to see if her
face was as pretty as the rest of her.  He'd never been bothered by morals or
guilt--that was his brother's department.  Trace was the ethical one in the
family.  A grim smile twisted Flynn's mouth.  He knew Trace had never made an
imprope move toward that damned Becky Kelly, and where had it gotten him?
Jilted, that's where.  She walked away from Trace, never giving him so much
as a backward glance when he needed her the most.

Flynn stubbed out his cigarette and focused on the woman again.  She flitted
out of the store, nearly dropping her bundles in her haste.

He stood away from the post, grinning.  Maybe he could help the little lady
out.  The bundles were piled in her arms so high she could barely see over
them.  When she came close to losing her hold on the paper-wrapped packages,
Flynn stepped in front of her with his arms outstretched.  Just as he reached
her, she stumbled and lurched forward.

Bellami's teeth jarred together painfully.  She gasped and caught her breath,
thinking that she must've run into a wall.  The bundles tilted in her arms,
and she struggled to keep the packages from falling.  Suddenly strong hands
gripped her arms.  She took a peek through a small crack between the
string-wrapped parcels.

A low bass voice washed over her.

"S'cuse me, ma'am."  Bellami shifted her bundles and looked up to see where
the voice was coming from.

Through the veil she saw a pair of twinkling brown eyes in a tanned face.
Heat flooded her cheeks.  She was grateful she had the protection of the
veiled hat so that the man wouldn't be forced to make stammering apologies as
he stared at her scarred cheek but tried not to.

Flynn knew he should let the woman go, but he wanted to get a look at her
face.  He leaned closer, but couldn't see a thing; the veil was too thick.
He heard her clear her throat.

"No, please excuse me, sir..  It's entirely my fault.  I can't see very well,
I'm sorry."  She stammered out an apology as she clung to the packages.  He
continued to hold both her arms--not tightly, but she wasn't going anywhere
unless he released her.

"No harm done, ma'am.  Where're.  you going' in such a hurry?  I'd be happy
to carry those bundles for you," he drawled, grinning.

"I am in a hurry," Bellami looked up at the man's face.  It was shaded by a
pale tan hat wit ha wide brim.  She had noticed most of the men wearing the
same type of hat everywhere she went today.

"I'm onmy way back to the train station," Bellami told him, putting her usual
reserve and caution aside.  Another tiny piece of her armor fell away.

It was, after all, broad daylight.  What could it hurt?

"I'd be grateful for your help."

After he took her packages, Bellami fell into step beside him.  His legs were
long, and she found herself having to trot to keep up.  When she'd said she
needed to hurry, he must've taken her at her word, she thought to herself.

"I'm sorry, I don't even know your name, Mr " She waited for him to supply it.

"O'Bannion, ma'am.  Flynn O'Bannion.  I'm a U.S.  marshal," he said as he
released her arms and tipped his hat.  His lean face creased into a charming
set of dimples when he smiled.

"My, isn't that a coincidence!  I'm on my way to a ranch to take care of a
child named O'Bannion."

"Is that a fact?  Are you a nurse?"  He had a nice deep voice.

"Not really.  I train blind children," Bellami told him as they approached
the depot.

The tall man stopped abruptly and looked hard at Bellami's veil with
penetrating brown eyes.  She bit her lip when she felt his attention riveted
on her face.  She knew he couldn't see through the veil, yet his searching
gaze made her uncomfortable.  His brow creased into a frown, and he seemed a
little less friendly all of a sudden.  She wondered if she'd made a mistake
by allowing a total stranger to escort her.

"What is this child's name, ma'am?"  His tone clearly indicated he expected
an answer, "Trace O'Bannion."  Bellami said, somewhat puzzled.  He quickly
started placing the bundles back in her arms, one by one.  He stepped back
and looked at her again with agate eyes.  Then he let out a long, low whistle.

"Well, I see Pa has been keepin' secrets again," he said cryptically.

Bellami wondered if he could be dangerous, but suddenly the dimples returned.
His brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight.  He pushed the hat back on his
forehead with one lean index finger and grinned wider.

"Sorry, ma'am, didn't mean to frighten you.  Let me help you up the steps.
You have a safe trip."  He placed his hand under her elbow and practically
lifted her into the train in his haste.  Then he turned and left without
another word.

Bellami peered through her packages to see where he went, but he was nowhere
in sight.  A gust of wind whipped up a tiny dust devil in the street.  She
retreated into the shelter of the train to avoid the flying dust as she
puzzled over her unusual encounter.  The man had said his name was O'Bannion.
Maybe a relative of Trace's--an uncle, perhaps?  She made a mental note to
ask about him as soon as she reached San Marcial.

Flynn strode across the street to the board sidewalk.  A muscle in his jaw
twitched.  On her way to the O'Bannions'!  That had been more than enough to
take the wind out of Flynn's sail!  There wasn't another O'Bannion family in
the territory.

It had to be his family.  She said she was there to take care of a blind
child!  A shiver ran up his spine.  What the hell could his father be
thinking of?  Hugh O'Bannion must've lost his mind.  That little slip of a
woman was no more going to be able to handle Trace than she could handle a
team of wild horses.  The whole thing became crystal-clear.  Hugh had
intentionally let everyone believe Trace would have a man teaching him.

Flynn clenched his jaw a little tighter and hopped into the saddle.

He'd been headed to see Trace, anyway.  Now he had one more reason to go.
The muscles in his gut tightened up as he thought back to that day last
October.  Trace didn't even have the hate of revenge to sustain him.  The
bastard who'd shot Trace had died a split second later, after Flynn's bullet
hit him between the eyes.  It was an even heavier burden to bear, knowing
that his brother had been blinded by a bullet meant for another man.  The
lone gunman had been after Elfego Baca, not Trace.

That little lady said she trained blind children.  Well, Trace O'Bannion was
a long way from being a child.  How his father expected a lady to handle
Trace O'Bannion's frustration and fury was anybody's guess.  Flynn kicked his
horse, and the big bay broke into a ground-eating lope.  He didn't know what
was going to happen, but he intended to be there when it did.  The train
would reach San Marcial long before he could.  He hoped the woman would be
all right until he spoke with Hugh and found out what the hell was going on.

Hugh O'Bannion entered San Marcial at first light.  He'd taken great pains to
see that Missy, Shane and Logan were busy elsewhere.  Missy had put up one
hell of a fight, nearly getting her own way, as usual.

In the end, though, Hugh had managed to keep his three youngest busy.

He shook his head, and his hair whispered along the collar of his heavy coat.
Imagine, having to cut his own fences, just for a bit of privacy.  He
wondered what the hell the world was coming to.  Stepping into Brewster's
Hotel, he decided to enjoy a quiet breakfast, for a change.  The train wasn't
due for another hour.  He didn't want to stand around waiting at the empty
station.

"Howdy, Mr. O'Bannion.  What'11 it be?"  the freckle-faced girl asked as she
filled a cup to brimming with strong coffee.

"Steak and eggs, and burn' 'em," he replied, and settled back in his chair
with a sigh of contentment.  He wrapped his lean hands around the cup of
black coffee.  Allowing his eyes to roam over the street outside, he thought
about how things had changed since he and Clell had come here.

For years, civilization had slowly inched its way across the country, but
when the train came in 1880, it had thundered in with a roar.

Prosperity had come right along with it.

Ranchers didn't have to drive their stock for hundreds of miles anymore.
They were able to load them on stock cars in Magdalena.  This meant bigger
profits to the rancher2 Cattle didn't run off the fat they worked so hard to
put on them.  It also meant fewer losses from raiding Apaches.  The mines in
the area were also booming.

Transporting the ore quick and cheap was easy now.  Of course, cheap labor
still had to obtained, so the mine owners started bringing in men.  First
Negroes from the South, and now Chinese.  Hugh watched a.  group of the
newcomers passing the restaurant window.  They walked together with their
heads bowed.  Some of the locals treated them with contempt.  Mine owners and
investors only caredabout getting the ore out as cheap as possible; they gave
little or no thought to those men, especially those with different customs
and religions.

The territory was experiencing a real population boom.  Now, instead of
families coming to settle the land and raise children, the newcomers were
mostly men.  Men looking for a quick buck.  Gunslingers, cowhands, gamblers,
saddle tramps and worse.  Hugh sipped his coffee, thinking about the problems
in Lincoln and now here.  As more and more "Anglo" settlers came in, they did
everything possible to drive out the Mexicans.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.  Hugh's second son would be permanently blind
because of a stupid attempt on Elfego's life, and only because he was
Mexican: He took a deep breath and tried to control the frustration he felt.
He'd been here long enough to realize they were all nothing but newcomers.

The Spanish had come in the !  500s.  When they'd arrived, the Apacheand
Comanche were already here.  No one knew who'd been here before that.

Shootings were inevitable, but he wished his son hadn't been in the line of
fire.  Hugh wasn't particularly happy Flynn was still wearing a badge,
either.  More trouble was bound to come.  He didn't want to lose more than he
already had.  One son's blood in the dirt was enough for the damned territory.

Pulling out a letter from his shirt, he opened the worn envelope.  The paper
was tattered at the edges f/'om frequent handling, but he read it once more.
Hugh smiled at the spidery scrawl.  It almost sounded like old Doc Malone had
a special fondness for Miss James.  Hugh wondered what she'd be like.  He
envisioned a kindly, stout woman with iron-gray hair and soft eyes, Yep, that
was the type of female Doc Malone would think capable of caring for his son.

"Here ya go, Mr. O'Bannion.  Charlie fixed 'em just like you like 'em," the
girl said as she set the steaming plate on the checkered table cloth.

"Tell him I said thanks."  Hugh looked at the charred piece of meat, as big
as his fist.

"I'll do that, sir."  She filled his cup once more, then disappeared through
a door toward the back of the building.  While he was drinking his third cup
of coffee, the train whistle screamed.  Pulling on his heavy sheepskin coat,
Hugh paid for his breakfast and stepped outside, into the cool March air.  He
saw the dark trail of smoke in the distance.

Bellami changed into a blue traveling suit made of heavy cotton and carefully
arranged her hair.  Her exciteraent made it difficult to manage her combs.
Finally, with a trembling hand, she managed lo pile her hair up and secure
the veiled hat with a long hat pin.  It was important that she make a good
impression on the boy's father.

Smoothing her skirt, she pulled the matching cape over her shoulders.

The mirror in the sleeping car was a small one, but she wiggled until she had
one last look.  With shaking hands, she pulled on her kid gloves.

The brakes screeched and the car shifted when the train came to a jarring
stop.  The porter walked down the corridor, announcing San Marcial, New
Mexico Territory.

Taking a deep breath, Bellami stepped off onto the platform, getting her
first look at the rustic town.  Cows and cowboys were milling through the
street.  As she watched, Bellami realized just how far she'd come from New
York.

Hugh quickened his step and went directly to the platform at the train
station.  Several people got off, but he didn't see a~nyone who looked
remotely like the matronly woman he vas expecting.  The conductor and porter
were busy unloading a passel of trunks farther down the rails.  He intended
to speak with them, but they finished and boarded the train.  A feeling of
dread crept up his spine.  ~ Maybe something had happened to delay her
departure.  Hugh wondered if he should send a telegram to New York City.

"Well, hell..."  Hugh muttered to himself as he paced back and forth.

He noticed a fashionable woman standing by the trunks.  She, too, seemed to
he awaiting the arrival of someone.  From the cut of her clothes Hugh knew
she wasn't from around here.  She was tall and slim and was wearing a hat and
veil, which completely obscured her face.

Bellami knew Doc had told the O'Bannions she'd be on this train.  Why wasn't
somebody here to meet her?  Pacing up and down the walk near her trunks she
allowed herself to consider the worst.  Maybe they had changed their minds
after she'd left New York2 She saw a tall, auburn-haired man pacing nearby.
Occasionally he would look her way and frown.  Plucking up her courage, she
walked over to him.

"Exeuse me, sir?  Can you tell me where I might send a telegram?"  She wrung
her gloved hands together when he turned in her direction.  His looks were
stern, but when he smiled his face creased into a pair of deep, weathered
dim-pies.  He reached up to sweep off his hat, the same kind the men wore in
Socorro.

"Ma'am.  Are you waiting for someone?"  His brown eyes sparkled.

Bellami sighed.  Disappointment lay heavy in her chest.  "Yes, but evidently
the O'Bannions have changed their minds."  Her voice quavered a little, and
she adjusted her veil out of nervous habit.

Dark brows rose a bit.  He squinted his eyes and looked her up and down once.

"Ma'am, you wouldn't be Bellami James, would~l you?"  He sounded as if he
hoped she were not.

"I am.  Are you, Mr. O'Bannion?"  Beilami asked hesitantly, extending her
gloved hand.  She wasn't sure what expression she hoped to see on his craggy
face, but it certainly wasn't the one she received.  Fear of rejection
loomed.  Beilami sucked in her breath, bracing herself for the worst.

Just before she despaired completely, the maa grasped her hand.

"Well!  It is a pleasure to meet you.  Doe Malone didn't tell me... That is,
I expected an older person...."  Hugh stammered.

Bellami felt her stiff-necked James pride take command.  "I assure you, I am
quite qualified, Mr. O'Bannion."

"Oh, I'm sure you are.  Come, let's get your trunks loaded, and I'll give you
a ride out to Trace's?"  Hugh took her by the elbow, and they walked into the
depot.  He managed to get a couple of burly men to agree to load the baggage,
but when they saw how many trunks were lined up, the men balked.  Hugh
offered more money quickly, not wishing to' delay a minute.  The sooner he
got her out of town, the better off he'd be.  Soon they were rolling down the
hard-packed trail on the edge of town, trunks piled high and tied
precariously.  He hoped they wouldn't topple off in the middle of the rutted
dirt road.

Hugh was mute with shock.  Doe hadn't really said the teacher was an older
woman, but he'd certainly implied it.  What the hell could Doe be thinking of?

"And what the devil scan I be thinkin', taking her to Traee's house?"  Hugh
asked himself under his breath.

"But what choice do I have?"

An uneasy tension sizzled between them as the wagon rolled down the dirt
road.  If Doe had left out a few particulars about Miss James, exactly what
had he told her about Trace?

"Miss James, what did Doe tell you about my son?"  Hugh tried to keep his
voice light.  He kept his gaze locked on the rump of the horse, afraid to
betray how nervous this situation was making him.

Bellami had been concentrating so hard on the stark, rugged countryside that
she jumped when he spoke to her.  She cleared her throat and tried to recover
her poise.

"Not much, I'm afraid.  Just that your son's been blinded in some sort of an
accident.  I train blind children, you see."

Children--blind children.  Yep, Hugh saw a lot, all of it bad.

"Miss, did Doc tell you the ages of Trace and my other children?"  Trace
needed a teacher, and he needed one now.  There wouldn't be enough time to
find another if this one bolted and headed back to New York.

Hugh didn't want to Spock her by telling her what lay in store at the end of
this road.

"No, Mr. O'Bannion, he didn't.  He said you have five children, and Trace is
next to the oldest.  Is that correct?"  The conversation kept taking funny
twists and turns.

"Yep.  That's about it, I guess."  Hugh looked at her out of the corner of
his eye as he spoke.  It would be a damn sight easier to know how she was
taking all this if he could just see her face.  A small breeze ruffled the
cloth of her veil as he watched her.

Bellami squirmed uncomfortably.  Something about Mr. O'Bannion bothered her,
but she couldn't put her finger on it.  He seemed to be hinting around at
something.  She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, and forced
herself to concentrate on the job ahead, and the little boy involved.

Hugh hated to do it, but he had no other choice.  The woman would havre to
stay--that was all there was to it.  He cursed Doc silently once more and
took a deep breath.  He'd never been much good at small talk.  Clell took
care of that' department.  Hugh could see her tension, She had her gloved
hands clenched together so tight the stitching across the fingers looked like
it might tear out any minute.

"Miss James, is this your first trip to the West?"  Bellami started a little
when he spoke, but She managed to answer.  Her voice was steady, and it
belied her anxiety.  "Yes it is."

"Well, I guess I better be a proper host and show the sights to you, then,"
Hugh said pleasantly.  He pointed to a bird hovering overhead.

"That's an eagle.  We've got a few nestin' near my ranch."

Bellami tipped her head upward, to follow the line of his finger.

Hugh caught sight of pale, creamy skin on the curve of her jaw beneath the
veil when she moved.  A pang of guilt gripped him when he realized she was,
indeed, young, but he reminded himself of Trace's troubles.  He had to do
what was necessary, and he couldn't allow himself to get sentimental-not now,
not over a stranger.  The trip passed pleasantly, with him pointing out a
coyote loping through the mesquite, a hawk circling overhead.  Her earlier
uneasiness seemed to be almost gone.  Hugh noticed her hands were now lying
sedately in her lap.  He sighed in relief when they reached his ranch and
turned toward Trace's house.

A fork in the road drew Bellami's attention.  A large one-story house sat at
the end of a long road, surrounded by trees.  It looked nearly as peaceful as
the mission in Socorro.  Mr. O'Bannion urged the buggy past it.

"Trace's place is about five miles farther."

Bellami was about to ask why he kept referring to it as "Trace's place," when
four antelope broke out of the juniper and bounded across the road.  She
stood up in the buggy to watch.  Their white rumps disappeared quickly from
sight.  She stared at them until they were no more than specks.  on the
horizon.  A shiver of excitement ran through her.  When she turned back to
Mr. O'Bannion, he was watching her with an odd expression on his face.  He
coughed and turned his attention to the road ahead, as if he didn't wish to
have any more conversation.

~ Soon they drove through a large gate.  Bellami saw a pretty two-story house
with an incredibly steep roof at the end of the hard-packed dirt road.  The
breeze picked up and the blades of a windmill began to move.  Water gushed
into a huge wooden-staved tank, spilling over the sides.  It all looked quite
charming and bucolic to Bellami.  An older man stepped out onto the porch.
He was shorter than Mr. O'Bannion, and lean to the point of looking gaunt.
His weathered skin looked hard and brown as leather.  Bellami noticed the
look he gave her, but he turned away and started unloading her trunks.

"Come this way, Miss James."  Hugh took her by the elbow and guided her to
the large wrap-around porch.  Bellami waited as Hugh opened the sturdy front
door, expecting him to enter with her.  She was a little surprised when he
stepped back out of her way.

"Aren't you coming in?"  A premonition of danger crept up her spine.

Her voice sounded shaky, and too high.

"No.  I'll help Clell.  You go ahead.  Trace's probably upstairs, first door
on the right.  Why don't you go in and introduce yourself?"  He turned and
walked back to the wagon.

Bellami stepped inside.  She stood in the parlor of a lovely, rustic home.
The furniture all appeared to be very new.  Not at all how she expected a
house where five children lived to look.  The hardwood floors were covered by
some sort of woven rugs with geometric patterns on them.

Pulling off her cape, hat and gloves, Bellami touched the shiny curved and
turned banister.  Someone had put a lot of love into the furnishing and care
of this house, she thought.  She climbed the stairs and stopped on the
landing to get her bearings.  The first door on the right, Mr. O'Bannion had
said.  Bellami turned and focused on a closed bedroom door.  Another shudder
of foreboding gripped her.

Shaking her head to clear away the feeling, she lifted her chin and took a
deep breath.  She reached out to open the door.  Faint sounds, like someone
moving around inside, held her attention.  Bellami turned the knob and pushed
the door open.

At first she couldn't see anything.  Heavy, dark drapes were drawn against
the daylight.  Slowly her eyes began adjusting to the dim room.  She let out
a squeak of surprise when she saw what was inside.

No child waited in this room.  No angelic face with soft brown eyes stared
in her direction.  No innocent boy greeted her.  Bellami James looked into a
pair of emerald-green eyes under a tangled mass of dirty ebony hair.  She
could, with some difficulty, distinguish a face beneath the heavy beard.  A
tall, heavily muscled man with nothing on but a pair of dirty Levi's stood
amid heaps of discarded clothing.

"Clell?  IS that you?  Answer me, damn it!  Who the hell's in here?"  The
hard voice was full of menace.

Bellami staggered back against the door.

"Oh, I am sorry, I must have the wrong room."  She stumbled toward the
landing as she timidly apologized.

"I'm looking for Trace O'Bannion."

The man groped along the furniture toward the open door.

"I'm Trace O'Bannion.  Who the hell are you?"  He took a slow, shuffling step
forward.

Bellami's head spun as his words registered.  Trace O'Bannion wasn't a little
boy at all.  He was a filthy, wild-eyed madman who was stalking slowly toward
her.  Panic welled up in her chest: She turned, hesitating only long enough
to grab a handful of her heavy long skirts before she ran down the stairs.
Her only thought was to reach Hugh O'Bannion and return to the train in San
Marcial immediately.

Behind her, the man raved and cursed, demanding to know who was in his house.
He shuffled barefoot behind her.  It seemed strangely quiet outside as
Bellami opened the front door.  She stepped out onto the porch and nearly
fainted dead away.  All eight of her trunks stood in a neat row on the porch.
The buggy was gone.  Looking out across the New Mexico desert, Bellami
couldn't see another human being.  She was alone.

Well, not exactly alone.  A raging lunatic was slowly making his way down the
stairs.  Bellami turned, nervously watching the man grope his way toward her.
The deranged creature was obviously blind as a bat--and angry.  His eyes
looked like green flames as he bellowed.

"Who the hell's in my house?"  He stopped when he reached the bottom stair.

Bellami was torn.  Should she move away, or should she stand her ground and
speak?  Even if he couldn't see, he knew there was someone else in the house.
His house.

She swallowed hard.

"My-my name is Bellami James."  She managed to stammer the words out, hoping
her voice sounded steadier than it felt.  Her hand was shaking like a leaf in
the wind.

Confusion played across the man's face.  He blinked his blind eyes three
times in quick succession.  Suddenly he erupted into a string of obscenities
that would have stripped the hlde off a mule skinner.

"James?  Mr. Bellamy James?  You're the one my father sent for?  Son of a--
When I get my hands on that old man's neck, I swear, I'll" -- He turned away
from her, then suddenly spun around to face in her direction.

"What the hell kind of a name is Bellamy for a woman, anyway?"  Green eyes
blazed from beneath the camouflage of tangled hair and dark furrowed brows.

Bellami dug deep inside herself to find a bit of courage.  She pulled her
shoulders back and stood a'~little straighter.  He took a step toward her.

"It happens to be a perfectly nice name, as a matter of fact, Mr. O'Bannion,
It's spelled Be-l-l-arn-i.  It's French."

The man stopped abruptly no more than two feet in front of her and blinked
again.  He seemed to be assessing the situation.

"Well, Miss Bellami James, please do me the very great favor of getting your
French ass out of my house!"  He folded his arms across his bare chest.

Bellami felt fire burn along her cheeks and ears.  Anger flooded through her.

"I'd like nothing better, believe me, but your father has seen fit to strand
me here!"  She blinked back the tears of anger that welled up in her eyes.
Bellami would not let this great unwashed oaf make her cry.

Trace opened his mouth as if to speak, then slammed it shut.  He whirled away
from her again.

"Clell!"  He yelled the name several times.  With a snort of disgust, he
turned around and inclined his head in Bellami's general direction.  "Well,
Miss James, it appears we've both been abandoned."  He frowned and rubbed a
brown, work-roughened hand across the tangled beard.

"Can you ride?"  His tone was slightly more civil.

"Yes.  I ride sidesaddle rather well," Bellami said confidently, although she
still felt very threatened.  His conversation seemed to take so many twists
and turns that she had trouble following his train of thought--just like his
sneaking father's.  She retreated one more step away from him.

He barked out a short, bitter laugh.

"Well, I guess you're stayin' right here until someone decides to come back
for you.  Ghost sure as hell wouldn't let you ride him sidesaddle, even if I
owned one, which I don't!"

"Ghost?"  She repeated the word.  She wasn't sure she really wanted him to
explain.  This flesh-and-blood person was bad enough.  Dealing with someone
or something called Ghost would really be more than she could handle.

"My stallion.  I don't have any other saddle horses penned up fight now.  As
you can plainly see, there isn't anyone here capable of handlin' a horse."
His caustic words stung her ears as much as his epithets had earlier.

"Come on, I'll point you in the direction of an empty room."  Trace's voice
was rife with hostility.

Bellami didn't move an inch.  She sucked in her breath sharply.

"You don't mean you expect me to sleep here, with you, alone?"  The idea was
preposterous.  Not even this brute could conceive of such a notion.

Trace stopped in his tracks and tilted his head a little to one side as his
lip curled into a nasty sneer.

"Miss James, in case you can't tell, I'm totally blind.  If you were God's
gift to mankind, you'd be completely safe from me."  A bitter note punctuated
each word as he spoke.  When he finished, he turned his back to her and began
shuffling away.

His reference to her looks cut Bellami to the quick.  So, word of her
disfigurement had preceded her.

"Well, as we both know, Mr. O'Bannion, I am not God's gift to mankind!"

He continued to the stairs.  Bellami realized he was completely absorbed with
the task of feeling his way along the smooth banister.

He groped along until he reached the landing, th~n pointed to a room at the
end of the hallway.

"You can use that room, for tonight.  You'll be leavin' in the mornin', one
way or the other.  The privy is out back.  Follow the path from the kitchen
door."  He turned toward the room she'd found him in, He stopped in the
doorway and turned toward her Once again.

"I don't suppose you can cook?"  He cocked his head to one side again,
listening for her voice.

"Yes, I can cook.  Why do you ask?"

"Because, my dear, I can't.  Not now, anyway.  I guess we won't starve
before' Clell gets back," he said evenly as he stepped inside.

Bellami closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.

"Doc, how could you do this to me?"

Chapter Four.

 and Clell were halfway home before either of them spoke.

"Do you think what you j~just did was right?"  Clell's voice had an edge to
it.

He looked at Hugh with something like accusation in his eyes.

"Maybe not, but I've got to do what's best for Trace."  Hugh said, trying to
justify an action that left a bad taste in his mouth.

"Well, what about the young woman?  Trace hasn't exactly been what I'd call a
gentleman lately."

Hugh pulled up on the reins, stopping the horse to look his oldest friend
square in the face.

"Do you mean to tell me you think Trace would hurt her?  My son may be a lot
of things, but one thing for sure, Tom McClellan, he'd never hurt a woman!
And you damned well know it."

Clell shifted in the seat.  It was true, of course.  Even in his present
state of mind, Trace was too decent a man to take out his anger on an
innocent female.  Still, he'd been yelling like a wounded bull as they left.
Things wouldn't be too pleasant for Miss James.

Clell hoped she had the grit to take it.

Doc seemed to think so.  He'd sung her praises in letter after letter.

Letters that only one other person in the territory knew about.

"When do you plan on going' back?"  Clell asked, in a less judgmental tone.

He didn't want to be pushing too hard--not just yet, anyway.

"I figure you andI can ride over every day and take a look from that rise by
Trace's house."  Hugh grinned, and dimples formed in his lean jaw.

Clell chuckled.

"Oh, so you plan on making sure things don't get out of hand, without them
knowin' it, huh?"

Hugh nodded and slapped the reins against the horse's rump.  He hoped this
would work.  Lord knew the rest of them hadn't been able to do much with
Trace up to now.  Maybe being stranded with that little lady would be the
best thing that happened to Trace in a long while.

Bellami woke in a cold sweat to the sound of thunder.  Her cotton chemise
clung to her skin.  The room felt hot, oppressive.  It was like being buried
alive, and she gasped for breath.  Trembling, she couldn't remember where she
was.  On the train?  No.  With a groan, she remembered.

Throwing back the blankets, she put her feet on the smooth wood floor.  She
walked to the tall window, curious about the noise coming from outside.  She
hadn't explored the room earlier.  Now, in the sliver of moonlight, she could
clearly see.  a balcony running along the entire second floor.  Pulling the
heavy curtains back, she saw walk-through windows that could be opened from
each room, on the second floor leading to the balcony.

The thunder seemed to be getting louder, more rhythmic.  Bellami frowned.  It
didn't sound like thunder at all.  She looked down at the scene below.

Bathed in a silvery blue light, she saw a corral.  In it was a horse, but he
could have been a phantom of the night.  His body was the same color as the
pale moonlight.  His smooth body glistened as he ran the length of his
enclosure.  When he reached the end, he would slide to a stop, whirling to
turn and run back again.  He did it over and over.

Bellami watched, totally mesmerized, as he reared on his hind legs tossing
his head.  The horse's hot breath escaped his flared nostrils in a little
cloud of vapor that drifted slowly away.

Her heart seemed to be beating in cadence with his hooves.  She imagined
herself as that animal.  Confined.  Restless.  Trapped.

Bellami James stood in a stranger's house, with no way of leaving.

She'd never faced anything like this before, never been without her family is
support and protection.  Bellami didn't believe she possessed the strength to
handle this situation.  Yet she must.  Taking a deep breath, she tried to
calm her fears.  After all, someone would surely return soon.  All she had to
do was manage to stay away from Mr. O'Bannion until then.

Trace woke with a jolt, his pulse pounding as it did nearly every night.
When he swallowed, his throat felt as dry and hot as the desert.  Ghost vas
at it again.  The steady vibrations of the heavy hooves hitting the ground
flowed through Trace's body.  Sitting up, he held his throbbing head in his
hands.

"Damn your sorry.  hide, Ghost.  i ought to sell you," Trace moaned.

No, he couldn't doit.  Just knowing the gray devil was out there gave him a
sort of bittersweet happiness.  : If he could just ride.  Of course, riding
was just one more thing he'd never be able to do again.  Never ride, never
shoot, never know the love of a woman.  He held his pounding head and tried
to make order from the Chaos of his thoughts.

Right now he faced a more immediate problem than Ghost.  What was he going to
do about this damned woman?  Trace knew his father was capable of something
like this, but Clell?  That really surprised him.

Clell must've been in on this all along.  Now Trace knew why the old man had
of-feted to bring him home.

He hadn't ever known Clell to be dishonest--until now.  It seemed every
single person he counted on had betrayed him in one way or another.
Self-pity and bitterness welled up in his chest.

"Fine, if that's how you all want it!  You'll see just what a bastard I can
really be," Trace snarled into the darkness of his room "When you come to
pick up this Eastern spinster, she can tell you what a worthless son of a
buck I am," he vowed aloud.

"I intend to make her regret every minute under my roof.  I didn't ask the
old biddy to come here in the first place."  He'd enjoy sending her back home
with her tail between her legs.

Bellami woke early, with the first rays of morning sunshine blazing across
her face.  After watching the horse last night, she'd forgotten to close the
drapes on the window facing east.  The horse had been like a living dream.
His thundering stride had excited and depressed her all at the same time.

How awful it must be, so full of life, so eager, yet locked away.

Bellami grimaced.  She could he describing herself.

Dressed in the same suit she'd arrived in, she crept downstairs.  If she
could avoid the volatile Mr. O'Bannion for a few hours, until someone
returned for her, so much the better.

Bellami opened the heavy front door quietly.  She found the trunk with her
work dresses in it.  Taking out a plain brown cotton, and one of the full
aprons she used when working at St.  Michael's, she tiptoed back to her room.

She put on the sturdier clothing and brushed her' long hair.  With it coiled
around her hand, ready to pin in place, she suddenly decided to wear it down.
Wondering what possessed her to break such a long-standing habit, she
braided her hair.  Quickly she tied it with a small blue ribbon as her
stomach growled noisily.  She hadn't had anything to eat last night.  If she
was hungry, then he must be ravenous.  Picturing him as a starving animal
with wild green eyes, Bellami shivered.  That image made her none too happy.

Him.  That horrible man.  She felt like such a fool, being duped into this
situation.  Child, indeedwthe man was the devil incarnate.

Once in the kitchen, she began searching for coffee makings.  When she had
everything together, she put the granite-ware pot on the black cast-iron
stove.  A box full of kindling sat next to it.  A tin of matches lay on the
tiny shelf built into the stovepipe.  She managed to get a good blaze going,
thanks to the dry, seasoned wood.

The kitchen was well equipped, if a little primitive, compared to the kitchen
in New York.  A hand pump brought water into the house.

Bellami was grateful she had never had to carry water, and she didn't want to
start now.

Opening the back door, she looked outside.  She needed to go in search of the
privy Mr. O' Bannion mentioned.  By following the hard-packed path in the
dirt, she found the small outhouse.  It was constructed from rough pine, with
a tiny growth of some odd bush beside it.  Dusky pink sprigs of flowers were
beginning to bloom.  After attending to her needs, she looked around the yard
on her way back to the house.

A lean-to built of wood joined the kitchen.  Inside, several metal buckets
were stacked near a huge wooden tub.  On the rough wood wall, a well-used
washboard hung on a bent nail.

On the opposite side of the kitchen, she found a smokehouse stocked with
meat.  The smell of hickory and pungent smoked hams made her mouth water and
her stomach rumble.

Reaching up, she took down a slab of bacon from a wire hook.  Bellami was
glad she'd spent so much time visiting with Tilly and the cook in the
kitchen.  Tired of her sitting idle, Mrs. Wiggins had encouraged Bellami to
learn how to cook.  Her skills were limited in comparison to those of most
women her age, but she could manage four or five different meals.

Thank God for Mrs. Wiggins.

A cock's boastful crow brought a smile to her lips.  Roosters meant hens, and
hens meant eggs.  Bellami said a silent thank-you to her father.

When Bellami and Brooks were twelve, Donovan had taken the entire family to a
rustic farm in upstate New York for the summer.  At the time, they'd all
thought it was charmingly eccentric.  Playing in the hayloft, milking the
cows.  Now Bellami realized what he'd hoped to accomplish.  He'd wanted to
teach his children about country life.

Thanks to that summer, Bellami knew which end of a cow milk came from.

A woven basket sat on the floor by the back door.  Swinging it over her arm,
Bellami stepped inside the lean-to.  A rough brown gunnysack full of chicken
scratch, stood in one corner.  Bending down, she scooped up a good-size
handful.  By following her ears, she located the chicken coop.

It was sturdy and covered on top, to foil the hawks and eagles Mr. O'Bannion
had pointed out, she supposed.  Lifting the wooden latch nailed to the gate,
she stepped inside.  She clucked to the hens while she threw the feed.
Scratching chickens immediately clustered around her full skirt.  While the
hens were occupied, Bellami located half a dozen nests and eight beige eggs.
Gingerly she laid them in the basket and went back into the house.

After mixing up biscuits, she slid them into the hot oven to bake while she
sliced the bacon.  The sizzling meat filled the room with a rich aroma.  The
odor mingled with the smell of strong fresh coffee.

The familiar scent of breakfast made Bellami feel less apprehensive.

Trace woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon.  For a minute, he felt happy.
He stretched and put his feet on the floor to get up.  When he rubbed the
sleep from his eyes, it all came flooding back.  Reality.

He was blind.  Impotent rage boiled up inside him.  Having no focus for his
anger, he chose the nearest target.  Miss James.

"Well, she isn't going to be here another night!  She can walk, I don't give
a damn, just as long as she leaves," he railed as he searched for a shirt in
the wreckage of his room.  He'd been sleeping in his Levi's half the time,
and the last shirt he'd worn was tossed on the floor, somewhere.

Bellami poured herself a cup of hot coffee and took an appraising look
around.  The bottom floor of the house was well-ordered and clean.  What a
contradictory picture this all made!  Such a pleasant house, owned by such a
wild, rude, filthy man.  Bellami wished that Samuel Richards had come instead
of her.  He'd fit right in with the maniac upstairs!

Taking a sip of hot coffee, Bellami sat down at the table.  She frowned,
thinking of the hostile Mr. O'Bannion.  He deserved the kind of treatment Sam
Richards meted out.  How she wished Doe had asked him to come.  Sam Richards
was a difficult taskmaster.  Still, he'd been extremely successful with some
very difficult patients.  In fact, she remembered one a lot like Mr.
O'Bannion.  Bitter, mean, uncooperative.  Dr. Richards had been almost cruel
in his treatment of the man.  He'd gotten results by goading the patient to
his limit.  The poor bitter creature had finally decided to live, just to
spite Richards.

Narrowing her blue-gray eyes, Bellami wondered.  Was that it?  Did Mr.
O'Bannion hate life?  Had he always been bitter and mean, or had he lost his
will to live after the accident?

Trace made his way slowly down the stairs, and with each step he became more
curious.  What kind of a woman would come all the way out to the territory?
Why on earth would a spinster leave New York to accept a job as nursemaid to
a blind man?

"Who gives a damn?"  Trace muttered to himself.  He didn't care, he just
wanted her out.  Life continued to deal him one bad hand after another, and
he didn't deserve it.  The sooner he got the meddling woman out of his house,
the sooner he could go back to his disillusioned half-life.  The smell of
food cooking made his gut growl.  Clell's bad cooking kept his appetite honed
to razor sharpness.

"Damned nice of her to cook breakfast, before I throw her out," Trace
whispered under his breath as his foot touched the last stair.

Bellami heard shuffling on the stairs behind her and swallowed hard.

Oh, Lord, please, I'm not strong enough to handle this.  Please help me find
the courage.

Entering the kitchen, he turned more or less in the direction of the stove.
Trace'assumed she was standing before it, cooking.

Sitting at the table holding a coffee cup in her hands, Bellami watched him
enter the room.  He stopped not a foot from her, looking toward the hot cook
stove Gripping the cup so hard her fingers hurt, she realized he didn't know
where she was--yet.

"Lady, I want you out of here!  Now!"  He yelled so loud she jumped.  The
legs of her chair screeched across the wood floor.  Trace whirled toward the
sound, aware she'd been right beside him all the time.

Embarrassed by his mistake, he felt his temper flare to life.  His face was a
mask of pure rage.

Bellami gasped as he reached out to grab her.  She tried to evade him, but
didn't move quite fast enough.  By luck and instinct, his hands found her
arms.  He gripped her hard, dragging her up from the chair.

Cruel fingers bit into her skin.  He meant to hurt.

"Mr.  O'Bannion!  You're hurting me!  Let me go!"  Bellami's voice shook with
fear.  What kind of a man acted like this?

He frowned, and for a moment his face softened at the sound of her voice.
Then it turned hardagain.  His grip relaxed, but Trace didn't let her go.  He
couldn't release her, not now.  Knowledge flowed from her arms through his
fingertips toward his brain.

"Miss James?"  His tone suddenly sounded more inquisitive than hostile.

"Yes, Mr. O'Bannion?"  She tried to use her most professional voice.

Not an easy feat, with him half-naked, holding her captive, "Why are you
here?"  His voice was soft, yet powerful.  His deep green eyes stared,
unseeing, at her face.

Bellami's first instinct was to be self-conscious about her scar, but of
course that was silly--he couldn't see it.

"I'm a teacher of the blind."  Her voice quavered.

His face darkened with rage, and his body tensed again.  "Bullshit!  I want
the reason, not a list of your lofty accomplishments.  No woman would take a
job like this without a damn good reason.  Now tell me, why are you here?"  A
little vein in his temple pulsated as he yelled Bellami blinked.  Why was
she here?  Simple enough question.  What was the answer?  She allowed her
thoughts to race back over her actions from the point when Doc had first
spoken to her about this job.  She saw it play out before her, like a scene
at the theater.

Why am I here?  A little voice in her head repeated the question.

Taking a deep breath, the words tumbled out unbidden.

"Because I'm ugly, Mr. O'Bannion I'm ugly, and I had very little life to
leave behind.  Satisfied?"  Bellami spit the words at him.

Trace felt the shock down to his bare toes.  Of all the reasons in the world,
this was one he could never have expected.  Women didn't ever say they were
ugly, not even if it was true.  It just wasn't in their nature.  A kind of
shame washed over him, as if he'd caught a glimpse of some inner part of this
stranger--a part no man was ever meant to see.  Trace was sorry he'd forced
her to bare herself to him.  This woman's critical assessment of herself was
something he wasn't supposed to hear.  It had been a private thing, and he'd
bullied it out of her.  He was ashamed.  Trace O'Bannion belittled a woman
for his own twisted pleasure.  His actions disgusted him, but instead of
admitting it he fought to deny the truth.

Since he felt guilty, he did what was becoming a habit--he lashed out to hurt.

"Are you butt-ugly, or just sort of everyday common ugly?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath.  It made his gut twist with regret.
What the hell was wrong with him?  Trace didn't know himself anymore.  It
scared the holy hell out of him.

His lips twisted into a cruel imitation of a grin.  Bellami wanted to hit
him.  Nobody had spoken to her like that since the day Rod had beaten the
bullies for calling her ugly, She fought the urge to hit him, believing he
would hit her back.  Bellami was afraid of this man.

All her life her brothers and the rest of her family had protected her; she'd
never had to be brave or strong or deal with a brute like this alone.  A lump
formed in her throat, unshed tears burned her eyes.  She stiffened, then she
made a decision.  She would not let this bully--this bastard--break her.  Let
him fling insults.  One thing Bellami James had learned was how to endure.
She'd been through much worse than what this uncouth man could dish out.
Straightening her shoulders, she stuck out her chin defiantly.

"I will be brave," she muttered under her breath.  Images of Rod and Brooks
floated through her mind.  That gave her the courage to hold her head a
little higher.

Trace realized she wasn't going to cry.  She also wasn't going to give him an
answer.  -He felt defiance telegraphing up his arms.  The more she resisted,
the madder it made him.  Why was she doing this?  If the silly bitch would
just shed a few tears, he'd have a little mercy on her.  Wouldn't he?  A
nagging little voice inside his head told him no.

The truth of that only served to infuriate him further.

"Well, Miss James, I'm waitin'.  Were you born ugly?  Is that why your
parents gave you such a god-awful name?"

It happened so fast Trace hadn't even realized what he was going to do.  He
gave her a good hard shake.  He'd never had the urge to throttle a woman like
he did this one.  But was it really her he wanted to shake some sense into,
or was it himself?

Bellami saw red as her teeth hit together with a sharp clack.  She clenched
her jaw and wrenched her arms out of his grip.  Leaning toward his unshaven
face, she shouted so loud her throat hurt.

"No!  I was not born ugly!  I had an accident!"

Horror filled Trace as he realized how cruelly he was treating this poor
spinster.  What in God's name was he doing?  He'd never spoken to any woman
like this.  He'd never acted like this with Becky, who deserved it.  Not even
when she'd turned her back and walked out on him.  This woman hadn't done
anything, except fall for his father's deception.  He felt the blood draining
from his face.  Trace came dangerously close to breaking down and bawling
like a baby at Miss James's feet.  He took a deep, ragged breath and tried to
regain some control.  It was frightening to think that he had just shaken her
like a rag doll.  Trace clenched his jaw.  He didn't want to hurt Miss james.
It was his own weakness he wanted to attack and kill--being blind and
helpless and half a man.  Trembling with fear and rage, he grabbed her
slender arms again, but gently this time.

Bellami felt him shaking all over through the hands on her arms.  He'd gone
so pale, she thought he might faint dead away.  Never in her life had she
raised her voice like that.  What in God's name was she doing?

Slowly her rage diminished and a deep resolve took over.  Bellami decided she
would teach this man a lesson.  Many lessons, in fact.  He wasn't going to
bully her, and she certainly wasn't leaving.  She'd been hired to do a job,
and she intended to do it.  The James family members kept their word.  She
pulled free and whirled away from him.

Her long braid lashed out like a whip across his bare chest.  Bellami grabbed
the back of a chair to steady herself.

Something heavy and soft, almost silky, hit Trace in the chest.

Burning curiosity grabbed his attention, shaking him from the unreasonable
rage of a moment ago.

"What was that?"  His words were barely above a whisper.  Bellami thought
maybe she imagined he spoke.  She looked at him trying to read his
expression.  She couldn't, mostly because she wasn't able to see enough of
his face beneath his tangled beard and wild dark hair.

"What was that?"  He repeated the question a bit louder.  Bellami frowned and
tossed her braid across her shoulder.  "What was what?  I don't understand
what you're asking me."  He's exasperating, maybe he's even mad, Bellami told
herself, watching Trace warily.

"Something hit me, in the chest.  What was it?"  His eyes blindly scanned her
face.

Bellami squirmed unconsciously under that intense stare.  A tiny smile curved
her lips when she understood what he meant.  As she turned away, her braid
had whipped out, touching his chest.

"My braid."  Yes, the man was obviously quite mad, completely unhinged.
Probably a result of his injury.  Of course, it might run in the family.  His
father certainly displayed some of the same deranged characteristics.

"A braid."  He pronounced the word softly, almost reverently, as if the
mysteries of life had been explained for him.  Sighing heavily, his face
softened.  Some of the tension left his body.

Her simple answer left him oddly content.  A braid.  A woman's braid.

Such a plain, ordinary thing.  He didn't have the slightest idea why, but
suddenly Trace wasn't the least bit angry with this strange woman.  He felt
spent, almost numb.  He didn't have any anger left in him, just a dull sort
of emptiness where rage had burned only seconds before.

"Somethin' smells awful good.  I could eat a bear, raw," he said, and
grinned in her direction.  Not a cruel, distorted twist of his mouth, like
before, but a real honest grin.  Straight white teeth flashed from the tangle
of beard and unkempt mustache.

Smoothing her apron, Bellami ran her hand over her hair to capture what had
been shaken free of the braid.

"Well, sit down.  I'll fix you a plate.  Tomorrow we will begin your
lessons."  Her voice rang with control and authority.

She left him sitting at the table, struggling with bacon, eggs, biscuits and
a cup of steaming coffee.  She could see he'd learned nothing about eating
since he'd been blinded.  Bellami marched up the stairs, her back ramrod
stiff, to his bedroom.  She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was still as dark as a bear's den inside, and she wondered if a bear
smelled any worse.  She jerked open the drapes, and sunlight flooded through
the tall window.  Filth surrounded her.  The linen on the bed badly needed
changing, and a thick layer of dust covered every surface in sight.  Clothes
lay in untidy heaps all around her.

Vowing to have her revenge, Bellami stripped the bed and gathered up the
soiled clothes.  Soon a large bundle sat on the landing outside Trace's
bedroom.

Rough wool rugs with strange designs, like the ones downstairs, covered the
floor in his room, as well.  She puzzled over what they were; she'd never
seen anything quite like them.  The room was stuffy and full of dust from her
labors.  She struggled to open the walk-through window.  Stuck from lack 'of
use, it finally came free with a creak.  Bellami breathed deeply of the
clear, brisk air.  She gathered the rugs and took them to the railing to air
out in the spring breeze.  The windmill pumped water steadily.  Its metallic
screech was the only sound, apart from the occasional cry from a hawk
overhead.

As she carried the bundle of dirty sheets and clothes to the front porch, she
saw Mr. O'Bannion standing by the horse's corral.  She watched him for a
moment, He seemed to be speaking to the animal, but she couldn't be sure.

What an odd, confusing man.  He had been so openly hostile to her, yet now he
gently stroked the animal.  He looked almost human.  No doubt a trick of
light, or too much fresh desert air.  She found a broom and went to finish
cleaning his bedroom.  Bellami had no idea where a man would keep sheets, if
he even had extra linen, and she wasn't about to ask Mr, Trace O'Bannion.
God knew what reaction a simple question like that might cause!

She retrieved her own bedding from another trunk on the porch.  Tilly had
been sure nothing as civilized as sheets would be available in the New Mexico
Territory.  Lavender sachets lay in the bottom of the trunk.  She picked one
up, holding the cloth to her nose.  Bellami smiledi comforted by the familiar
smell.  It reminded her of home.

Standing in the doorway a good while later, she surveyed her work.

Nothing short of a' miracle.  It was really a nice room, mfisculine and
simple.  The style of furniture was unlike anything she'd ever seen before.
She ran her hand over the pale wood, fascinated by the intricate, primitive
designs.  She'd been surprised to find handsome leather-bound books on a
shelf.  Bellami wondered if they belonged to Mr. O'Bannion,.  or someone
else, Had he read before he was blinded?

The more she saw, the more she discovered contradictions about the man.

Bellami decided one other 'matter would have to be attended to before the sun
went down.  Anyone but a blind man could see by the s~t of her jaw that she
was a woman with a mission.  Of course, Trace was a blind man.  He was
blissfully unaware of the gal who had set her mind and energies to
transforming her surroundings.

Several hours and many buckets later, the big wooden tub, full of steaming
water, sat in the middle of the kitchen.  Bellami found a shaving cup, brush
and razor in Trace's room.  Clean toweling was neatly stacked on a chair
near the tub.

As if on cue, Trace shuffled up the steps from the stallion's corral.

Bellami watched his slow approach, her arms folded across her bosom.

When he stepped through the door, she spoke sharply.

"Mr, O'Bannion, I do not intend to suffer another meal in this house with
your... fragrance."

One dark eyebrow shot upward.  He hated the way she said

"Mr.

O'Bannion.  " It sounded more like a curse word than a name.

"Really?  When are you leaving?"  Trace sneere& Bellami couldn't help
herself--she smiled.  His caustic wit was really quite entertaining, once you
got used to it.  He could also think fast on his feet, she give him that.
She felt something like admiration for the surly man.

Be!  lami forced the grin from her face.

"No, you misunderstand, Mr. O'Bannion.  There's a tub full of water two feet
in front of you.  Now, will you undress and get in, or do I remove your
clothes for you?"

His eyes narrowed menacingly.  He couldn't believe his ears.  Who the hell
did Miss New York think she-was talking to?  He wasn't some damn shirttaiIed
boy.  Undress him?  When hell froze over!

"Miss James, it would' take somebody a helluva lot bigger than you to undress
me," he replied dryly, folding his arms across his chest and bracing his bare
feet apart "Fine," she said, and picked up a bucket that she'd ear-her
placed near the pump.  With a flourish, she threw the cold water straight
into his face.  He gasped out of surprise, and because it was very cold water.

He dropped his arms and clenched his fists at his muscular thighs.

Bellami watched in horrified fascination.  His body was coiled, as if he
meant to lunge at her.  Water ran over his bearded face and trickled off the
ends of his shaggy black hair.  His tall frame nearly vibrated with the
effort he exerted in order to restrain himself.

"Well, Miss James, .iLseems you win this round."  His mouth twisted into a
tight line as he prepared to deliver one of his insults.

Bellami braced herself for the assault.

"Miss James, will you stay to watch?"  He moved his hand down to unbutton his
Levi's.  A dark wet spot formed along the waistband, where the water had
soaked in.

Bellami saw the dark hair on his chest growing downward.  It entered the wet
waistband, like an arrow, from his flat stomach.  Her view of the dark growth
of hair and his flat pelvis widened as he unbuttoned the denim, opening his
pants farther.  Heat flooded Bellami's face, but she clenched her jaw,
determined not to give ground.

"Mr.  O'Bannion" -- she tried to sound totally unimpressed "--I worked in a
hospital for twelve years.  I can't imagine you have so much less than any
other man I've seen."  She saw him tense at the implication that he might be
lacking in his manliness.  Thank God her brothers had been so open and frank
about the things men were sensitive about.

Satisfied she'd given as well as she got, she turned and walked away smiling.

Damn her!  Every fiber of his male pride recoiled when she delivered her
sharp retort.  The sound of her departing footsteps sounded like gunshots in
the quiet house.

"Sharp-tongued bitch!  Probably never even had a man, dried-up old prune!"
Trace snarled into the empty kitchen.  He pulled off his clothes and groped
around until he found the edge of the tub.  Trace stuck his fingers in the
water and found it pleasantly warm.  Slowly, he eased his lanky body into it.
The water rose slightly, but still only reached the lower portion of his rib
cage.  His knees stuck out uncomfortably.  It felt wonderful.  Trace sighed.
It had been a long while since he enjoyed a bath.  He shut hfs eyes and tried
to relax.

He almost managed it, even in his nearly doubled-up position, but then he
heard someone moving around in the kitchen.

He sat bolt upright in the tub, water splashing over the edge.

"Miss James?  Are you in here?"

"Yes."  Bellami smiled at the disbelief she heard in his question.

"God, woman, what do they teach you in New York?  You don't come into a room,
with a man, when he's bathin'l" He spread his hands, trying to cover his
groin with his palms.

Bellami grinned at his discomfiture.

"I'm gathering up these stinking clothes, and they teach us quite a few
things, actually."

He could hear laughter, barely under control, in her voice.  "What?"

Trace snapped.

"You asked me what they teach us in New York.  I'm going to show you some
things I've learned, Mr. O'Bannion."

His face was a mask of shock.  She smiled as he colored and fidgeted in
embarrassment.  Let him squirm for a while!  Mean bully!  He deserved much
worse; now he'd learn what it felt like to be humiliated.

Trace listened while she moved around the room.  He wanted to ask what she
was doing, but.  he stubbornly refused to give her the satisfaction.
Something cool touched his head, and he jumped at least a foot, nearly
clearing the tub before he caught himself.  Small fingers probed,
massagingrhythmically in his hair.

"What in Sam Hill are you doin' now?"  he bellowed, pushing her hands away
from his hair.  They returned almost immediately and he impatiently swiped at
them again.

"I'm going to wash your hair.  Now be still."  She gave his long hair a
spiteful tug.

Trace bellowed like an enraged bull.

"Owl What did I ever do in my sorry life to deserve you, Miss James?"  His
deeply resonant voice dripped with self-pity and sarcasm.

She smiled again, involuntarily.

"Clean living, I guess, Mr. O'Bannion."  She finished lathering his hair and
picked up another bucket of water to pour it over his head.  She didn't give
him a single word of warning.

When she tipped up the bucket he gasped and sucked in his breath.  The sound
of his teeth grating together pleased Bellami immensely.  She was still
smiling when she grabbed a handful of the thick beard.  She pulled on it, not
quite as hard as she yanked his hair, but just enough to get his full
attention.

Trace heard the unmistakable sound of metal rasping against metal at the same
instant he felt cool air against his cheek.

"Now what?"  His eyebrows rose in exasperation.

"I'm going to shave you."  Bellami clipped away the long hair on his face
with the scissors.

"Oh, the hell you are," Trace was half-out of the water as he spoke.

This had gone on long enough.  It was humiliating enough when his own sister
tried to shave him.  He'd be damned if some New York spinster would do it.
He'd had enough of being treated like a boy in need of a sugar-tit, "Would
you like a towel, Mr. O'Bannion, or will you dry in the air?"

Bellami asked sweetly.  ~ Instantly Trace sank into the water, his face
flaming with heat.

Damned woman riled him up so much, he hadn't realized he was standing
buck-naked in front of the old crone.  He groaned in frustrated humiliation.

Neither one spoke for the remainder of the bath.  Trace sat in the water,
sulking, while Bellami clipped and pulled his hair.  She was glad, Trace had
no way of knowing that she had quickly averted her eyes when he stood up in
the water.  She tried to will herself not to be embarrassed, or curious,
about his body.  After all, he was only a man.

She worked the soap into a heavy lather with the shaving brush.

Frowning in concentration, she generously dabbed it against his cheeks,
creating a white, frothy sculpture.  His scowling face made him look like a
rabid dog, and she tried to ignore his frightening appearance.

Bellami hadn't actually shaved anyone before, bul she had watched Rod and
Brooks do it many times.  How hard could it be?

She didn't hesitate an instant.  She picked up the straight razor with a
confidence borne of total ignorance.  With a flourish, she made a great swipe
across his lean jaw.  Immediately, pinpoints of blood sprang up in the swath
across his face.

She sucked in her breath, and her eyebrows rose.  Bellami held her breath,
waiting for him to kill her.  Dozens of bright red, bloody dots began to
trickle amid the white foam.  It looked very painful.

She bit her lip.  Any moment now he would strike her, she was sure of it.

The muscles in his jaw tightened, and the skin on his midriff rippled.  He
expelled a long heavy sigh.  She could see that he was fighting for
self-control.  For the first time, Bellami really looked at him.

All of a sudden, swallowing became difficult.  His skin looked like velvet
stretched over hard bands of steel at his ribs.  Bellami felt the heat of a
blush rising to her face when her eyes lingered on the dark triangle of hair
beneath the water.  Her train of thought was broken by his voice, steady and
low.

"Miss James, if you pla~on skinnin' me alive, an inch at a time, get on with
it.  The damned water's getting' cold."

Bellami finished shaving him in mortified silence.  Her hand shook so much,
she barely managed to finish trimming his hair.  When she poured the last
bucket of frigid water over him, she tried not to notice how his nipples
contracted at the shock of the liquid.  Dark tufts of hair floated around his
slim waist.  He never said another word to her.

Bellami's voice squeaked and broke.

"There is a towel on the back of the chair.  Your clean clothes are on your
bed upstairs.  While you dress, I'll clean this up.  I hope you're hungry.

We'll eat as soon as you're ready.  "

She turned on her heel and left him sitting in the tub of water.  She didn't
like this man, not one little bit.  He was rude, obnoxious, and wallowing in
self-pity.  The sooner she trained him to get along by himself, the sooner
she could leave.  Bellami prayed it would be soon.

Chapter Five.

 Hugh O'Bannion took a deep breath and shut his eyes.  When had
he lost control of his children?  He opened his eyes to find three O'Bannion
faces staring at him.  He couldn't say exactly when it had occurred, but it
certainly had.

For a quarter of an hour now, Missy had been instructing him on how he should
deal with Trace's new teacher, and the hell of it was, none of them even knew
yet the teacher was a woman!

The minute Missy started her speech; Clell gave Hugh a questioning glance,
encouraging him silently to make a clean breast of it.  Hugh knew he was
going to have to tell them, but did it have to be right now, in the middle of
breakfast?  If only Missy would take a breath.

Lord, how that girl could run on.

Hugh expelled a deep sigh and rubbed a rough thumb at his temple.  The whole
situation was giving him a pain in the head.  He decided to just do it--let
the chips fall where they might.  After all, when everybody knew the whole
story, they'd agree with what he'd done.

The front door slammed with enough force t0jiggle the glass in the windows.
Spur rowels jingled in rhythm to the steady footfalls of a long-legged man.
The steps grow louder as they came closer.  Hugh recognized the stride
without looking up.

"Hello, Flynn," he said wearily.

"When did you get in?"

"Just now, Pa," Flynn said, glowering from the doorway.  ~ Missy jumped up to
fling her arms around Flynn's neck but he didn't seem to notice.  He just
kept boring a hole in Hugh with those deep brown eyes.

"Pa, I want to know what the hell you've been up to.  Why didn't you let us
know the teacher was Miss Bellami James?"  Flynn pushed his hat back on his
head with his index finger.

Clell groaned, while a gasp of shock came from the rest of Hugh's assembled
offspring.  Well, the fat was in the fire now!  How the hell had Flynn gotten
wind of this?  Hugh prepared himself to be roasted over the fires of hell.
Now, instead of telling them the story in a mason able calm manner, he was
going to have to defend what he'd done.

He took a deep breath and looked up at Flynn.

"Coffee?"  Hugh intended to act like this was the most natural occurrence in
the world.

Flynn pulled out a chair and sat down next to Missy.  He took off his hat and
set it, crown down, on the table before he gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Daggers flew from her eyes as she watched Hugh.  Not one word had been spoken
since he'd greeted Flynn, and the silence was becoming mighty strained.

Clearing his throat, Hugh took a breath.

"I was going to talk to all of you this mornin'."  Hugh's voice was low and
steady, leaving no doubt as to who was in control.  When he used that tone,
his children knew it wouldn't be too smart to interrupt or argue.  He could
be a patient and indulgent father but he had a breaking point, and it sounded
like he had finally reached it.

"Flynn, did you just ride in?"  Hugh had a few questions of his own.

Enough was enough.

"Yep; I rode all night.  Where is Miss James, Pa?"  Flynn wasn't going to
let the question go.

Hugh looked his son straight in the eye.

"She's at Trace's?"

"Alone?"  Flynn's voice was hard, and he gave Clell an accusing glare.

"Yes."  Hugh still met his son's steady gaze straight-on.

"Why, Pa?  The teacher is a woman.  What you're doin' just ain't proper.  Why
all the mystery?"

Taking a sip of coffee, Hugh grinned ironically.

"If I'd told any of you the teacher was female..."  He looked at each one and
raised an eyebrow.

"Well, look how you're reactin' now.  Besides, Trace would've got wind of it,
and he'd never get the help he needs."

Missy squirmed a little in her chair, and a faint stain of pink rose to her
cheeks.  Ht~gh grinned a little wider, and his dimples appeared.

"Isn't that right, Missy?"

"Probably."  She kept her dark eyes averted, not wanting to face Hugh: "Tell
me, Flynn, how did you find out about Miss James?"  Hugh leaned back in his
chair and ~ his long legs.  The toe of his worn boot twitched up and down,
like a cat's twitching tail.

"Ran into her accidentally, in Socorro."  Flynn took the cup of coffee Lupe
had quietly set beside him.  He watched her full skirt swish around her brown
ankles as she silently left the room.

"Look, I know you are all curious, so I may as well tell you the whole
story."  Hugh said.  All eyes turned in his direction.  Clell propped his
chair back on two legs and balanced precariously, his eyes bright with
interest.

"Clell, Doc Malone and I were in the army together.  When we got out, Clell
and I came here, as you know.  Doc went to New York and started workin' with
blind soldiers."  Hugh looked out the window, his eyes unfocused,
remembering.  "We keep in touch, one or two letters a year.

I got a letter from him a few weeks after Trace was shot.  He kept talkin'
about this woman who was a wonder at trainin' the blind.  "

Clell coughed behind his hand and shifted in his chair.  It nearly fell
backward, and he jerked to recover his balance.

Hugh's brow furrowed as he continued.

"That letter comin' like that, when it did, it was like a sign from God.  I
sent a telegram, asking him to send her to us, right away."

Logan choked on a sip of coffee, and Flynn hit him a couple of times sharply
on the back.

"Easy, little brother."  He grinned as Logan blushed crimson.

Hugh shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of coffee.  "That's it.  You know
the whole story."

Flynn chuckled dryly.

"Not quite, Pa.  Why is Miss James at Trace's alone?  It ain't proper."

Missy perked up and looked at her father.  Clell gave Hugh a glance that
clearly said

"I told you so."

"Well, for pity's sake.  I was expectin' an older woman, I figured o1' Doc
would have a steady old spinster workin' with him.  When she arrived, and I
found out she was a young single woman: " His face flushed as the reality of
what he'd done hit him.

"Trace would have never agreed, and I didn't figure she would have, either.
So, I left her there.  Alone?"  His voice sounded flat and remorseful.

' "Pa, did you see her?"  Flynn leaned for~vard, trying to read his father's
expression.

Now the others found their voices.  Shane looked at Flynn, beginning to
realize what they were saying.

"What does Miss James look like, Pa?"  Green eyes much like Trace's sparkled
with curiosity, Rolling his eyes toward heaven, Clell moaned,

"I knew it.  Now here it comes!"

Missy,s black eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What does she look like, Pa?"

Hugh shifted in his chair.  He made a feeble effort to be evasive.

"Well, I never saw her face."

Clell let out a low, long whistle as Flynn snorted impatiently.

"Pa?"  Missy pressed.

"Well, from what I saw of her, she looks like a real nice lady," Hugh finally
replied.

Flynn rose from his chair like it was on fire.

"Pa, she's a little slip of a.thing.  She's never going' to be able to handle
Trace without help, and you know it," he continued, blushing slightly.

"And she is unmarried, Pa.  What can you be thinkin' on I know this ain't New
York City, but this kind of thing ain't exactly done here, either.  I'm
going' to go get her--now!"

Before Flynn finished clearing his chair, Hugh stood in front of his son, a
look of pure stone in his eyes.

"Flynn.  Sit down.  You're not going' anywhere."

Flynn stood as tall as his father and outweighed him by forty pounds, but he
knew when to back down.  Hugh O'Bannion had tangled with about every tribe of
Indian and lived to tell the tale.  The look he wore now told Flynn he'd
tolerate no more argument.

"It's time you all shut up and listen!  I'm only going' to say this once.
Trace needs help, and he needs it now--not in a month or two.

None of us have been able to do anythin'.  for him.  If something' doesn't
change soon, well, you might as well put another bullet in your brother's
head!  " Hugh's voice cracked with emotion.

"The good Lord saw fit to send a woman, and I pray she is the answer!

No one is going' near that ranch until I say so.  Do you understand?

Clell and I'll keep an eye on things from a distance.  " He took a long, hard
look at each of his children.  They could see he meant what he said.

"Pass the biscuits, please," Logan said, grinning from ear to ear.  He hadn't
seen so much excitement since he and Missy had turpentined the mules' rumps
last spring!

Chapter Six.

Dinner was a complete disaster.  Bellami managed to accustom
herself to Trace O'Bannion's sharp tongue, only to have him change tactics.

The man was tricky and inconsistent.  First he bellowed at her, then he sat
in stony silence and endured her peeling the skin off his face with a razor.
Now she agonized as he first struggled, then flatly refused, to eat.

He acted like a petulant child.  He would sulk one minute in silence, then.
burst into a noisy fit of temper in the next.  Every suggestion she made only
seemed to frustrate him more.  She wondered if maybe he wasn, t just
dull-witted.  Not mad, just stupid.

The concept using the image of a clock face to help him find his food seemed
quite beyond his grasp.  Bellami finally found herself staring at him in
exasperation.  Even the youngest childs had been easier to teach than this
man!  Unconsciously she scrutinized his pouting face.

She looked' at him dispassionately, trying to assess his rigid features,
searching for some clue to his complex personality.

Thick, jet-black hair curled across his forehead.  Bellami could see that
even it had a tendency to be unruly.  Striking emerald green eyes under black
eyebrows that cut straight across his forehead.  A tiny tuft of hair on each
brow, near the middle.  Yes, decidedly impish in nature, Bellami caught
herself thinking.  Belligerent, stubborn, too handsome.  Used to getting his
own way, and not above using those looks to do it.  She narrowed her eyes and
continued her evaluation.

A long, straight nose, with just a little bump on the bridge.  The full
bottom lip in a defiant pout.  His lean face had character--at least it did
when he wasn't scowling or sneering, which wasn't often.

A strong jawline tapered to a determined chin.

Bellami winced involuntarily at the raw spots scattered across his face,
where she had shaved him.  Maybe shaving was just a bit trickier than it
looked, after all.

She still didn't understand why he didn't scream at her, at the very least.
He was a walking mass of contradictions, no doubt about it.

She didn't have a clue asto what made him tick.  He fought her at every turn,
when she was only trying to help him.  Then he went and did something
unexplainable, like enduring her clumsy attempt to shave him in silent
forbearance--like a gentleman.  It just didn't make any sense.  She scanned
his rugged face once again.  He was really quite handsome in an unpolished
sort of way.  She felt heat in her face as she shook her head to clear away
the muddled thoughts, "Every muscle in her back and arms cried out; She
wasn't used to working like this.

"I'm just tired," she whispered under her breath.

If he noticed, he didn't give her any indication.  Trace scowled as he
continued to jab his fork into the plate, Sometimes, by accident, he hit a
piece of meat.

Bellami rubbed the back of her neck with her palm, tryr ing to relieve some
of the tension, Tilly made it all look so easy at home.

Her mind drifted over the whole tiring day, First she'd heated the water for
his bath, then she'd struggled to empty the huge tub.  It had to be done a
bucket at a time, until it was light enough to drag outside.

Cleaning his room took most of the morning, and then there were the meals to
cook and the cleaning up.  She began to see the sheer enormity of the task
before her.  How long would it take Mr. O'Bannion to come to his sense come
to give her some help with this impossible man?

"Miss James."  His deep voice sounded loud as fire in the quiet room.

The fork in her hand clattered to the table when jumped.

"Yes, Mr. O'Bannion?"  She squirmed a 1 preparing herself for one of his
verbal barbs.

"What color is your hair?"  He wasn't looking in he rect ion Instead, he was
moving food around on his pla feel.

He's mad as a hatter, she thought to herself.  His fa should have him
committed.  Bellami wondered if he might be truly dangerous.

"What color is my... ha she repeated incredulously.

"Yes, the color."  He cocked one ebony brow.

She'd heard it was better to humor people who mentally unbalanced.

"Brown," she said flatly.

"Brown?  Just plain brown?"  He frowned.  Evidently was not the answer he
wanted to hear.

"Just plain brown.  I told you before, Mr. O'Barmion no beauty."

Bellami narrowed her eyes as she watched across the table.

"It must be very long .... I mean, for your braid to h: like that, it has
to'he long."  His Voice had a wistful, in itive sound to it.

Bellami shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  His m dict able nature had just
thrown her for another loop.  decided to change the subject.

"Mr.

O'Bannion.  " eyes slid to the neck of his shirt.  Several dark, coarse of
hair peaked out.  She chided herself for noticing thes the things about him.

"Yes, Miss James."  He sat a little straighter.

She suddenly visualized how he must're looked young boy.  She could picture
him speaking to his scl teacher, calling her Miss James.  Very proper, very
poll "What are those strange rugs all over the floors?"  Bellami frowned as
she asked the question.  Only after the words left her lips did she realize
how stupid it sounded.

Trace smiled.  An honest, genuine smile, a hint of a dimple showed in his
cheek among the razor nicks.  He looked younger, more vulnerable.

"Those are Navaho blankets.  I use the prettiest ones for rugs, but they have
a thousand other uses," he explained, his voice deep and resonant.

She couldn't help but smile out of gratitude at the way he'd answered her
question.  It was a silly question, but he hadn't laughed at her; in fact,
he'd sounded quite gracious.  Bellami found herself appreciative of his small
gesture of kindness.

"Please tell me about them."

Leaning back in her chair, she continued to watch the transformation taking
place on the man's razor-ravaged face.  He spoke softly, using his hands as
he talked.  He made expressive little gestures in the air.  His hands were
strong and lean, with long, well-formed fingers.

There were calluses on them, too.  Evidently he was used to hard work.

She wondered what work he'd done before.

"They are woven out of wool by Indian women.  Each different design tells a
story.  We also use them for horse blankets.  There isn't a better pad under
a saddle," His voice trailed off suddenly, and she saw an odd, faraway look
in his jewel-colored eyes.

"Tell me about the horse, Mr. O'Bannion.  Why does he run at night?"

Now that Bellami had found the courage to ask her first question, they bur~t
forth like a rain-swollen river.  She wanted to know about the territory, the
people, this man.  Her natural curiosity was slowly overcoming her fear.

Trace's eyebrows rose in unison.  A deep furrow appeared across his forehead,
under the lock of black hair.  ~"Ghost?  What can I tell you about Ghost?  I
raised him."  l~ride rang in his.  simple statement.

"He's a stallion, Miss James.  Comin' from the city, uh, I don't know how
much you know about stallions and mares."  A stain of color from his shirt to
highlight his prominent cheekbones.

"Not much, I'm afraid," she admitted, feeling ~ awkward and ill at ease.

"Well, o1' Ghost can smell a mare in heat, in season over five miles.~ He'd
do just about anythin' to get mare."

Bellami was grateful he couldn't see the hot flush of own face.  She touched
her hand to her forehead, surp to find it wasn't burning with fever.

"That,s the reason his corral is sO high.  Fve seen lions jump over fences
that would hold an antelope."  stopped for a moment, and a frown appeared on
his t "But, to answer your question, he.  raises hell at night, i lieve,
because he wants to be ridden," His voice sou: melancholy.

"Why isn't he?"  she inquired innocently.

The expression on his face spoke volumes.  He 1o both shocked and disgusted.

"Miss James, I can bar ell around in my own house.  How in blazes dO you
think i ride?:" His change in tone stung her feelings.  Instead of le the
question pass, she blurted out a curt response.

"I ~ imagine it'd be very difficult.  If you didn't leave the ral ... well,
he can still see, after all, It's not like you ha' show him where to walk."
Men could be so arrogant.  he really believe his sight was necessary for the
horse t, around?

"Miss James, you have a lot to learn about horses."  rose from the table
abruptly.  The.  chair scraped on the wood floor, and his feet made a
shuffling noise as he to to leave the kitchen.  He slowly inched his way up
the stairs.

Trace opened the bedroom door.  For a mo men thought he was in the wrong
room.  The window stood' open and the room was cool, he felt the breeze as it
fl, over him.  A smell hung in the air.  Lavender.  The room smelled of
lavender.

Thinking he must're walked too many steps from the landing, he felt for the
banister, then approached the door again.  He was definitely in his room, all
right.

"What the hell?"  His voice echoed through his empty room.

"Miss James!  Of course.  How stupid of me to think she'd confine her
attention to my body alone."  Unconsciously he rubbed his palm over his raw,
but relatively hairless, jaw.  He moved to the window and started to slam it
shut, but suddenly he stopped, allowing the clean, crisp breeze to wash over
him.

"Naw, I'll leave it open.  If I get too cool, I'll sleep under the blankets
for a change," he muttered to himself.

Turning away from the window, he shuffled to his bed.  He stripped off his
shirt and pants and nearly dropped them on the floor.  Instead, on impulse,
he tossed them over the end of the foot board.

"Damned woman!  She's already makin' changes in my house and me."  For an
instant, he thought about throwing the clothes on the floor just for spite,
but changed his mind.  It rankled him to realize that he actually cared what
she thought about him.  Why should I?  All she's done since Pa dumped her
here is act like an iron-assed drill sergeant.  He wished Clell would come
back; they'd have a lot in common.  Both of the old fools seem to enjoy
chewing his ass off.

With a snort, he threw back the covers and climbed into bed.

Trace lay on his back with his arm curled under his head, listening to the
night sounds.  A bullbat swooped by and he heard the distinctive sound of its
mouth closing as it captured insects.  A pack of coyotes yipped somewhere in
the distance.  The clean sheets were stiff, and the smell of the lavender
made him nervous.  It was such a female smell.  Unwelcome thoughts of Becky
made him clench his jaw until it ached.  He forced himself to think of
something else, but thoughts of Miss Bellami James made him cuss under his
breath.  He tried to concentrate on something that didn't upset
him--something not having anything to do with females.  Slowly, his eyes
drooped closed.

The night silence settled around her after Mr. O'Bannion slammed his bedroom
door.  It was late, very late.  Tomorrow would probably be worse than today.
Bellami grimaced involuntarily at the thought.  When she allowed her eyes to
scan the wreckage of the empty kitchen, she groaned.

"Oh, Tilly, I wish I'd packed you in my trunks," she wailed.

"I

promise, when I get home, I'll be more appreciative of what you do.  "

It seemed at least a century had passed since She'd been in the comfort of
her home.

Rolling up her sleeves, she poured hot water from the reservoir of the
wood-burning stove.  After she washed and driedt all the dishes, she put them
away.  Several trips later, she had stacked enough firewood for tomorrow
morning.  Finally she picked up the kerosene lamp to light her way to her
room Bellami was completely exhausted by the time she pulled off her
stained, dirty work dress.  The smell of lavender clung comfortingly to the
clean cotton gown as she slipped it over her head.  When she slipped.
between the cool sheets; a contented sigh escaped her lips.

Never had a bed felt softer.  She closed her eyes and breathed deeply,
pretending she was home.  " Visions- of a hot, steaming bath flitted through
her fantasy.

"Tomorrow," she vowed aloud,

"I'll find the time to take a bath if it kills me."  She couldn't remember
ever having gone so long without a bath or washing her long hair.  Bellami
decided the worst thing about this place--even worse than Mr. O'Bannion
himself--was the fact she couldn't take a hot, comforting bath.  With a sigh,
~he turned over on her side and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

The sound of Ghost's piercing scream jarred Bellami awake with a start.
Trembling from the abrupt waking, she lay still and listened for a moment.
Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, as it could only in a strange, dark
bedroom, in the middle of the night.  Finally, her curiosity forced her from
the warm security of the bed.  She tossed the covers back, with a snort of
disgust for her weakness.  Her bare feet squeaked' on the smooth wooden'
floor as she approached the window.  Peering into the darkness outside, she
beheld an eerie sight.

In the moonlight, the gray horse's body seemed to flow like liquid.

Instead of moving, he appeared to evaporate from one position to another in
the crisp night air, She was so mesmerized by him that she wasn't immediately
aware of the figure standing on the balcony several yards away, until a
slight movement caught her eye.  She turned her head and saw Trace standing
at his own window.  He'd been listening to the horse while she watched.

Bellami stepped back inside her room quickly, but something pulled at her.
Almost against her will, she allowed her eyes to return and focus on the
man's form.  His body was stiff with concentration.

Except for the steady rise and fall of his chest as he inhaled, he could have
been carved from stone.  Her eyes followed the dim but definite outline of
his body.  Heat flooded her face.

He was naked.  She couldn't make out any specific details in the muted light.
Only patches of light and dark were discernible.  She could, however, see
the paleness of his legs and narrow hips where the sun had not browned him.
Dark hair, fanning out from his flat stomach, shimmered in the silvery light.
Against her better judgment she allowed herself to become more and more
curious about the sullen man.

He was almost as intriguing as the restless horse below her.

When Ghost unexpectedly shattered the silence with an eerie scream, the
muscles in Trace's chest and shoulders bunched up.

Bellami almost felt sorry for him at that moment.  Almost, but not quite.
She wasn't about to forgive his abuse that easy.

He had problems, but no more than anyone else.  She stepped back inside the
bedroom as she reminded herself that Trace O'Bannion was spoiled and
cruel--and her pupil.

Bellami gritted her teeth against the morning sun.  It seemed like she'd just
gone to bed.  Would she ever feel rested again?  She recalled hearing,
somewhere, something about the West being great for men and dogs, but hell on
women and horses.  Rubbing h6r sore back, she was positive she knew what it
meant.

With stern resignation, she put on her soiled work dress.  Ignoring her
aching muscles, she walked down the stairs.  Her thighs burned and protested
with each descending step.

The fire in the stove caught easily, and as she had yesterday, she put the
coffee on to boil in the graniteware pot.  While it boiled, she gathered the
eggs.  Only four this morning-but still enough for breakfast.  She cast a
wishful gaze at the big wooden tub in the lean-to, making herself a promise.
She'd have that bath, later.

Trace heard her get up and go downstairs.

"Damned industrious little ant."  He wanted to lie there and ignore her, but
he couldn't.  Why he let her needle him so much, he didn't know.

"Miss High-and-mighty Spinster.  Cool, efficient-yep, like a piece of old
crusty snow," he muttered while he rose from the bed.  He reached for his
clothes on the foot board of the bed and dressed quickly.  It made it much
easier to dress, not having to search through piles of discarded shirts and
pants.

"Hate to admit it, but her neat-as-a-pin ways do help," he mumbled, chaffing
at his brief spell of neatness.  He grinned in satisfaction when he
discovered, quite by accident, that holding the bottom of his shirt together
and buttoning from bottom to top, he finally got it straight.

"Much better than the other way."  He always seemed to end up with three
extra buttonholes hanging on one side.

The room still held the faint clean fragrance of lavender, of her.

Trace wanted to grumble about it, but actually, he'd slept well.  The odor
hadn't bothered him nearly as much as he'd thought it would.  The smell of
coffee hit him as he shuffled noisily down the stairs.  His stomach growled,
and the noise sounded loud enough to bring down the roof.  He sensed the room
was empty the moment he entered.  Being alone smoothed his ruffled feathers,
a bit.  He shuffled to the hooks on the wall and located a cup.  Clumsily he
found the pot.  He'd just started pouring coffee for himself when she walked
in.

"Good morning," she said crisply and she scooted past him, scrunching up her
body to avoid any physical contact with him.  Positioned near the door as he
was, she had to turn slightly sideways to keep from brushing against the back
of his thighs.

He winced involuntarily at the sound of her voice.  God, did she always wake
up in a good mood, or did the prospect of torturing him make her happy?
Trace grunted in response to her greeting, concentrating on the cup he was
balancing.

He didn't fill the cup till it ran over.  She took that as a good omen.
Bellami also saw he was fully dressed, wearing Levi's and a shirt--a vast
improvement in his morning attire.  If she had about a century to work on him,
he might actually begin to look civilized.

"Miss James."  His voice overflowed with exasperation when he finally spoke.

"Yes, Mr. O'Bannion?"  Bellami was wary; he'd had that sound in his voice
again.

"Tell me, who do you pattern your behavior after?  Napoleon or Caesar?"  He
leaned against the table with one lean hip and cocked a dark, impish eyebrow
as he sipped the hot coffee.

"I knew it!  I just knew it!"  She exploded without warning, like a shot from
a rifle.  She slammed the basket of eggs down on the table with a dull thud.
One broke, and the clear liquid oozed out.  Her control shattered as easily
as the fragile shell.

"I knew your civility last night had to be my imagination.  Obviously, I was
correct.  I see you have returned to normal," she hissed.

Trace turned a little in her direction.  His mouth curled up in an expression
of amusement.

"Damned if you don't have some spunk," he said, and choked on his next sip of
coffee.  It took some effort, but he managed not to bust out laughing.  He
really couldn't say why he enjoyed baiting and badgering her so much.  Maybe
'cause she was so goldang entertaining.  He suddenly felt almost cheerful
this morning.

Probably the fresh hot coffee.

"Miss James, for a spinster, you make a dang good cup of coffee."

With a quiet chuckle, he threw a leg over the chair he found with his free
hand, and sat down at the table.

Breakfast proceeded quickly.  Bellami slammed and banged her way through
bacon and eggs.  She barked at him, in a tone any brigadier general would've
envied, as she gave him an outline of his schedule of instruction.

"The first thing," she said in a voice that brooked no argument,~ "is for you
to learn to walk.  Not shuffle, but walk!"

Trace shoved food in his mouth to keep from grinning.  "Yes, ma'am.

Anythin' you say, ma'am.  "

"Oh, you are" -- Bellami never finished her sentence.  She slammed out the
back door muttering under her breath.

Trace walked and walked, until he was ready to kick Miss Bellami James's ass
right out the back door.  His boots scraped and thudded on the bare wood
floor.  Often he caught the toe of one under the edge of a rug and stumbled.
Several times he caught himself on a piece of furniture.  More times than
that, he barked his shins on the furniture and spent the next several minutes
spewing a string of oaths.

"I feel like a Missouri mule kicked me.  How much longer?"  He rubbed the
front of one long leg.

"Miss James, hasn't anyone told you?  Men out here don't walk if they can
ride."  His lips twisted ironically.

"" Course, I can't ride, so maybe this is justice.  " He snorted.

She could stand it no more.  She sat down heavily in a soft, comfortable
chair in the parlor and looked at his face.  A thin sheen of sweat
glistened above his brows.  A lock of ebony hair had fallen forward.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, did you have this house built?"  For some strange reason,
she had to fight the urge to brush the hair away from his sightless eyes.

"Yes, I did, Miss James."  There was a melancholy sound in his voice.

He rubbed at his leg Unconsciously.

"Do you have any recollection of the dimensions of the rooms?"  She bit her
lip, willing her hand to keep away from his forehead.

"What the hell kind of question is that?"  He stopped rubbing his shin and
stood up straight, staring blindly toward the sound of her voice.

He brushed impatiently at the strand of hair.

Bellami sighed in relief when the ebony lock was back in place.  She looked
to heaven for guidance and took a deep breath.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, if you know how big the rooms are and where the furniture
is, why on earth do you stop walking four feet from the wall?  Didn't you
ever come downstairs in the night, in the dark?"  She spoke louder and louder
with each word, and by the time she finished she was yelling at the top of
her lungs.

Trace opened his mouth, then shut it and opened it ag He blinked twice and
rubbed his hand through his h "Yeah, I did."

Bellami smiled.  At last.  She'd finally made a bre through.  Maybe there was
hope.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, that be enough for this morning."  She dismissed him curtly.
1 not to tempt fate too much.  He might find his vile ton again if she
persisted.

Trace felt like a schoolboy.  And her general's voice' getting mighty
tiresome.  He wanted to give her a sharp tort, but before he could think of
something cutting to ~ she left.

"Damn little general.  Well, fine," he yelled at her treating footsteps,

"I'll go talk to Ghost!"  He turned ~ took three confident strides, then
hesitated and slowed ~ shuffle.

Bellami filled all the buckets and put them on to boil w she dragged the
heavy tub into the kitchen.  She would h a bath and wash her hair if hell
froze over, as O'Bannion would no doubt say.  Trace had gone to the, ral, and
she expected he'd stay there sulking until din: time.  She hoped he would,
anyway.  She needed some pe She dug deep into her trunks until she found her
favt scented soap and a pair of clean drawers.  It occurred to with no little
measure of chagrin, that she would hay, wash clothes soon.  The thought
brought an involun groan to her lips.

She brought her brush and comb down from her to, When she had everything.
laid out.  neatly on the kit chef hie, she filled the tub with the hot waterr
By the time she heated and filled the tub, all her muscles were crying of
rebellion at the strenuous task being done twice in as m days.  As quickly as
she could manage, she stripped off clothes.  She eased herself stiffly into
the water.  It fel good.

Eagerly she unbraided her hair, watching it float down into the steaming
water.  She fit fairly well into the big tub.  The water covered nearly all
of her breasts, and only a tiny bit of her knees stuck out above the water.
She savored the feeling of peace.  Rubbing her sore muscles, she felt the
tension leaving her body.

Cupping her hands, she scooped up water and wet her long hair.  Then she
vigorously soaped it.  Scrubbing hard at her scalp with her fingers, she
quickly produced a good lather.  A froth of bubbles surrounded her face.
Round bubbles slithered down her cheeks, dripping off her chin.

She wiped the suds away from her cheeks.  No doubt about it, this had to be
sheer heaven.  Before she knew it, soap was running into her eyes.  It' stung
like the very devil.  The more she wiped at it, the worse it got.  She had so
much soap in the water, she sat surrounded by white froth and bubbles.

"Oh, damn," she whimpered aloud, using uncharacteristi profanity.

Mr.  O'Bannion was having an unpleasant effect on her already.

"Is there anything I can do, Miss James?"  The voice came from the doorway,
dripping with sarcasm.

Bellami jumped, splashing water over the rim of the tub onto the wooden floor.

"What are you doing here?"  she gasped.

"I live here, remember?"

Bellami opened her eyes enough to peek at him.  Trace stood in the doorway
between the kitchen and the parlor with his arms folded across his chest.
She wanted to keep an eye on him, to see what he was doing, but more soap ran
into her eyes.

She squinted them shut against the burning sting of strong soap.

"Ouch!  Oh!"  She wriggled around, trying to find a towel, but she couldn't
reach the things she'd brought down.

"Miss James, will you please tell me what's wrong?"  Genuine concern rang in
his deep voice.

"I have soap in my eyes, that's what."  She hated to admit something so
stupid to him.  Now he'd think worse of her than he already did.

No, it would be impossible for him to do that.

"Please, let me help you, Miss James," he purred as his boots hit the floor
in determined, steady strides.

She knew.  She heard him walking toward her, and heard the rasping sound of
the hand pump, and she knew.  She knew exactly what he was doing and why But
he was faster than she'd expected, faster than she'd thought he could be.
Before she could rise from the tub, cold water flowed over her head and down
her body.  Her nipples contracted at the shock of the cold water.

Trace heard her astonished gasp and the sharp intake of breath.  A chuckle
bubbled from his chest.  He was quite pleased with his revenge.

"Would you like a towel, or will you dry here in the air?"

There wasgaughter in his deep voice as he repeated her own blunt words back
to her.

"A towel would be nice.  If you can manage," she snapped sarcastically.

Trace stopped chuckling, and his back stiffened.  A grim line replaced the
playful curve of his lips.  He felt his way along the backs of the chairs.
When he located the towel, he thrust it out roughly, toward the sound of her
voice.

"Damn you!  Don't you ever miss an opportunity to remind me I'm half a man?
I know it--you can save yourself the trouble," he bit out bitterly in the
direction of the small sloshing sounds.  Towel in hand, he shot out his arm
and brushed his knuckles across Bellami's full breast and hard erect nipple.
He froze, and a half-uttered word stuck in his throat.

At first he didn't realize what had happened, but the soft flesh against his
hand became recognizable almost instantly.  He heard her gasp and he felt her
tremble as he turned his wrist slightly palm up.

Then he rubbed the back of his hand all along her breast as he took his hand
away.

Bellami shuddered, and grabbed the towel.

He slowly allowed his hand to drop away, holding it thigh.  Curio flam to
life within Tra O'Bannion.  He had fomed a mental picture of what Bellami
Jam look like, bared on.  what?

That she said she was ugly?  Y~.  That she was a spinster?  Y~.  e fact that
she ac like a dominating witch?  Hell, Still, something wasn't right.  Tra~
had good insfincm.  A lawman had to.  Right now, his instincm were sc~ming at
him, and he couldn't figu out why.  But he was damn sure going to find outl
T went to his room, whe he pa back and forth like a nn~-up cougar.  Miss
~11ami am invad his thoughts, and he couldn't get her out of em.  e
moment he touch her, his slumbering n sp~ng to Some do ant pa f him had
b~n rou A k~n awa n had pt from his hand to his brain, and now it gnaw~
at his gut like an insatiable hunger.

F~strat~, he li he knew absolutely nothing about her, save the fact she had
work for elve y in a hospital in New York City.  He'd smugly assum she
was a driP-up, old spinster.  Her tongue was as sha as an ax blade; he'd
~on it had b~n hon on lonely nigh and unfulfilled d~ams.  Frowning, he
stopped his pacing n~r the o~n window.  e night air wash over his burning
body.  Tra wasn't a man who liked to make mistake; he hating wrong.  en her
wa fl~h touch his hand, he kn he'd n wrong, all right, dead wrongi The
fi~h his hand connoted with had b~n anything but driP-up' and old.

It had n soft, wa~, yielding.  Inviting.

Tra felt something hot expand within his ch~t and his groin.  For the first
time in many months, Tra O'Bannion felt the drives of a man--a whole man.
The fact that he was surrounded by darkn~s didn't do a thing to curb his lust
or dis~l the image of fi~, warm fl~h.  Running his long, lean fingers through
his hair, he laughed.  The irony of the situation tickled him.  Damned if
this wasn't funny, in a twisted sort of way.  A woman he couldn't stand,
couldn't see, who openly declared she was ugly, made him hard and hot as a
poker!

His worn Levi's felt tight and uncomfortable on his turgid sex.  He tugged at
his pants, and tried to accommodate the swelling, without success.  With
razor-sharp awareness, he opened his door and stepped out onto the landing.

Bellami wiped the water from her face.  She was alone, but his presence hung
in the air as surely as if he were standing right in front of her.  She'd
never felt anything like that before in her life.

His touch was unsettling, to say the least.  When the accident happened,
Bellami had just started noticing boys, and they her.  When she left the
hospital and came home, all of that had changed.

Forever.

No one had looked at her with that kind of interest ever again.  She'd had no
experience in her life to prepare her for the kind of physical shock Trace
O'Bannion's much gave her.  The innocent contact had been so intense it was
almost painful.  She wondered what it would be like if she touched him back.
Bellami wondered about the magical ingredient between men and women.  Brooks
seemed' to have a devastating effect on women, and she'd seen the way Ross
looked at her sister Claim sometimes.

Was this why?  Did something as chaste as a simple touch of the hand bring
such pleasure?  She puzzled over it for a minute, then pushed the thought
away.

Bellami James would never know the answer to that mysterious question.  She'd
resigned herself to that many years ago, and she only invited pain and
frustration by allowing her mind to conjure up such images.

Mr.  Trace O'Bannion was a job, nothing more, nothing less.  To begin
questioning her place in life could only invite disaster and heartache.
Bellami took a deep breath and pushed the questions to the back of her mind.
She locked them safely away with all the painful memories she kept IU~

stored there.  For many years she'd refused to examine her thoughts and
feelings about herself--about the scar--and she could continue to do it for
many more.

Wrapping the towel around her wet body, she picked up her clean drawers and
chemise.  The soft white lawn felt good against her skin.

She'd picked out the frilliest ones she owned, embroidered and trimmed with
narrow pink ribbon.  Bellami felt less ugly when she wore pretty
under-things.  Her hair and her frilly feminine underthings were the two
little vanities she allowed herself.  She wasn't quite sure why, but she
needed to feel less ugly right now--needed it badly.  A higgling question
tried to form in her mind, but again she closed herself against it.

Dressed in her soft clean underclothes, she looked at the mess in the
kitchen.  Water dripped from the ends of her long, wet hair.  It dampened the
front of her chemise, making the fabric cling to her skin.  With grim
resignation she started the whole laborious process in reverse.

First she scooped bucket after bucket of water from the huge wooden tub until
it was light enough to drag out the back door to dump.  Then she used the
damp toweling to sop up' water from the floor.  Each time she wrung the cloth
out, she cursed Trace O'Bannion for startling her.  If he hadn't done it, she
wouldn't have such a mess to clean up.

It gave her some comfort to be able to lay one more black sin at his feet.

By the time she restored order to the kitchen, at least two hours had passed.
She felt fatigue deep in her body and her mind.  Her long hair was only
slightly damp but the breeze from outside chilled her.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she shuddered.  She sat down in front of the
cook stove and opened up the heavy iron door.  Pulling a chair as close to
the stove as she could get, she started working out the tangles in her hair
while it dried.  The heat from the fire dried the chemise quickly, leaving it
plastered to her body like a second skin.

Working her fingers through her tangled mane, she absently watched the flames
dance and sway through her dark veil of hair.

Trace felt different, like a great ravenous beast on the trail of wounded
prey.  He felt the stairs beneath his boots, the smoothness of the banister.
The familiar odors of his house filled his nose.  Along with a new smell, the
smell of her.

Lavender wafted up the staircase, and he stopped for a moment to close his
sightless eyes.  He allowed the sensation to drift over him, cover him.  He
smelled her, felt her, sensed her being--as if she were with him on the
stairs.  Miss James might be an ugly spinster, but the feeling her presence
gave him right this minute affected him like warm summer sunshine.  Trace
gloried in it.  He let it surround him and lift him.  He opened his eyes and
continued down the stairs toward that unseen radiance.

Bellami flipped her hair over her head.  The day had been warm, but tonight
was chilly.  Her hair dried quickly, and she enjoyed the play of light across
it from the open stove.  A thread of electricity sizzled up her spine.  She
felt him before she ever heard him.  He wasn't shuffling tonight.  For the
first time, she felt truly fearful of Trace O'Bannion.  Not in the usual
way--this was not fear of his insults, but something quite different.  She
could see him out of the corner of her eye through the strands of hair.
Shock rippled through Bellami, hit her like the bucket of cold water.  He
might be blind, but Trace O'Bannion was still a man.  Ruthless, selfish and
probably dangerous.  Bellami shrank from him, trying to make herself small,
so small she might just disappear.  She pictured the great gray stallion
outside.  She saw a certain cunning grace in Mr. O'Bannion's movements, like
that stallion's.

What had he said?  Ghost would do anything to get to a mare.  She didn't like
this man one bit, and now she saw him as a threat of a totally different
kind.  He had proven to her how strong he was when he grabbed her by the
shoulders.  Bellami vowed never to make that mistake again.  She was going
to make sure Trace O'Bannion never got close enough to put his hands on her
again.

Rising from the chair, she made sure she kept it between them.  Since she was
barefoot, he didn't hear her.  A tiny, predatory smile teased the corners of
his mouth.

What a fool I am, she thought to herself.  What did she really know about
this man?  Nothing, and what she'd learned since she'd come here didn't speak
well of his character at all.  The memory of his accidental touch made the
pit of her stomach drop like a stone.

Trace listened for her breathing.  She was moving away from him.  The room
nearly crackled with her fear and her tension.

Why?  Did she fear him?  Maybe he had been a little hard on her--a little
rude and nasty.  All right, damned hard on her, but he hadn't done anything
to 'make her truly afraid.  Had he?  A cold knot of disgust formed in Trace's
Weeks of self-pity and whining flashed through his mind.  What had he allowed
himself to become?

"Miss James?"  He made a real effort to sound friendly, not threatening.
Instead, he thought with chagrin, he only sounded hungry.  Like a wolf,
dosing in on a newborn lamb; The image filled him with more self-loathing.
He deserved it, after what he'd been putting his family through.

Bellami went stiff.  He was trying to sound nice.  Dread crept up her spine.

"Yes," she answered softly.

His head turned a little more in her direction.  Narrowing in on her like an
eagle on a field mouse.

She shivered.

Trace didn't know what to say.  He really only wanted to hear the sound of
her voice, maybe talk with her awhile.  Actually, he'd hoped he might
discover some clue about her age.  Something about her, anything, to help
dispel this burning curiosity, to quench his burning lust.

"Did you want something, Mr. O'Bannion?"  Bellami saw him hesitating, but
instead of reassuring her, it made her more wary.

"No.  No, I just wasn't sleepy.  I'm sorry I bothered you."  He frowned as he
turned to leave the kitchen.  His boots thudded as he steadily Climbed the
stairs.

When he was gone, she sagged into a chair.  Bellami knew she was near the end
of her strength.  It had been a long day, and she was more than ready for
sleep.  She picked up the kerosene lantern and gathered her things into her
arms.  It was awkward, with brush, comb, soap and dirty clothes, carrying the
lantern.

When she was directly outside his bedroom door, the silver-backed brush fell
out of her hands onto the floor with a noisy clatter.

Instantly his door flew open.

"Miss James, are you all right?"  Trace had been in the processing of
undressing.  He wore only his half-buttoned Levi's and socks.  The moonlight
silhouetted his lithe body in the doorway.  Light from the lamp danced along
the hard planes of his chest.  Dark, silky hair shimmered as cold night air
from his open window rushed past him.

Bellami's nipples contracted at the sudden change in temperature.  She felt
vulnerable and self-conscious and entirely too aware of him.

"Yes.  Yes, I'm fine; I'm sorry I disturbed you," Bellami snapped shortly in
her distress.  Her voice sounded so shrewish.  His eyebrows knit into a frown
at the sound of it.  He brought out the worst in her every time.

Gathering up her fallen brush, she turned to go to her room.  He remained in
the doorway.  She wished he would go inside and shut it.

Bellami took another step toward her room.

"Miss James, tell me about your accident."  Trace didn't know where the
request had come from.

The whole world began to tilt in front of Bellami.  The breath whooshed from
her lungs.  She couldn't breathe.

Sweat beaded across her forehead, even though she'd been cool a moment
before.  A huge lump had grown in her throat, and she thought she might
faint.  Clumsily she grabbed for the banister and dropped everything but the
lamp.  Her grip around it tightened as she struggled to remain on her feet.
Memories and unwanted feelings tried to break through the barrier she'd kept
up for so long.

Suddenly strong hands grabbed her around the waist.

"Miss James."  His voice was soft and compassionate.  "Don't!  Don't touch
me," she said, wrenching her body free and stumbling back a step to look him
in the face.  He had frozen where he was on the stairs.

The force of her words hit Trace like a fist.  God!  He disgusted her!

He dropped his hands from her.  like they'd been burned.  Trace had never
imagined it was possible to elicit such revulsion from a woman.

"Sorry, I was only tryin' to help.  I should're known better.  Please, rest
easy, I won't touch you again."  He stomped back to his room, slamming the
door with a bang.

Bellami relaxed instantly.  Well, at least things were back to normal.

This she could deal with.  His verbal abuse she could handle.  Just as long
as he didn't ask about her accident.  She must not allow herself to think
about the accident and the guilt and the pain.

Trembling, she took the lantern into her room, then went back to the landing
to retrieve her things.  She could hear the rhythm of pacing footfalls coming
from inside his room.

Bellami imagined he would look just like his horse.  Silver moonlight falling
across his lean chest.  He would appear more liquid than solid, like
something in a dream.  She shook her head to clear away the thoughts.  This
was a bitter, unbalanced man.  She had to remember that.  Yet his voice had
sounded so full of compassion and pity for her, only moments ago.  Bellami
James knew with every fiber of her being that Trace O'Bannion was dangerous
to her.  But just how dangerous, she couldn't have said.

Chapter Seven.

The horses pawed the ground impatiently.  Bright light.
sculpted three weathered faces shadowed by wide-brimmed Stetsons, : "Gettin'
warm early for Mamh, ain't it?"  Hugh remarked to no one in particular; A
meadowlark sang nearby.

"Yep.  How long are we going' to sit here watchin' this house, Pa?"  A
large-boned hand reached inside a shirt pocket and pulled out a small bag.
Flynn took a thin paper out of it, then made a crimp down the middle.
Holding the paper steady, he shook a bit of tobacco into it, tapping the
paper with one free finger to settle it in the middle.

White teeth pulled the yellow drawstring on the bag closed.  With deft
precision, he rolled the cigarette and licked it along the edge to seal it,
After he: put the makings back in his shirt, he struck a match on the cantle
of his saddle.

"We're stayin' as long as it takes, and I don't want to hear any more about
going' down there and takin' Miss James to the train."  Hugh glowered at
Flynn and shifted his weight in the saddle.  The mare he rode snorted as a
long-legged jackrabbit sprinted from behind a clump of sage.

"That's a nasty habit, boy."  Ciell never took his eyes off the house below
them as he spoke to Flynn.

"Well, you ought to know.  You're the one taught me how to roll 'cm."

Flynn laughed.  Dimples creased his weathered face.  The smoke curled around
the brim of his hat.

"Look, there she is."  Hugh raised up in his stirrups to get a better look.
All three men concentrated on the figure moving around the yard below.

"Look at her hair.  I never would've guessed it'd be so long," Clell said,
with unabashed admiration in his voice.

"At least she is still kickin'.  You suppose Trace is doin' as well?"

Hugh asked.  He wrinkled his face in concern.

Flynn didn't answer as he continued to watch the woman.  The morning breeze
lifted the edge of her skirt as she walked.  ~ She tossed scratch to the
chickens as she neared Ghost's corral.  For a moment, she stood touching the
gray stallion's nose, and then she went back inside.  The door reopened
almost immediately, and she reappeared tarrying something in her arms.  ~
"Now what.  do you suppose she's doin'?"  Clell found himself growing mighty
curious about the woman.  Bellami walked from the corner of the house to the
Chicken Coop and Paused.  It looked like she was tying something, but again
she returned to the house.  This time she came out carrying a large bundle
heaped in a baskeL The men watched while she placed wet clothes across the
makeshift line she'd just made.  ~ ~ '~Canny little thing, ain'.  t she?  "
Hugh- chuckled, mesmerized by her ingenuity.  He was beginning to see why Doc
Malone thought so highly of her.

"Pa, .I-still say this ain't right," Flynn said.

"Besides, looks to me like she's doin' the chores.  How can you be sure Trace
is getting' all the trainin' you're so hell-bent to give him?"

The kitchen door opened, and Trace stepped outside into the sun.

Blue-black highlights glimmered in his clean, relatively neat hair.

"I'll be damned," Clell said with awe, "she's manage get him cleaned him up!
That's a damn sight more than been able to do.  I wish I knew how she did
it," he mus rubbing his hand pensively over his own scru~y chin.

Hugh felt relief and a slight lessening of his own guilt o what he'd done.
It had been three days since they dab doned Bellami James, and he'd been
almost afraid to hoI Flynn's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he watched Tr;
speaking to Bellami.  Flynn couldn't tell what he was " ing, but his brother
appeared to he mad.

"Looks like I givin' her a piece of his mind, don't it?"  he drawled, wil
slight smirk on.  his face.

Turning on his heel, Trace stomped back to the ho stumbling once.  He
slammed the door hard enough them to hear it from their vantage point on the
little hill "Appears she's got him a bit riled," Hugh said, his e widening.

"Wonder if she," go after him.  " His diml creased his clean-shaven cheeks
for an instant.

If Bellami James cared a bit, she didn't show it.  She k on hanging wet
drawers, wet Levi's and shirts across line.

Flynn liked this Bellami James and, as much as he ha to admit it, Hugh seemed
to he right.  Trace looked heal enough, and if she was making him, mad, then
she, probably making progress.  Reining his horse around he out his cigarette
with his thumb and forefinger.

"I am going' to Magdalena, Pa.  I may begone for seat days.  You two can keep
an eye on this without my help.  looks fine to me."

Hugh looked at his son for a minute; Flynn troubled k He might be giving in
right now, but it wasn't like Flyn: let go of a notion so easily.  He needed
to be watched c fully.

"Shane and Logan are going' to move some cattle, of the week.  You be back to
help?"

Flynn grinned at his father, he was so easy to read.  '[ didn't need his
help.  Hell, Missy alone could out rope seasoned cowboys, Hugh just wanted
him around so he could keep an eye on him for a while, but didn't want to
come right out and say so.

"Sure, Pa.  I'll be back in plenty of time."  Flynn put his spurs to his big
gelding, and the horse moved out.

Flynn was well out of sight when Clell turned to Hugh and narrowed his brown
eyes.

"You know, I think he feels real protective of that lady down there."

"I know," Hugh said, sighing, "but I'm countin' on him leavin' things be for
a while.  You know, what he needs is a woman of his own to fuss over.  I sure
thought he'd be married before now."

"He does seem to be kinda slow.  You had Flynn and Trace both by the time you
were thirty."  Clell agree~d as he watched a crane settle awkwardly on the
water near Trace's house.

"You know, Clell.  I blame you for Flynn being' such a mother hen,"

Hugh stated accusingly.

"Me?  Just 'cause I let those boys know how a proper lady is supposed to be
treated?"  Clell declared indignantly.

"Proper lady?  You never spent time with a proper lady in your life!"

Hugh guffawed as he turned his horse and kicked her into a gallop.

"In this country, any woman is a lady, as I've heard you tell them boys more
'n once," Clell said as his horse passed Hugh's.

Trace was fuming.  This morning Miss Bdlami James had given him the usual
instructions, then.  made herself scarce.  As he fumbled around the parlor,
she'd been busy doing something.  What he didn't know, but she sounded like
she might be tearing down the kitchen.  The hand pump screeched furiously.
The steady gruff humming sound grated on his nerves.  Finally he realized she
was washing.  Washing!  Was the woman trying to kill herself?  All she did
was work, day in and day out.

Besides, wasn't she supposed to be helping him?  She hadn't b6en any help to
him at all.  If his family had brought her here to train him, then that was
what she should be doing.  He barked his shins on a large chair.

"Damn," he moaned as he bent over to rub the smarting leg.

"Little general, that's all she is.  If she keeps doin, all the chores, and
insists on regular baths and clean clothes, she'll be dead before the week is
out."  He ranted in rhythm to his unsteady steps.  He stopped in the middle
of the parlor and rubbed his sore, razor-nicked jaw.

Maybe if she did drop stone dead, he'd have some peace.  The thought brought
a brief flash of a smile to his lips.  As quickly, a dark scowl descended.

"Then wh~it good will she be?  The sooner the little general gets me trained,
the sooner she can get back to New York.  Got to see she stays healthy," he
muttered as he slumped in the chair.  Something had to be done.  ~ But what?

Until Clell or somebody from the ranch came by, they were totally alone.
Cold fear gripped Trace from out of no, where.  What if something really did
happen to her?  His wish of a few moments ago was now forgotten, as cold
reality settled over him.  The little general might act like an iron-ass, but
she was flesh and blood.  Warm flesh and blood, as he well knew.  ~ "God, Pa~
what on earth can you be thinkin' of?  You've gota damn sight better sense
than that," Trace muttered.  "Clell or somebody should at least be keepin' an
eye on her.  Hell, what if she broke a leg or something'."  Suddenly a grin
softened Trace's grim countenance.

The sly old fox!  Of course they'd be keeping an eye on her!  He rose from
the chair and took two quick steps before he connected with the corner of a
small pine table.

"Son of a" -- he moaned, grabbing his smarting shin.

By lunchtime Bellami felt like she was going to fall over.  So much washing
really should have been a two-day job, but she'd done it in four hours.  Her
knuckles were red and scraped raw from the washboard.  She grimaced as she
touched the broken nails on her right hand.  Breakfast, dishes, gathering
eggs and cleaning had chapped her hands.

"Tilly, if you could see me now," she muttered as she rubbed the small of her
back.  A muscle twinge made her purse her lips.  She was feeling light-headed
when she slumped into a kitchen chair.  Her head felt so heavy.  She laid her
forehead on her arms on top of the scrubbed pine table.  She promised herself
she'd rest--just for a minute.

Trace stumbled out the front door to the porch, trying to visualize the lay
of the land around his house.  If he was spying on his own house, where would
he do it from?  The rise.

It hit him like a bolt of lightnit~g.  They were probably up there right now,
the crazy old coots!

He starting walking up the little hillock overlooking his house.  A small
growth of' yucca caught his boot and sent him sprawling to the ground.

"Pa, when I get my hands on you..."  Trace didn't finish his threat, A
picture of how he must look flashed through his brain.  It tickled him.  Why,
he couldn't imagine, and that tickled him, too.  He laughed heartily at
himself as he crawled up off the ground.  He chuckled while he brushed the
dirt from his pants.

"Guess I'll have to take the little general's advice and pick up my feet when
I walk."

About a quarter of a mile away from the house, Trace caught the familiar
smell of leather, horse sweat and tobacco.

"Clell?  Pa?  I know you're there?"  He stopped and slipped a thumb into his
belt loop, cocking one hip.

Leather creaked as the man shifted in his saddle.  If Trace had still had his
sight, he would've appreciated the look of pride shining in the old cowboy's
eyes.

"Come on, answer me.  Quit tryin' to act like some da Apache, sneakin' around
spyin' on people, and come to house."  He heard the unmistakable dry cackle
and kne, was Clell, not his father.

"Smart ass," Clell growled.

"It's good to see you be run' to use some of your God-given horse sense,
agin'."  (2 noticed the network of tiny nicks on Traee's smooth f "What
shaved you, boy, a bobcat?"  he asked, trying suppress the side-splitting
guffaw threatening to erupt.

"Miss James.  Same as a bobcat," Trace said, shifting weight a little in
embarrassment.

"So, you figured out I was up here, huh?"  Clell lea comfortably on his
saddle horn.  The little brown rt grazed contentedly.

"Finally dawned on me, you wouldn't leave that wor at my mercy without
keepin' an eye on things."

"I knew you weren't stupid.  If you'd showed up soo you c0uld've spoke with
your pa.  He left for the ranch a ago."  Clell watched Trace with interest.

"I'm sorry I missed him.  I'd like to know what the hell thinks he is
doin'--with Miss James, I mean."

"Figures she can teach you what you need to know.  ,a figures if he gives you
any kinda choice you'll be damned hard to manage?"  Clell was grinning
broadly.  he didn't give you a choice.  "

Trace thought about that for a minute.  His father's ~1~ made a lot of sense.
Still, she needed to go.  If she sta something might happen.

Something beyond Trace's t trol.  The memory of warm, wet flesh made him
squirm a minute.  No, she had to go, that was all there was tt Trace cleared
his throat and raised his chin in the direcl of CleWs voice.

"Well, I'd like for you to get her ou here."

"No can do, Trace.  Your pa would have my hide."  watched Trace closely.  He
sure didn't act like CleWs ref bothered him all that much.  In fact, he
almost looked relieved-mighty relieved, in fact.

Trace frowned.  He was happy Clell had refused.  Now why would he be happy?
He wanted that woman out of his life and his house--didn't he?

"I'll tell you one thing" Clell, if she keeps going' like she is you won't
have to worry about it--we'll have a dead teacher on our hands.

She needs some help.  "

"You almost sound like you care, Trace."  Clell frowned as he watched the
conflicting emotions flicker through Trace's sightless eyes.  The boy was
fighting a war within himself, plain as day, Clell did see a change in Trace,
the way he moved and acted, but he wasn't convinced it was anything
permanent, not yet.  This could be a sly trick.  Hugh was probably right.  If
Trace could find a way out of this training, he would.  Miss J'mes would have
to stay, whether either one of them wanted it or not.  Funny thing, though,
Trace didn't act all that disappointed she was staying.

Clell hated being a part of this whole deception, but if it helped Trace,
then he guessed it was worth it.  Still, pangs of conscience bothered him
every time he thought about all those letters he'd sent to Doc in New York.
If he hadn't persuaded Doc to suggest Bellami James to Hugh, she wouldn't be
here now.  He hoped Hugh wouldn't find out about his meddling.

"What needs done?"  Clell asked with a little sigh of resignation.

Trace frowned.  He looked like he was thinking awful hard about the answer.

"Just little things.  Firewood, meals, the laundry.  She never stops.  .
Hell, she near worked herself to death just to empty the damned bathtub."

Clell rubbed the grizzled stubble on his chin.

"Now, after all the money and fuss you went to installin' that fancy
porcelain tub in the house, why would she have to do that, Trace?"

The smile on Trace's face was genuine and mischievo "Well, I ain't told her
there's a tub.  Don't intend to, eitk Not yet, anyway."

Laughter boomed across the prairie.  Clell would love be a fly on the wall
when those two were going at it!  indeed he would.  Looked like Miss James
was all the' hoped for--and more.  Trace was coming back, all right at least
his sense of humor was.

"I'll see what I can do about those little chores," said when he finally quit
chuckling.

Trace walked beside Clell's horse as they came down hill.  The older man
noticed he was moving with more~c fidence.

"Come on down to the house.  You haven't met my ar of mercy, have you?"
There was a tone of sarcasm in voice, and something else--something elusive.

"No, I haven't met her.  Your pa got me out of here fast, I never even got a
good look at: her.  She was wearin' damnedest hat I ever laid eyes on!"

"Hat, huh?  She says she's ugly.  Maybe her face is tru] fright."  Trace felt
the burning heat of curiosity taking o again.  He didn't want to be curious
about the little gene He didn't like her, he didn't need her.  He damned
well di want to, either.  She was a tyrant, and he wanted Clell to her out
of there.  Didn't he?

Clell hesitated, pulling his horse to a stop.

"Trace, I c.  meet her.

She'll expect me to take her to the train.  I can'l it.  "

Trace's eyes narrowed, and he turned his head, lister for some sound at the
house.

"Clell, it's quiet in there.  quiet."  His voice was barely a whisper.

Clell leaned forward on his horse, listening as intentl' Trace.

"You got no choice, Clell, you've got to see if sometl has happened to her."
Trace said flatly.  Cold dread filled chest.

They reached the house, and Clell swung out of his saddle silently.

He tied the brown mare to the railing and slipped up to the door.  It was
quiet--deathly quiet.

Trace walked to the back door warily.  Years of being a deputy had honed his
survival instincts.  Clell pushed open the door as they stepped inside.  Both
men walked on tiptoe in their boots.  Clell took care to keep his spurs from
jingling.  Trace cocked his head, listening.  He could hear steady breathing.

Clell smiled and let out a sigh of relief.

"Guess you weren't exaggeratin' none.  She's sound asleep at the table."

As Trace turned to Clell, he felt the older man's hand on his shoulder: Clell
leaned close to whisper in his ear.

"I'll take a quick peek at your angel, and then I'm leavin'."  He moved a
little closer on tiptoe.  Clell bent toward her face.  Her head lay nestled
in the crook of her arm.  The thick braid spread across her work-reddened
hands on the table.  Her right cheek was against the smooth wood.

Smiling, he again admired the heavy hair against her cheek.  Then he saw it.
A trick of the light?

His eyes widened as he made out the lightning-bolt shape of a jagged raised
scar.  It cut a path from just below her eye to the jawbone.

Understanding coursed through Clell.  The hat, Trace's remark about her
telling him she was ugly .  working with the blind.  Doc had mentioned
it--more than once, in fact.  His letters had been vague about the accident,
but he had written something about a scar and how self-conscious the woman
was.  Clell just never quiet expected it to look like that.

He turned and with gen~the pressure escorted Trace back outside.

"I'll come by from time to time, but I don't want you to tell her anybody has
been around.  This will be our secret."

Trace thought about putting up an argument.  He really should just reach over
and give her a shake.  If she woke up now and found Clell here, it would
solve all his problems.

She'd put up a fuss and catch the first train back to b York, and he'd be rid
of her.  Yep, that was what he sho do.  The same relentless flood of
curiosity seeped into bones.  That was what he should do, but he didn't do
Instead, he felt the question forming on his lips.  "Clell, is she-Is she,
real ugly?"

"That's a damned funny question, comin' from a bl man."  Clell said evasively
as he moved away from sleeping woman.  They were still whispering.

"Why we a man who can't see, care what the hell his teacher lo like?"  Clell
asked with amusement.  He didn't wait for T to say more.  He slipped out the
door and grabbed the re With amazing agility for a man his age, he leapt into
saddle.

The sound of leather stretching while he adjusted boots to the stirrups told
Trace he was leaving.

"Where you going', you old desert rat?"  Trace was not through v this
conversation yet.

"Back to the ranch.  Maria and Lupe have been killin' ~ pluckin' chickens for
a couple of days.  They're getting' re for the roundup.  I bet I could scare
up a pretty nice spt for you two.  I need to talk to your pa about
something', ~ way."

Clell put the spurs to the horse.  Trace smelled the dust the hooves kicked
up in his face as they whirled.  stood for a long time, just listening.  It
was still quiet ins If he went in again, he'd probably wake her, and he di~
want to do that.  Of course, he told himself, it wasn't cause he thought she
deserved the rest.  No.  The little ~ eral would probably get all worked up
because of the IX and quiet he'd enjoyed while she was asleep.  Well,
wouldn't give her the satisfaction.  He could find thing keep him busy
outside.

Ghost enjoyed being curried.  It had been too long, T admitted to himself
grudgingly.  While he stroked the h he had a long, one-sided argument with
himself.  He di care if Miss James was ugly.  If Clell had given him a
chance, he would've explained that.  He was just curious, that was all.
Wonder and amazement had filled him when he accidentally touched her, and it
hadn't left yet.  How could he explain that to Clell?  How could he possibly
tell the old codger that his brain burned with questions about the mysterious
woman?  How could he explain that being near her made him feel like a man
again?

Ghost snorted and tossed his head, Strands Of long, coarse hair brushed
Trace's cheek when the horse nudged him in the shoulder.

"Glad you liked it, fella.  I'll do it again tomorrow, promise," Trace said
as he felt his way along the rail to climb through the corral.

He slowly brought wood from the pile to the back porch.  He didn't bother
even trying to stack it, but at least it was closer to the kitchen.  As much
as he hated to admit it, even to himself, he wanted to do something nice for
Miss James.  He wondered if the little general would even notice his efforts.
~ Clell rode the little mare hard.  He was anxious to speak with Hugh.

The woman had looked near tuckered out.  She couldn't hold up to that kind of
work alone for long.  Her hands had looked close to bleeding across the
knuckles.  A pang of conscience hit Cldl, and he urged more speed from the
horse.

Trace could help some if he wanted to, damn him.  Clell knew Trace could do a
lot more than he realized, but then, it wasn't Clell who needed convincing,
was it?  It was Trace himself.

Ciell was already swinging out of the saddle before the mare even stopped.
He stripped the saddle off and led the sweaty horse to the corral.  He
removed the bridle as he patted her rump to send her in.

Again he grimaced at the way he'd ridden her and at putting her up wet, but
talking Hugh had to come first.

Stomping inside, his jangling spurs announced his arr al at the same time he
bellowed.

"Hugh, where are you Clell hollered as soon as he cleared the doorway.

"What in tarnation's wrong?"  Hugh said, coming fr the kitchen with a slice
of hot corn bread in his hand.  Melt butter dripped off the side, plopping on
the clean wood floor.

Lupe frowned in aggravation and bent to wipe it up w a corner of her apron.

"Me and you got to have a talk, now."  Clell said, Hugh and Clell had been
friends the better part of th lives.  When the old cowhand used so few words,
it was rio us

"Let's go in the parlor.  No one's home right now.  Mi and the boys are out
movin' cattle," Hugh said, shutting ~ door behind his back as they stepped
inside.

It was a sunny room, and Maria had left a window o1~ for the spring air to
clear away the mustiness of winter.  white curtain billowed into the room
occasionally as a li breeze caught it.

"Okay, Clell."  Hugh swallowed the last piece of cc bread.

"How much did Doc tell you about Miss James?"  Cle brow was furl' owed deep}
"Only what I told you.  Why?"  Hugh lowered his frame into a rustic chair.

"Is there some problem with 1 helpin' Trace?"

"No, it's not that.  You remember the hat she wore the you picked her up in
San Marcial?"

Clell put his boots up on the cold hearth in front of th chairs.

"Yep.  Funny-lookin' thing, wasn't it, With that veil a all?"  Hugh grinned
while he shook his head in amaze me "Yeah, well, there is a reason why she
wears that veii."  CleWs voice was ominous.

"What reason?"  Hugh wished he~d get to the point.  Clell could drag out a
story till a body near dropped.

"The little lady has a scar on her face."  Clell's voice rang with pity.

Hugh frowned.  A strand of auburn hair fluttered in the breeze.

"How bad?"  he asked quietly.

"You and I seen lots worse, when the Comanches were raidin' heavy, but it's
bad enough.  In a place like New York City, i kin just imagine how bad it'd
be to a young gal like that."  Clell raised a bushy gray eyebrow.

"That's probably why she wears that contraption to cover her face.  She's
sorta hidin'."  ' Hugh closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"You mean to tell me that I may have done the right thing?  I mean, by just
droppin' her at Trace's place, it may have saved her from hayin' to be
uncomfortable?"

"Don't go pattin' yer'self on the back, Hugh," Clell snapped.

Hugh sighed and shifted in his chair.  A pale stain of color rose from his
denim shirt collar to his hairline.

"You think that's why she works with the blind?"  Hugh asked softly.

"Yep.  We got a problem too, a big one.  She's workin' herself to death,
keepin' up the place and teachin' Trace.  The problem is, I doubt she'd
welcome someone comin' to stay and help.  And if anyone com around, she's
gonna' be caterwaulin' to catch the first train outa here.  What are we
going' to do?"  Clell narrowed his pale eyes.

Hugh grimaced.

"Guess I didn't think any of this through, did I?"  His dark brows rose in a
frown of consternation.

"Maybe n9the of us did," Clell whispered as he rubbed his stubbly gray jaw.

"I feel plumb foolish.  I don't know what womenfolk do all day to keep busy.
So what can we do about it, Clel!?"

"Well, hell, I don't know.  For now, I'm going' to ~ some food.  Have Maria.
get everything that's cooked ready packed up.  Use the fancy basket Missy
takes to church picnics.  I can chop some wood easy enough, or sly.  I guess
we'll just have to be damn sure we keep a c watch without her knowin' or
seem'."  Clell seemed g inely afraid of what Miss James's reaction would be
if ran into her face-to-face.

"Do you really think she'd insist on going' back?"  H asked.

"Hugh, you've never been a stupid man.  Now, ,~ would you do if your best
friend and doctor lied to you, you come all this way, and then you got dumped
off wi strange patient.  Especially when the patient is a m tempered cuss,
not some dogie boy like everyone sai Clell cocked his head to the side.

"I see your point."  He coughed gruffly.  Hugh could i kicked himself for not
asking more questions of Doc.  rose, patting Clell on the back.

"You're a softhearted aren't you, Tom McClellan?"

It sounded sort of strange to Clell to hear his real n used twice in one week.

"I guess I am.  It's a shame.  She's a pretty little th 'cept for that scar."
His eyes grew misty and soft.

"I'd like to believe you're wrong about the scar I: erin' her that much, but
when I think of what Doc said didn't say--in his letters, and the way she
acted, well, thinkin' you're right."

They left the parlor, heading for the kitchen.  Neith them was aware of the
tall man in the Stetson just step onto the porch.  At the last minute, Flynn
had decided t to Magdalena another time.  He'd only gone halfway be he turned
around.  The change in Trace at his ranch morning had haunted him all day.
Seeing his brother o road to recovery had brought a grateful smile to his
lil:  Flynn had an irresistible urge to go visit Trace, to see how he was
getting along, but now he hesitated.  How could he do that?  He promised his
father he wouldn't interfere.  There had to be a way.

Flynn stepped off the porch, striding toward the barn.  He'd find a way to
see how Trace and Miss Bellami James were doing.  The trick would be for them
not to know about it.  Hugh had made it real plan that none of the O'Bannions
were to come around until Trace and Miss James had settled in a bit.  As
Flynn tossed the folded blanket up on the back of the bay, a mischievous
smile curved his lips.

Clell got a fresh horse and loaded bundles of food in back of the saddle.
After it was tied on, he mounted and wheeled around.  It bothered him to be
riding another horse just as hard as he'd ridden the mare earlier, but he
vowed he'd take it real easy coming home.

The sun was dipping low in a brilliant red sky when he saw Trace's windmill.
Clell used all his Indian savvy to sneak up to the house unnoticed.  He was
about two yards from the back door when he heard Trace.

"She's still asleep.  I guess she was near dead on her feet.  You can quit
stompin' around," Trace said dryly from his position behind the smokehouse.

Clell knew he'd been quiet.  The Way he'd been coming in could hardly be what
anybody could call "stomping around."  He wondered if the old myth was true,
about blind people having better hearing than other folks.  'Here's a basket
of food, and some extras.  Don't know how you'll explain where it came from,
but that's your problem.  I got to be getting' back.  " Clell turned and
started walking to his horse, taking little care to keep his spurs from
jingling.

Trace's voice stopped him cold.

"Clell, you ignored me earlier.  I want an answer, now.  What does Miss James
look like?"  Trace stood with his feet braced apart, his sinewy arms clasped
across his chest.

Clell knew the posture well.

It meant Trace had dug in like a mad badger and wasn' ting to give any ground.

"You're gonna hang on like a dog with a bone, areJ you, boy?"  Clell growled.

"Yes.  Is Miss Bellami James ugly?"

Ch~per igh Clell let out a long sigh.  He walked a couple of feet to the
pile of wood, upturning a length of pitiion.  The old cowboy sat down on the
edge and cleared his throat.

"Well, now.,.  Pretty or ugly, those words mean different things to different
people."

"Clell; quit stallin'," Trace hissed.

"I can answer you better by tellin' you a little story."  Trace groaned.  He
knew it'd be a long one--they always were.  He fanned the air with
outstretched hands until he located the side of the chicken coop and leaned
against it.  He brought one leg up to put the heel of his boot flat against
the wall.  Relatively comfortable, he prepared himself for a big windy.

Clell saw Trace get settled and took it as his cue to begin.  "Back before
your pa and I mustered out, we had to bring a herd of cattle from Sedalia to
Fort Craig.  I'd been occupied in town, longer than I should've been.  By the
time I showed up, the others already had their mounts picked for the drive.
I got stuck with the leavin's, you might say."  Clell tilted his hat back on
his head and narrowed his eyes to look back in time, remembering.

"Well the others, your pa included, had picked the pretty, flashy horses.
The only things left in the pen was a mule and a little mare.

Now, that mare was a sorry-lookin' little thing.

She had a roman nose, spavined legs, a U neck.  Looked a strong wind might
blow her over.  " He took a deep bre, pausing for a minute.."  I had half a
mind to pick the d mule, but I hate mules.  So, I finally took the little
mare.  first day or so, I sulked and pouted and thought about 1 unfair life
is, you know how a young man does.  Then at noon of the third day I began to
notice the little horse.  matter what I asked of her, she seemed
willin'--almost ger--to please.  About a week out, the other horses were
ginnin' to get downright cranky.

But not my little mare.  " farther we went, the worse those other mounts got.
P soon them other soldiers were getting' downright enviou Trace heard the
smile of satisfaction in Clell's voice.  " In fact, I had several offers to
trade, you know, for of them bigger, pretty horses.  But I wouldn't do it.
No si that little mare, she'd carry me all day long and be ready fresh in the
mornin' to do it all over agin'.  My plain 1 mare had a lot of heart.  "

Trace leaned his head back against the wall, frowning the silence stretched
on, he realized Clell was through ~ his story.

"Clell, you've told me this story about a d, times.  Every time you do, it's
supposed to have a diffe meanin'.  What're you tryin' to tell me this time?
Just s straight out."

"Just thiS, boy.  Pretty or ugly means something di ent to all men.

That little mare, to some she might have 1 ugly, to me she was downright
beautiful.  That's a deci you got to make for yourself.

Ain't no one can tell you to feel about something' you see.  Like a sunrise
or a sin Whether you see it pretty or not so pretty, that's strictl to you.
So don't be asking' me what a woman looks like "You are a mysterious o1'
bird, Clell.  I suppose that I'm going' to get out of you, isn't it?"  Trace
said as be pt foot down and leaned away from the wall.

"Yep, it is.  Now I got to go before that lady wakes up and demands to' be
taken back to civilization."  Clell walked to his horse and hopped into the
saddle.

"Trace, just remember one thing.  There's been lots of people in this world
hurt as bad as you've been hurt.  Don't ever get the notion you cornered the
market on pain.  Savvy?"

"Yep.  I savvy, and you know I'm getfin' just a little tired of you tellin'
me these stories like I was a ten-year-old."

"Well, to my way of thinkin', that's exactly how you been actin' lately!"  A
dry chuckle punctuated the statement.

The sound of spurs hitting horseflesh made Trace clench his jaw against the
truthful words that dug into him just as deep as the Spanish rowels dug into
the horse's belly.  Trace felt the rush of air as the horse trotted past him.
He was alone, with the echo of CleWs words hang{ng heavy in the air.

Turning toward the house, he wondered if Miss James was awake yet.

Trace felt around and picked up the basket from the back porch, where he'd
left it, and opened the door quietly.

He found Bellami still sleeping.  He thought about waking her, but his
mischievous side took over.  How it would devil her to wonder where the food
came from.  He placed the heavy picnic basket on the cold cook stove taking
care not to make any unnecessary noise.  Then he tiptoed out to Ghost's
corral.

It seemed like an eternity passed by while he waited.  A tiny grin teased his
mouth.  Would the little general be surprised and pleased?

She woke with a jerk.  The position she'd slept in had made a cramp in her
neck, and she rubbed the sore muscles as she tried to clear away the cobwebs
in her brain.  Bellami immediately noticed a large basket that hadn't been
there when she sat down.  Had Mr. O'Bannion put it there, or had someone
come?  Her hand flew to her cheek instinctively to cover the scar.  Someone
had seen her face.  Who?  Bellami's worry over her vanity quickly evaporated
as she realized that whoever might have seen her had left, and she was still
stuck here with Mr. O'Bannion.

She approached the mysterious basket.

Bellami had never smelled anything so good in her entire life!  The closer
she got to the basket, the more her stomach growled and the less she thought
about being stranded here.  Golden fried chicken had been wrapped in a blue
gingham cloth.  It was wonderfully brown and crunchy outside.  A crock of
fresh-churned butter with a hinged wire lid, and two large rounds of corn
bread, were stuffed into one corner of the basket.  Bellami had no idea who
her benefactor could be.  Maybe they hadn't seen her clearly.  The basket had
been set on the stove.

No lantern burned, and the room was dim.  Maybe they hadn't noticed her at
all, asleep at the table.

Her mouth watered as she stood looking at the food.  A tiny frown creased her
brow.  No one was in the house now, not even Trace.

Bellami moved to the back door.  The setting sun bronzed Ghost's gray body as
Trace brushed him.

Bellami bit her lip, wondering if she should ask him where it had come from.
No.  Obviously, whoever it was had come and gone without Mr. O'Bannion
knowing, also.  If he had been aware of someone's presence, he would've sent
Bellami packing in all possible haste,.

"The beast has probably lazed around all afternoon," she said to herself.  A
tiny, devilish smile touched her lips.  The smile broadened to a grin.
"Well, Mr. O'Bannion, I believe I'll just let you think I worked like a slave
in this hot kitchen all day.  It will serve you right to have a moment or two
of guilt."

Bellami put the food out on the table as if it were the most common thing in
the world to find dinner in a basket.  She placed the fried chicken in a
bowl, next to the hot corn bread and butter, then went to the back door.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, would you please wash up for dinner?"  Bellami called.

Trace moved across the yard without a moment's hesitation.  Bellami frowned,
trying to remember exactly when he'd quit shuffling his feet.  He brushed
passed her as he entered the kitchen.

'"Scuse me, Miss James," he said when his arm brushed her shoulder.

Bdlami tried not to suck in her breath at the light contact.  He went
straight to the hand pump.  One lean brown hand grabbed the red handle, and
he began to pump vigorously up and down.  Cold water gushed out.  He ducked
his head to splash the stream of water on his face.  She couldn't stop
herself from watching.  Dark, wet hair curled at the nape of his neck.  He
made an altogether too appealing picture.

She told herself to remember that this was strictly a business arrangement.

Trace felt his way to the chair and swung one leg over the back, plopping
down.  He breathed deeply, savoring the aroma, as she had done.

"Somethin' smells mighty good, Miss James."  He felt along the table until he
found a plate.  Without a word, they both began pili~ng food on their plates.
In their haste and hunger, they reached for the chicken simultaneously.
Trace's fingers closed around Bellami's wrist, instead of a piece of chicken.

She gasped in surprise, but she didn't pull away.  Trace felt the tension
travel down her arm to his fingers.  He knew he should release her, but he
didn't.  He simply held her while his sightless eyes stared across the table
into the unrelenting darkness.  It wasn't a hard grip.  He exerted just
enough pressure to keep her, the way he'd hold a baby bird.  She didn't
struggle or try to pull free, but every muscle in her body tensed.  Trace's
brain absorbed messages from his fingers, picking up bits of information not
available to him before.

Bellami felt his flesh touch hers, and it was like being burned.

Tingles of white-hot fire shot up her hand to her arm, and a prickly warmth
flooded her whole body.  She watched his eyes while he held her hand over the
fried chicken.

This is ridiculous.  Yet while Bellami admonished herself for not pulling
away, she gazed deep into his blind green eyes.  It was her first big
mistake.  Bellami felt a powerful heat rise.  It began somewhere deep in the
pit of her stomach and spread out, to fill her whole being.  The strength of
the feeling jolted through her.

Trace spoke, and the enchantment of the moment was broken.

"Miss James, I'm afraid I'm being' greedy.  Perhaps I want too much."

His voice was low and husky.

There was the slightest change in his eyes.  A tiny grin crept across his
chiseled face.  Only then did she realize there had been a double meaning to
his words.  Bellami felt more heat.  This time it rose to the mots of her
hair.

Trace knew she was blushing; he could actually feel the heat of it.

The effect she had on him was nothing short of stunning.  Her hand was warm
and soft and nice to hold.  Instantly his curiosity and interest sparked,
again.

This woman was a mystery, drawing him in.  Yet, while he felt himself being
drawn to her, he wanted her out of his life.  He wanted her closer and he
wanted her gone.  Gone from his home and his life.  He couldn't remember
having such conflicting emotions about anything or anyone before this.

Dinner was riveting.  Bellami and Trace plowed into their food.

Neither one said a word to the other about where it had come from.

They ate with a ravenous hunger--a hunger not just for sustenance.

Bellami was pleased with herself for fooling Trace so easily.

Especially after his remark earlier, as he held her hand.  His innuendo had
both aroused and embarrassed her.  He had the ability to make her
uncomfoi'table, yet at the same time she enjoyed being near him.  Confusion
flowed through Bellami's head.  She was so busy thinking about Trace that she
completely forgot about someone being in the house, probably seeing her scar,
and leaving her here.  The only thing occupying her mind was the magnetic
pull of her pupil.

It tickled Trace to the bone, realizing this paragon of virtue had feet of
clay.  He'd never enjoyed spending time with Miss J ames more than he was
this evening.  The knowledge he gained with every tiny intentional touch was
greedily absorbed into his brain.  She made his senses sing with newly
awakened interest.  He felta gladness and sense of well-being that had eluded
him for months.  Trace pondered the mysterious woman and her many
contradictions.

"Mr.  O'Bannion?"  She buttered another piece of corn bread.

He hastily wallowed a mouthful of chicken before he could answer.

"Yes, Miss James."

"I wonder, well, if you wouldn't mind, could you tell me about your
accident?"  she asked timidly, her voice dropping slightly when she
remembered her own reaction to a similar question.

"Accident?  he Snapped.  r'Is that what they are calling it?  My accident?"
His eyebrows rose, and a hard glint re placed the warm glow in his eyes.

Bellami was shocked by the tone of his voice.

"Well, yes.  Dr. Malone said an accident took your sight,"

"I was shot, Miss James!  Pure and simple.  It was no damned accident.

I was shot in the head, by a stupid Texas cowboy?  " His voice rang with
bitterness.

"When?"  Her voice was little more than a whisper.  She knew she shouldn't
pursue this.  He was obviously very upset, but she couldn't hold the words
back.

"Back in October."  He sighed heavily.  A sad, haunted look flitted across
his face.

"Why?"

Trace thought about it a moment.  Good question.  Had anyone ever asked why
before?

"Miss James, you're without a doubt the most unusual woman I have ever met,"
he said, leaning back in his chair, smiling.

He knew she was blushing again.

"All fight.  I'll tell you about my, uh, accident."  He squinted as if trying
to focus while looking through a mist.

She watched, as different emotions washed over his jaw, and cfinged again as
she noticed the healing nicks in his uneven whiskers.

"My brother and I went to get Elfego Baca.  He's a deputy, too.

There'd been some shootin'.  Molo Armijo rode to Socorro.  My brother and I
had just gone for breakfast," His eyes clouded over.

"I ordered steak and eggs."  He chuckled at the memory.

Bellami focused on his face, trying to read his expressions.

"A group of men from town had Elfego pinned down for a day and a half.  We
got him out easy enough--too easy, I guess."  Trace frowned and rubbed the
slender white scar on the side of his head.  The cowboy, they tell me, was
aimin' for Elfego.  Just my bad luck he was such a poor shot.  "

Trace's eyes: had gone cold and hard.  No feeling at all showed in them now,
not even hate.  Then he laughed.  Bellami couldn't believe it, but he
actually laughed out loud.  She wondered again if he might be slightly mad.
"~Why did the cowboy want to shoot Mr. Baca?"  : she asked, in all innocence.
She'd been trying to follow the confusing story and his mercurial
emotions--but neither task was easy.

"Because the cowboy was a Texan," Trace replied simply, "I'm sorry, Mr.
O'Bannion," Bellami said, Shaking her head from side to side, "but I still
don't understand.  What does being a Texan have to do with shooting people in
the head?"

"Elfego arrested another cowboy from Texas for murder.  In the process he
had to shoot a man," Trace said.

"But you said he's a deputy.  That's his job.  Why would this other man want
to shoot him for doing his job?"

Trace couldn't understand how such a smart woman didn't understand a simple
thing like the conflict between white and Indian, Mexican and Texan, farmer
and rancher.

"Miss James, people out here have beea shootin' each other because of the
color of their hides for a long time," he replied.  What did they teach them
in the city?

"Well, I still don't understand."  She laid her fork down with a clank.

"Miss J~ames."  Trace sighed heavily.

"Don't you have any kind of racial intolerance in New York?"  Trace was
genuinely interested in her answer.

Yes, I suppose we do.  Tilly told me the Irish and Chinese were treated badly
in some places.  "

"Tilly?  She a friend of yours?"  Trace leaned back in his chair, looking
thoughtful and curious.

Bellami didn't know why, but she didn't want to tell Trace that Tilly was her
maid.  For some silly reason, and she couldn't possibly understand why, she
didn't want him to know how easy she'd had it--before coming to the territory
and meeting him.

"Yes, Tilly is a friend."  She felt a little' guilty but it wasn't an
outright lie, it just wasn't exactly the whole truth.  Tilly was one of the
few people Bellami did consider a friend, one of the very few who ever saw
her without the veil.

"Well, you can tell your friend about the kind of prejur dice we have here in
the territory when you get back home.  Elfego is Mexican, and there are some
Texans--a lot, in fact--who feel that's reason enough to shoot them."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life?  Bellami said
with complete conviction.

Trace just sat there and let her words sink in.  The sincerity of her
outraged statement surprised and pleased him.  Truly, she was the most
puzzling female he'd ever met.  He hadn't really studied women up close, not
like Flynn, but he knew enough to know that she was sure different from most.
Without any good reason for doing so, Trace found himself comparing the
little general with Becky Kelly.

Becky had beauty and charm.  Now, what did Miss James have?

Character--without a doubt.  And something else.  Trace couldn't quite put a
name to it, but she possessed something, some elusive, powerful quality that
he couldn't name.  Trace frowned, trying to decide what the commodity could
be.

Bellami saw a subtle change come over Trace.  While he was talking about his
friend Elfego, for the first time she'd seen him show real concern for
another person.  But when she spoke, his scowl returned.

Evidently she'd said something to offend him again.

"Well, I'm stuffed," he said.

"I'm going' upstairs."  Trace abruptly pushed himself away from the table.
His words took her by surprise, and she jumped.  Evidently their conversation
was over, by his decision.  She felt hurt.

"Good idea.  Tomorrow we need to begin some new exercises for you.

I'll just clear up here, and then I'm off to bed myself," Bellami agreed
quickly.  Obviously he didn't intend to suffer her presence any longer.

As he walked up the stairs, Trace found himself thinking a lot about Miss
James.  Why he, d given the little general so much information about the
shooting, he didn't know.  Maybe it was because he hadn't really spoken to
anyone about it, till now.  Funny thing, too--he felt better.  Just the
simple act of putting the whole mess into words seemed to leave him somehow
more at peace about the whole thing.  Or was it his sudden, unexplainable
urge to measure Becky against Miss James?  And why on earth would any sane
man want to compare a young single woman with an old spinster?  He rubbed
his forehead, wondering if maybe the bullet had addled his brains.  As he
stepped inside his room, it dawned on him.

The little general wasn't going to say a word about the basket.  She intended
to act like she'd cooked it all.

"What a fraud!"  Trace nearly laughed aloud at the little cheat.  Oddly,
though, he found her deception kind of endearing.  For the first time since
Bellami James had shown up, he felt something akin to understanding for her.
Maybe she was human after all.

Bellami knew she should're said something about the mysterious basket, but it
was so darned nice to have the upper hand with him, for a change.  He'd been
so belligerent and rude since she'd gotten here.  And it was such a tiny
thing, really--who would it hurt?  Yet the more she congratulated herself on
fooling him, the smaller she felt.  By the time she trudged upstairs to bed,
she felt horribly guilty.  It weighed heavily on her.  Basically an honest
person, she couldn't remember ever telling anyone.  an outright lie.  Bellami
felt bad about deceiving Trace, egefi if it was a small and very well
deserved deception.  She also felt a deep compassion for him, something she
would never have believed possible a few days ago.

Knowing how he'd lost his sight suddenly made him seem less selfish and a lot
more human.

Before she retired, she thought about writing to her family and Tilly--but
how could she send a letter?  As she lay in her bed, thinking about his
story, the image of Trace being shot played over and over in her head.  The
shot rang out across the prairie, and he fell to the ground.  Then she
envisioned a man rushing to his side, his brother.  Bellami's eyelids
fluttered and drifted closed.

Trace woke with the thundering of hooves in his ears, as usual.

Swinging his legs to the floor, he started to rise.  Then, without warning,
every star in the sky exploded inside his head.  The room tilted crazily and
began to spin.  A pain, so intense he nearly lost his dinner, gripped his
head.  Trace gasped and dropped to his knees in agony.  Breathing brought on
waves of excruciating pain.  He held his fragmenting head in trembling hands.

"God..."  he moaned softly.  When he thought he was going to pass
out--actually hoped he would pass out--the pain disappeared as if it had
never happened.  He sat on the floor, weak and shaking like an aspen leaf in
the wind.

Since the shooting, he hadn't suffered any side effects.

Except, of course, being stone-blind.  The doctor in Socorro had told him he
was very lucky.  He certainly hadn't thought so at the time.  The bullet had
passed between the scalp and his head, traveling along his skull, just:
creasing him.  After he regained consciousness, the doctor had told him
there'd been some swelling, He'd warned Trace that if the swelling resumed,
he could die: Now, how am I going' to break this to the general?  he mused.
What am I sayin'?  The woman tears into me like a cougar as it is, last thing
I need to do is give her more ammunition Trace laughed, or he tried to laugh.
Itwas a bitter, hollow sound in the empty room.  Hell will freeze over
before I give her any more reason to think I'm less than a man, than she
already does.

Besides, she'd kept the food a secret.  Trace grimaced as he tried to justify
his need to keep this most recent weakness a secret of his own.  He
conveniently forgot that he and Clell had started keeping secrets with the
basket in the first place.  All that mattered to Trace right now was
salvaging: one tiny shred of his battered pride, And that meant keeping this
episode from Miss James.  Crawling back to his bed exhausted him.  When he
finally got off the floor, he climbed stiffly to the edge of the mattress.
Breathing hard, like he'd just ridden hard all day, he fell into bed.  Every
muscle in his body cried out from the strenuous bout of pain.  He marveled at
how it could twist h man into knots--a lot like a woman.

Flynn hadn't really planned to go to Traee's house, but here he was.

For hours after dark he sat on his horse watching the house.  He could see
them clearly through the kitchen window.  How he'd teased Trace about buying
a picture window.  That enormous piece of glass and the poreelain bathtub had
been the hot topic of conversation between the brothers for six months, at
least.  Now he found himself grateful.  The kerosene lamp cast pleasant
shadows across the table while they ate.

He recognized the basket instantly as the one Missy took to church socials.

When Trace took hold of Miss James's wrist, Flynn smiled.  The lady had made
some quick and damned near miraculous changes in his brother.  A tiny glimmer
of hope flamed in Flynn's chest.  He shifted his weight in the saddle and
watched them talking quietly.  A couple of times Trace actually smiled.  As
much as he hated to admit the truth of it, Hugh and Clell were right.  Trace
was getting better, and Miss James seemed to be the reason for it.  Light
played on both heads of dark hair.

"They make a damn fine-lookin' picture, don't they, Jack?"  Flynn muttered to
his horse.  The bay's ears moved back and forth in the moonlight at the
sound.  He rolled a smoke, thinking about it.  A small burden 'of guilt
lifted from his shoulders as he watched the simple scene through the big
window.

Flynn just sat there, watching the house, Even after they.  both went up the
stairs and the house got dark and quiet.  He reined his horse around quietly.

"A trip to Magdalena is what I need.  I've definitely been without a woman
for too damned long," he said aloud, kicking his horse into a gallop.

Chapter Nine.

Flynn woke to the harsh, bellowing voices of mule skinners, and
the pop of their cracking whips.  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and
turned over onto his stomach.  A groan issued from the other side of the bed
when he moved.

"What the hell?"  He growled and threw back the sheet, surprised to discover
a heart-shaped set of buttocks.  A little blonde, buck-naked, grinned up at
Flynn.

"Who are you?"  he asked in surprise.

"Clara.  Don't you remember me?  " Half-closed eyes regarded him suspiciously.

Flynn squinted his eyes.  A cloudy recollection of holding a beer in one hand
and a woman in the other came to mind.  After that, it got kind of vague and
fuzzy.  She smiled seductively as he looked her over.  Morning light shone
into her face.  Her hair glowed like a ring of flame around her head.

"Get dressed, honey.  How much do I owe you?"  he asked bluntly.  He wasn't
one to worry about the details of what went on--he just hoped he'd enjoyed
himself.

"Two dollars," she said, rising quickly from the bed.  "Two dollars!

Magdalena is getting' kind of pricey, ain't it?  Are you tryin' to get a
bigger reputation than the Varnish Queen?  " he said, teasingly, watching her
gather up clothes from scattered, haphazard piles.  Flynn frowned, wishing he
could remember more of the evening.  The girl was pretty enough.  No reason
to be tightfisted with her because he'd forgotten most of the night.
Reaching for his pants on the bedpost, he dug deep in a pocket.

"Who's the Varnish Queen?"  Clara asked, and pulled on her skirt.

"You ain't never heard of the Varnish Queen?  Hell, she's famous.  She runs a
real nice place up in White Oak.  Calls herself the Varnish Queen 'cause she
says there ain't a cowboy she can't shellac!"  Flynn slipped the two dollars
into Clara's hand, slapping her on the backside as she scampered out the
door.  Flynn cursed himself as.

he rose from the bed,

"Damn fool, ought to be old enough not to drink so much that I can't recall
my fun," Sunlight warmed his nude body as he walked barefoot to the window
overlooking the street.

Magdalena was bustling in the spring sunshine.  Wagons of ore from the Kelly
mine, eight miles away, were coming and going at an amazing pace.  Cattle in
the holding pens 1owed while they waited to be loaded onto the stock cars.
Magdalena was a booming metropolis.  Flynn touched his aching head,
grimacing.  He must've drank a goodly amount of beer.  Another thing
Magdalena could boast lately was Hammel Brothers Beer.  The Hammels' brewery
in Socorro supplied the territory with beer by rail.

Flynn squeezed his eyes tight against the throbbing of his head.  The shrill
train whistle picked that exact moment to shatter his already splitting head.
He felt the vibration of it to the marrow of his bones.  His teeth hurt, he
felt the sound so far down inside him.

"Coffee, I got to have coffee," he moaned as he pulled on his Levi's and
boots.

Flynn walked down the carpeted staircase to the street.  The rowels of his
spurs jingled, sounding like Lupe ringing the dinner bell, he noted with a
grimace.  Carefully adjusting the Stetson on his head, he managed to shade
his eyes from the morning sun.

It wasn't often he drank so much.  In his line of work, you couldn't enjoy
such frivolities.  A man with a fuzzy head and slow reflexes was a sitting
duck.  He kept the hat low and gritted his teeth as he negotiated the crowded
street.  Weaving around yelling teamsters and horses' rumps, Flynn finally
put his boots on the threshold of the restaurant.  The smell of cooking bacon
wafted through the air.  For a moment he felt a sickening feeling, and his
stomach churned.

Swallowing hard, he scanned the room quickly.  It was a habit developed by
years of wearing a badge.  One empty table, in one secluded corner, caught
his eye.  It seemed to be the only one not occupied this morning.  Flynn
pulled out a chair that afforded him a view of the street and lowered his
tall frame to the seat with a sigh.

"Howdy, Flynn," an entirely too loud, too cheerful voice said as the waitress
plunked down an empty tin cup and sloshed steaming coffee into it.  He
replied with little more than a grunt, never looking up, as he tipped the cup
to his lips.  A moment later, his' Adam apple bobbed, and he smiled
gratefully.

"Mornin'.  Bring me the usual."

She giggled at his obviously sore head.  Flynn gave her a wink.  The
freckle-faced waitress blushed, giggling prettily as she scurried to the
kitchen.  Gingerly he took off his hat to lay it on the table opposite him.
Passengers from the train were beginning to filter in.

A few more sips of coffee made their low rumble of conversation nearly
tolerable.

Flynn occupied himself by trying to guess what they did and where they all
came from.  Soon he had them lumped roughly into two categories.  East, and
the rest of the country.

East was easy.  They were soft-looking men with pasty white faces and smooth
hands.  The women had creamy skin and wore clothes that would be in shreds by
the end of one day in the territory.

The rest of the country consisted of hard men, work-worn and tough, with
restless eyes that scanned the room.  The women's eyes held a sad, haunted,
slightly hungry look.  One gaunt older man with a thin mustache, carrying the
black bag of a physician, held Flynn's attention.  The man was pale to the
point of looking unhealthy.  While Flynn watched, he doti bled over in a
racking fit of coughing, The handkerchief he dabbed at his mouth was spotted
with flecks of bright crimson.  Flynn had heard tales of people coming here
for their failing health.  This was obviously one of them.  He frowned,
doubting a change of climate would be enough to cure the man's ills.  Flynn's
gaze traveled over the group, but kept returning to a tall, well-built man
about Trace's age.  He was well dressed and definitely Eastern, but that
wasn't why' Flynn watched him.  He seemed vaguely familiar.  Not so much his
face, but the way he moved, or something.

The marshal sipped his coffee, frowning.  His head still hurt, and not being
able to remember where he'd seen the man worried him, Maybe a wanted poster?
~He 15tided himself on being able to recollect faces and names.

The young Easterner strode across the room and spoke to the pretty
freckle-faced waitress.  She looked around the room, then shook her head.
Disappointment was written all over the man's face.  The blushing girl walked
away with speckled coffeepot in hand.  She had a red-and-white checkered rag
around the wire handle, and Steam rose from the spout.

"Honey, what does the dude want?"  Flynn drawled, in- i clining his head in
the direction of the traveler.

"He wants to eat, but there ain't no empty tables," replied succinctly, Flynn
looked back at him.  Again the vague sensation recognition nagged at him.

"Tell him he's welcome to share my table."  Maybe a close-up view would clear
the cobwebs.

The waitress's eyebrows rose, surprised at Flynn's uncharacteristic display
of generosity so early in the day.  With a high-pitched giggle, she swayed
back toward the group of passengers standing near the door.  After a brief
moment of giggles and mumbles, Flynn saw the stranger look in his direction.
A pair of blue-gray eyes narrowed momentarily, and then the stranger smiled
in gratitude.  White teeth flashed in a clean-shaven face.  For a split
second, while the man walked toward him, Flynn almost knew why the dude was
so familiar.

Then the answer evaporated into the fog of his hangover.

"Hello.  I thought I'd stand there until I starved to death," a deep voice
with a slight accent said in crisp, educated tones.  The man was definitely
from the East.

"Pull up a chair, mister."  Flynn gestured as the waitress brought a cup and
filled it to the brim with coffee.  She smiled shyly at the man, who pulled
out a chair opposite Flynn.

"Is it always like this?"  the Easterner asked, looking around the room,
which was rapidly becoming more congested as people waited for a table,
"Since the Kelly started shipping ore, it has been."  Flynn leaned back in
his chair, sipping his coffee.  He studied the man with suspicious eyes.  The
nagging feeling of having met before returned.

In a remarkably short time, the young woman placed two huge plates of ham and
eggs in front of Flynn and the stranger.  The man attacked his with a
vengeance.  Flynn couldn't help but grin at his obvious hunger.

He chuckled silently as the gentleman polished off his food, and several more
cups' of strong black coffee.

"You always eat like that?"  Flynn asked with a broad grin on his face.  He
hadn't been able to finish his own breakfast, but his headache was gone.
He'd started to feel almost human.

"No, not usually.  It's been a long trip."  A lopsided grin appeared.

"You mind me asking' where you're from?"  Flynn couldn't believe the words
even as they left his lips.  His curiosity had driven him crazy.

The idea that they'd met before just wouldn't give him any peace.

"No, not at all.  I'm from New York," the baritone voice replied pleasantly.
Flynn didn't doubt that for a minute.  Any man around here asked that
question Would've been mad as hell.  Most residents of the territory resented
being asked where they came from, or what they'd done before they arrived.
It was considered the height of bad manners, like asking somebody what his
name was curiosity prodded him further.  Since his companion seem to mind his
rude interrogation, he might as well find out what he could: "What are you
doin' here?"

he blurted out.

"I came for a visit.  I have a relative out here."

Flynn narrowed his eyes and searched the man's face.  The hair on the back of
his neck bristled.  It only did that when he wasn't going to like something.
The man was stilling companionably, explaining his answer.  :: "She's staying
near here, at a ranch."  Blue-gray eyes met Flynn's steady gaze unflinchingly.

The man didn't act like somebody on the run.  Still, knew something wasn't
right.  His nerves were taut.

The dude smiled, sipping his hot coffee.

"My here, doing a job.  Maybe you've met her.  Bellami Flynn nearly spewed a
mouthful of.  coffee clear across table.  Choking, he swallowed the hot
liquid, trying to gain his composure.

"Bellami James!"  he sputtered choking slightly on the name.  All other sound
in the rant came to a screeching halt.  .

The man across the table blinked in surprise at FI, reaction, and then his
sky-blue eyes narrowed.  Bellami James.  " His voice took on a dry, flinty "
What's this all about, Mister?  And I don't believe I g your name.  "

He stiffened and sat more erect.

"O'Bannion, Flynn O' Bannion.  My brother is the 'jol your sister is out here
to do," Flynn replied dryly.  He sighe heavily and leaned back in his chair
again.  Now the vag familiarity, the odd sense of having met the man befor~
made sense.  Bellami James had a brother--a twin brothe: "Oh?  Doc led us to
believe all the O'Bannion childn were much younger.  My name is Brooks,
Brooks James.  He smiled again, but it was not nearly as friendly a smile ~
before.  He rose, politely extending his hand across the t ble.

Flynn stood to shake hands with the young man.  Now t saw the resemblance.
It was the way he moved.  Brooks an Bellami had the same smooth economy of
motion.  A sort ~ natural grace.  Since Flynn hadn't seen her face, he couldn
say if they looked alike or noL "So, you and your sister thought the job
would be taki, care of a passel of children, huh?"  Flynn started grinnin
then began to chuckle.  Within a second, he was laughi heartily.

Brooks rose from his chair.  A hard frown creased his t longer
amiable-looking brow.

"Please, Mr. James, sit down," Flynn suggested.

"We'~ a lot to talk about.  There are some things about your si ter's
employment here you should know.  I doubt you' going' to like it very much."
Flynn wiped the mirthful moi ture from his eyes.  He'd laughed so hard his
eyes were b, ginning to tear.

Brooks's cold eyes told Flynn humor was the far the thing from his mind.

"I'm sorry to laugh, but you see, it appears your frie Doc was just as
dishonest with Bellami as my pa was wi Trace."  Flynn took a deep breath.

"Trace is near toyo own age.  He's the reason my pa sent for a teacher."

Brooks's frown turned to a deep scowl.  Once-clear blue eyes now looked like
Southwestern thunderheads.

"Why would they lie about such a thing?"  he questioned as the waitress
refilled their cups.

"Maybe they had sense enough to know she would probably refuse the job,"
Flynn said without a hint of his previous humor.

Brooks sat still and digested that for a moment.  His face began to feel sore
from the steady pressure he kept exerting on his jaw.  He was furious.  With
himself, with Doe Malone, and mostly with Trace O'Bannion for being a grown
man, and not an innocent little boy.  As he continued to watch the man
opposite him, his anger rose to a fever pitch.

Finally, Flynn stopped speaking.  He stared across the table expectantly at
Brooks.  It was obvious he expected some kind of response.  Brooks opened his
mouth to speak, then slammed it shut.  He closed his.  eyes tight for one
brief moment and rose from his chair.

He placed his palms flat against the table, his vision clouded with barely
controlled anger.

Flynn's instincts prickled at Brooks's posture.  At moment, the pale
passenger from the East bumped Flynn': chair, and was seized with another fit
of coughing.  Flyn allowed his eyes to flick over the hacking man for only
second.  It was just long enough.  He felt Brooks's neet with his jaw as he
heard a resounding thud.  ache came back.  All motion around them ceased as
patrons froze in mid thought mid-sentence.  Every waited, expecting
bloodshed.  It looked like the whole had taken a deep breath and was holding
it.  Fly once and clamped his jaw tight as a vise.  Very quietly, spoke.

"What was that for?"  He was a bit stunned and but not angry.  He rubbed his
jaw.  Brooks had a hell good right.

"Well, I can't very well go beat up a blind man!  Let's just say you took
that one for your brother."  Brooks's voice dropped to a low, controlled
timbre.  As he spoke, the dining room suddenly abandoned its vigil.
Obviously the men weren't going to brawl or draw.  Relief flooded through the
crowded dining room.

Flynn's entire appearance changed suddenly when he heard Brooks's words.  He
raised his head slowly and locked on to Brooks's cool blue-gray eyes.

"I wish to God I could take more than that for him."

Flynn's voice cracked with emotion.

The anguish in Flynn's voice diffused any remaining fury in Brooks.

He sat back down, stunned by the conviction of the other man's words.

With a jolt, he realized they shared a bond.  Neither of them spoke for a few
minutes, each lost in his own private world--a world of guilt and remorse.

A heavy sigh' escaped Flynn,.  and he lowered his eyes, staring at his cup as
he swirled the dark liquid around and around.

"If I'd been payin' more attention, talkin'less, or if I had drawn
faster--anythin'..."  He seemed to be speaking to someone who wasn't there at
the table, or perhaps to himself.  He' raised his eyes to regard Brooks
darkly.  "Mr.  James, I'm responsible for my brother's blindness, just as
surely as if I pulled the trigger.  Can you understand how that feels?  To
allow a thing like that to happen?"  A long silence answered his question.

Brooks felt the Cold tentacles grip his chest.  He knew what it was, of
course--guilt, pure, hollow guilt.  How many times had he said nearly those
same words to himself?  He knew he should say something, something polite and
casual, but his throat felt tight.  A perfect stranger sat across from him,
saying things he'd said over and over to himself since the day of Bellami's
accident.  He wanted to rise, to leave, to flee.  He felt exposed,
vulnerable.  Guilty.

"I'm not in the habit of asking' favors from any man, but I'm going' to ask
one of you, Mr. James.  Your sister was brought here without my knowledge.
If I'd known what my father and his friend were up to, I would've put a stop
to it.  But I didn't.  Now your sister is here, and I've seen with my own
eyes she is helpin' my brother.  I'm asking' you to wait.  Wait awhile before
you go see her."

Flynn spoke quietly, but his words sizzled with emotion.

Brooks wanted to refuse.  He intended to refuse.  Even as his brain groped
for the right words to say no, he knew he couldn't do it.  He couldn't refuse
this hard, proud man.  Even if it meant leaving Bellami alone awhile longer
with Trace O'Bannion--a full-grown man, not a helpless child.  Lord, what
would his family say?  Rod would have a fit, The connection between Flynn and
Brooks was strong, too strong to ignore Brooks looked across the table and
saw himself.

Flynn O'Bannion was, in a sense, his perfect counterpart.  They had failed to
protect the people they loved, and now those people were suffering for thei~r
inadequacy.

"All fight, Mr. O'Bannion," he sighed heavily.

"I'll wait for a while."  His voice was low.

Flynn smiled.  It wasn't the kind of smile he usually wore; it held none of
his usual flashy bravado.  This smile was one of pure gratitude.

"Thank you, Mr. James.  I owe you."  He said it easily, but Brooks felt the
deep meaning in the words.

"Well, I guess I better go find a hotel and arrange for a room if I'm going
to be here for a while."  i Brooks rubbed his hands across his eyes and
sighed.

Flynn crinkled his dark eyebrows.

"That won't be necessary.  Since my family has snarled your life up with our
problems, it's only fair you come stay at the ranch.  There's enough room,
Lord knows, and it's only five miles from Trace's place.  I think you'd feel
better, I mean about the arrangement, if you were closer."

Brooks nodded mutely and finished his coffee.  He knew what he'd just agreed
to, but the why of it puzzled him.  Conversation between the two men seemed
impossible as they finished the last dregs of the coffee.

Flynn picked up his Stetson, placing it on his head, and rose from his chair,
As he turned toward the door, he heard a familiar voice.  A jolt of anger
coursed through him.  Brooks stood up, watching the lawman stiffen.

"Why, Flynn, it has been just ages," the feminin voice declared.

Brooks heard the rustle of petticoats as the woman swished forward.

Morning sun caught her hair, setting it ablaze.  She looked like a tiny,
bright flame standing before Flynn's dark glare.

Flynn had never hit a woman in his life, but he considered it now.

"Hallo, Becky," he said, his voice flat as Magdalena Mesa.  The tension did
not go unnoticed by the girl.  She looked at him thoughtfully for a minute.
Flynn had the impression of a snake focusing on a mouse before devouring it.
He clenched his jaw tighter.

"How is Trace?  I've been intending to stop by; but you know, it's so painful
for me."  Her voice dripped with reigned sympathy.

Flynn watched as she cast a sideways glance at the tall man standing at his
side, obviously curious.  He shifted his weight, and one spur jingled.

"Yes, I've seen just how much pain it's caused you in the last few months."

She flinched.  For a moment, Flynn thought she might retreat in fear, but she
didn't.  Instead, she raised her chin and lowered her lashes coquettishly.

"Aren't you going to introduce me, Flynn?"  She smiled up at Brooks.

"Becky Kelly, this is Brooks James."  Flynn said, without one shred of
enthusiasm.

Brooks looked at Flynn, trying to perceive what was between the two.

"Miss Kelly."  He grasped her hand and brought it close to his lips, stopping
just short of the back of her hand.  ' Her body tensed in anticipation.
Flynn tasted something sour in his mouth, and his head started pounding
again.  She disgusted him.  He'd never known what Trace saw in her.  He
thought Trace was actually better off without her, saved from God knew what,
but how did you convince somebody in love of something like that?  It rankled
him, knowing his brother suffered even one moment of pain because of her cold
indifference.

"Will you be with us long, Mr. James?"  Becky asked in her most fli~'tatious
simper.

Brooks hesitated, for only a moment, but Flynn saw it.  He saw it and
realized Mr. James wasn't taken in.  He knew the grasping, manipulative
female for what she was.  Flynn's respect for the Easterner rose another
notch.

"Perhaps," Brooks replied noncommittally.  He released her hand, narrowing
his eyes at her, as his face changed ever so slightly.  He took on a
predatory look of his own.

"I'm going to be a houseguest at Mr. O'Bannion's ranch."  He gave a brilliant
and completely treacherous smile to the woman.

"Oh?  Well, I really have been meaning to get out there.  I haven't had a
good visit with Missy in ever so long.  Perhaps we will see each other soon."
She turned back to Flynn, trying her very best to look sincere.  It didn't
work--she still looked like a cold-blooded reptile.  No wonder the Indians
compared liars to snakes.  It wasn't their tongues, it was more the cold,"
flat eyes.

' "Please tell your father and Missy that I will come by this week."

"Oh, I'm real sure Missy will be lookin' forward to that."  Flynn quipped
sarcastically.  Yeah, she'd probably be sharpening a skinning knife in
anticipation.  He nodded curtly, touching the brim of his hat.  Even that
small gesture of courtesy seemed too good to waste on Becky.  She made him
want to throw up.

Brooks looked at Flynn, seeing the hard set of his jaw, as they left the
building.

"Are you going to enlighten me?"  he asked lightly.

"Trace fancied himself in love, with her."  Flynn pronounced her, like a vile
word.

"When he was blinded, she couldn't get away from him fast enough."

"A loyal one, eh?"  Brooks raised one eyebrow.  Flynn got the impression Mr.
Brooks James might have seen a few Becky Kellys in his life.  They walked
side by side toward the baggage area of the train depot, Occasionally they
sidestepped to make room for groups of people claiming valises and trunks.

"You didn't fall for all that flutterin' and sashayin'.  Why not?"

Flynn was curious again.  Becky had never interested him--so few women really
did--but he'd seen the effect Becky had on most of the unattached men in the
territory.

"I guess I'm just immune.  Her kind is all I ever see in New York.  One thing
about it, though, once you have that kind of sickness, you'll never catch it
a second time.  One dose and you're immune for life,"

Brooks said, sounding jaded and old.

"I look at Claire and Bellami, and I know that another kind of woman exists,
somewhere."

Flynn felt another kind of kinship with the man.  He usually felt the same
disappointment in the women he met, "Who's Claire?"  he asked quietly as they
gathered up Brooks's baggage and walked toward the livery.

"My older sister--she's married.  Claire James Cooper, very proper--upper
crust of New York society."  Brooks made a dour face, joking, but instantly
he turned serious again.

"Bellami and Claire are quiet different.  Claire likes the social scene."  He
acted like he was going to say more, then stopped.

Flynn prodded him.

"Go on.  You were fixin' to say Bellami doesn't, right?"

Brooks looked puzzled as they stopped at the door of the livery and set the
baggage down.

"Well, you've seen Bellami.  She shuns groups of people, because of it."
Brooks said quietly, turning his face away from Flynn.

The marshal had seen the pained expression on Brooks's face as he turned
away.  He frowned.

"It?  Mr. James, I don't quite catch your meanin'."  Flynn wanted to know
what it was.

Brooks turned back to Flynn, seeing genuine ignorance there.

"The scar, of course, Mr. O'Bannion," Brooks snapped impatiently.

"What scar?"  Now Flynn was really intrigued.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, have you met my sister or not?"  Brooks was feeling
apprehensive.  What kind of joke was this?  Was Bellami here, or wasn't she?

Flynn shifted his weight and used the toe of his boot to dislodge a pebble in
the diR.  He looked at Brooks for a moment, then lowered his eyes.

"I met her, but I didn't see her face.  She was in Socorro, wearin' a hat
with a veil."  Flynn spoke softly, a Wistful quality to his voice.

Brooks could feel the curiosity issue from the man.

"I see.  Exactly who has seen my sister, Mr. O'Bannion?"

Flynn frowned, looking thoughtful for a moment.  He turned toward the
cornflower-blue sky, squinting.  He thought about spying on Trace and Bellami
through the big picture window.

"Trace.  As far as I know, the only person she's been around, without the
hat, is my brother Trace," he finally replied.

Brooks raised one eyebrow, and a tiny, sardonic grin tugged at his lips.

"I see--and your brother is completely blind."

Flynn waited for Brooks to provide more of an explanation, but he turned,
entering the livery.  Evidently the answers to his many questions would have
to wait.  Flynn glanced at Brooks a couple of times while they loaded the
rented buckboard.  Brooks picked up the reins as he climbed in.  He handled
the two-horse team expertly, and that surprised Flynn.

"You know how to drive a team?"  Flynn asked, and raised his dark eyebrows.

Brooks grinned, pleased with himself.

"Escorting ladies around Central Park has many advantages."  He chuckled as
he slapped the reins against the horses' rumps.

Mounting his big gelding, Flynn moved out in front to set the pace as the two
left town.  Each man pondered what the other had said, and not said, as they
rode toward the O'Bannion spread.

Chapter Ten.

The sun highlighted the austere terrain of the New Mexico
Territory.

As they approached the outskirts of town, Flynn pulled up his bay and wheeled
him around.  With one lanky hand he directed Brooks's attention to a
mountainside.

"Look up there," Flynn said as the gelding danced, anxious to be on his way
again.

Brooks squinted up at the side of the mountain, not seeing anything out of
the ordinary.

"What?"

"Do you see her?"  Flynn asked, hardly concealing his mischievous grin.

"Her?  I don't see anything but the Side of a mountain."  Brooks suspected
Flynn was having fun with the "tenderfoot."  He'd been warned on the long
train ride that hard-bitten cowboys could be ruthless in their humorous
exploits.

"Look, see the outline of a woman's face, the hair?"  Flynn said as he
continued to point.  He drew an imaginary line with his outstretched hand.

Brooks began to distinguish the image of a woman's face in profile.

He nodded slowly at Flynn, a frown appearing between his brows.

"Our Lady of Magdalena.  Folks 'round here say the Apache won't attack within
sight of her.  Funny thing, too, those bushes never change, never grow, never
die.  The outline never gets bigger or different in any way."  Flynn looked
pensive for a moment, then turned to Brooks with a totally innocent smile
shining on his face, "Of course, it's all superstition, right?," Brooks
didn't really believe all that Flynn said.  Yet something in those brown eyes
bade him believe it.  This man was a difficult puzzle to put together.

"This is one of those things you got to decide for yourself."  Flynn chuckled
as he let the bay have his head and move out again.  Brooks continued
Watching him as he rode beside the wagon.  Meadowlarks sang to each other
from the shelter of cacti and sagebrush.  Soon Brooks was lulled into a
pleasant drowsiness.  The steady creaking of wood and leather made his
eyelids heavy.  The team automatically matched their pace to keep up with
Flynn.  There was little for Brooks to do except watch the broad-shouldered
man ahead of him.

Flynn stopped and took a relaxed position, draping his reins across the
saddle horn.  He drew a pale cloth bag from his shirt pocket: Brooks watched,
fascinated, as the man produced a narrow, thin paper and proceeded to roll
his own cigarette.  It was no easy feat, especially on the back of a horse,
but Flynn made it look like nothing at all'.  He drew a long puff on the
stubby cigarette, allowing the smoke to escape his nostrils in a slender
tendril.

Brooks used the idle time to.  look at the countryside, They lingered beside
a flat, grassy plain, where a well-worn trail intersected the rutted wagon
road.  Brooks stared out over the grassland, his brown eyes narrowing as he
picked out a -large dust cloud moving slowly but deliberately toward
Magdalena.

Flynn lifted his Stetson and ran his long fingers through his hair.

The sun caught the auburn color for a brief moment, haloing him in light.
Brooks saw by the direction of his gaze that he was watching the dust cloud.
Brooks stared at it until shapes started to take form.  Cattle,
hundreds--maybe thousands--of them, moved across the flat plain.

Long, heavy curving horns sprouted from their lowered heads.  They reminded
him of sabers, sweeping forward, then spiraling down and inward.

"What's this place?"  Brooks asked as he stood up in the buckboard to get a
better look at the mass of animals.

"The Plains of San Augustin.  Folks say iLwas a lake bed long, long ago.
It's near forty-five miles 16ng and fifteen miles wide.  Makes it real easy
for the cattle."  Flynn finished his smoke, setting the hat back on his head.
He kicked his horse lightly, and Brooks realized it was time to move on.  "
He allowed himself one last look at the cattle and the dusty cowboys moving
toward him across the still pl aim Settling back on the seat, clicking to the
horses, he followed Flynn.

Brooks was beginning to like the harsh, untamed country, By noon, Brooks had
shed his suit coat.  Using the sleeve of his shirt, he dragged it across his
forehead, wiping the sweat away.  He wished herd bought better clothes in
town.  Silently he chided himself for being so ill-equipped.  ~ Riding around
Central Park was a far cry from what he was doing now.  He felt small and
insignificant in the vast openness.  Bright blue sky and endless prairie
stretched as far as he could see.  They'd been traveling for hours and the
only noises had been the creaking of leather and wood and the breathing of
the horses.  Brooks felt a kind of hypnotic lethargy Flynn's voice took him
totally by surprise.  He jumped, and Flynn grinned broadly.

"That's Trace's place over there.  If you look, you can see the top of the
windmill from here."  Flynn pointed with his chin.

Brooks squinted, jus making out the small, dark circle atop the wooden
tower.  He could see the outline of a fairly large house.  He thought about
just turning the wagon, leaving Flynn sitting there, but of course he didn't.
He'd promised Flynn he'd wait, and he intended to keep his word.  Brooks
took a deep breath and held it for a moment.

rear less Hearts "Thinkin' about your promise, aren't you?"  Flynn said
curtly, looking out toward the spinning windmill.  Brooks released his breath
as he nodded.

"Well?"  Flynn said.

"Well what?  I promisedl Do you think just because I'm from the East I can't
keep my word?"  One brow rose indignantly.

Flynn's gaze never wavered or changed.  The bay pawed the earth, showing his
irritation at yet another stop.  The horse was used to a much quicker pace
than the One he'd had today.

"I expect you'll keep your word."  He let the horse have his head.

Before the bay took two steps, a shrill scream, sounding almost like a
whistle, floated to them on the breeze.  Flynn's body vibrated in the saddle
as his horse answered the call, his body jerking rhythmically as he nickered
toward Trace's ranch.

"What was that?"  Brooks eyes widened.

"I guess Ghost can smell us" ' Flynn said with a wistful look in his brown
eyes.

"Who or what is Ghost?"  Brooks wished his companion could be just a little
more generous with his explanations.  Pulling teeth would be easier than
getting any kind of complete answer out of him.

"Trace's stallion," Flynn said.

Brooks grimaced.  Flynn acted like releasing the tiny scrap of information
hurt him physically.  The name Ghost meant nothing to him.

He raised both eyebrows questioningly.

"A stallion can smell and hear things you wouldn't believe," Flynn supplied,
catching Brooks's expectant look.

"How much farther did you say your ranch is?"  Brooks asked as they resumed
their leisurely pace.

"Around five miles."

"Tell me something, Flynn" -- the wagon lurched to a stop as Brooks pulled
back on the long reins.

"Hmm?"

"Is everyone in your family as talkative as you are?"  Sarcasm rang across
the prairie.

Flynn chuckled.  Soon it erupted into sidesplitting laughter.  He
convulsively slapped his hand down on his denim covered thigh, several times
in quick succession.  He was soon pulling off his Stetson, brushing his hand
through his hair again.  The man on horseback completely mystified Brooks.

"Whee, you're entertainin', by thunder," Flynn said.  "Now that you mention
it, I suppose I ought to tell you what to expect when you reach the ranch."
Flynn was still grinning.

"Pa's an old soldier--be can be cantankerous, but usually he's pretty easy to
get along with.

Clell, he'll talk your leg off 'if you're not careful.  He's like an uncle to
all of us.  Shane is the ripe old age of twenty, cocksure of himself.
Logan's the baby, fourteen now, wantin' to grow up fast, be a man--watch it
if you play cards with him.  And there's Missy.  " He studied Brooks.

"Your sister?"  Brooks asked, hoping he might again prompt an unusual flood
of words.  Flynn had spoken more in the last few minutes than the whole long
trip combined.

"Yep.  My baby sister."  Flynn frowned, taking an appraising look at Brooks.

"I don't quite know how to say this, except to just spit it out."

Brooks felt uncomfortable.  Obviously something was terribly wrong with
Flynn's sister.  He could see how the man hesitated to talk about it.  It
must be something dreadful.

"Missy is nearly seventeen.  Our mother died when she was just a kid, around
five or so.  We boys raised her."  His eyes lost their sharp focus as he
stared out across the endless grassland.

"We've kinda taught her to be a little rough.  She can ride like a Comanche,
rope a steer, shoot fast and straight.  She can skin a deer better than most
~Then."  He shifted in his saddle, causing the leather to groan softly.

The big gelding's ears twitched back and forth.

"What're you trying to say, Flynn?"

Flynn smirked at him.

"She just hates tenderfeet.  Missy is more of a man than most men.  I hope
you are up to it, 'cause I have a feelin' she might make life interestin' for
you!  She can be... sort of opinionated sometimes."  Flynn was chortling
again," and Brooks felt his irritation growing.  Flynn appeared to be highly
amused by the look on his face.

"Flynn, I seriously doubt that a sixteen-year-old girl is going to bother me
much."  Brooks snorted.  A sixteen year old girl--why, the very idea!

"Just remember I warned you, she don't take to strangers, and she really
don't cotton to dudes."

Clell continued to eye the slow progress of the buckboard, aS he'd been doing
for over an hour.  From his vantage point above Trace's ranch, he could see
for miles around.  Several times he'd seen Flynn pull up his horse and speak
to the other man.  He was mighty curious, but he wasn't going to leave, not
just yet.  The argument he'd been having with himself for two days wasn't
over yet, and it was a toss-up which side was winning, Whimpering sounds
escaped the leather saddlebags.  A fluffy ball of gravy and tawny fur
wriggled at the open flap.  By twisting in h~s saddle, Clell was able to
reach in and extract a good-size 1obo pup, It made a low growling gound in
its throat when Clell lifted it bytbe loose scruff around its thick neck.

"Settle down, you li'l devil?  Clell had found the she-wolf poisoned outside
her den, near Trace's house, two days ago.  She'd died trying to reach her
pups, Only one had survived-this one.  Now Clell found himself sitting above
Trace's ranch, trying to make a decision, Wolves, even baby wolves, weren't
looked upon with benevolence in the territory.  Bounty on their hides was
leading to wholesale slaughter, and it sickened Clell.  All the mindless
killing.  Any idiot could see how the smaller animals and rodents were
multiplying, damaging the range, since they weren't being  158 kept in cheek
by wolves or other predators.  Even hawks and eagles were being regarded as
enemies of the rancher all of a sudden.

"Stupid, just plain stupid, to my way of thinkin'," Clell muttered to the pup
as he rubbed his gnarled hand through its fur.  It growled and tried to sink
needle-sharp teeth into his hand.  He chuckled, but a deep sadness came over
him, and for one black moment he feared man might actually kill every last
one of the wolves living in the territory.

"Surely not.  That'd be insanity--they got to have more sense than that," he
said aloud, squinting his eyes and looking back toward Trace's house below.

Amber eyes looked up at him as a rough tongue licked across his wide thumb.
The trusting cub was the source of Clell's dilemma.  He couldn't keep the cu
; Hugh would have a fit--after all, he was a prominent member of the local
cattlemen's association.  Still, Clell couldn't bring himself to abandon the
helpless creature.

He'd considered ending its life--mercifully.  Then he'd been so revolted by
the idea, he growled and skulked around the ranch in a fury.  The old
soldier's attention turned back to the ranch below him.

The sun was going down, bathin the entire yard in a rosy glow.

Bellami was moving inside the kitchen.  He could see her through the big dow.

He'd managed several furtive trips to the ranch over past couple of days
while he pondered the question of 1obo pup.  Once, he'd left a blueberry pie,
still Another time, three loaves of freshly baked bread, with a couple of
tins of pitiion nuts--Trace's favorites.

Last year had been extra good for the nuts, and hoarded them away selfishly,
like one of the local s{ He hadn't examined his reasons for leaving the nuts
closely.  If he had done so, he would've had to admit he'd them out of guilt.
He'd been avoiding Trace on his lately, and he felt bad about it.  He was
still watching the woman inside the kitchen when a thought hit him.

Grinning like a fox in a henhouse, Clell tucked the large pup inside his
shirt.  He tried to rebutton it, but finally had to content himself with
leaving the pup's head sticking out the front between the bulging buttons.
The hefty ball of fur fidgeted for only a minute, then settled down
comfortably.

Clell shifted the reins on the horse's neck.  The last rays of sun burnished
the hillside to a coppery red as he turned toward the back of Trace
O'Bannion's house.

Stopping his mount well away from the house, he tied the reins to a salt
cedar, crouching down low.  Using the skill learned from years of
Indian-fighting, he moved toward the house.

A scant yard from the back door, he took the animal from his shirt.

Very carefully he deposited the pup on the' gray, weathering step at the back
door.  He rapped sharply on the door and melted away into the shadows.  When
Clell reached his mount, he allowed himself one last look back: A little
warning voice in his head said he might someday regret this decision.  He
noticed the trunks still sitting on the porch as he rode away.

"Somethin' will have to be done about those damned trunks," he told his horse
as they topped the rise and turned toward Hugh's spread.

Clell 'heard an unfamiliar voice when he stepped through the back door of
Hugh's house.  Lupe scurried past him with a basket of t0rtillas.  He placed
his index finger on his lips.

"Shh..."  He winked at her as she brushed passed him.  She nodded, smiling.
Clell came and went frequently, sometimes not letting the family know he'd
even been there.  Quietly Clell followed her to the door, taking a peek
around the corner at the group seated at the table.

At the head of the table, Hugh was smiling.  Shane was laughing at some joke
or other, and Logan looked downright jolly.  That in itself usually meant
trouble.  Flynn was watching his father with mild amusement shining in his
brown eyes, Missy sat glaring at somebody, or something, just beyond CleWs
view.  The look in her black eyes was pure steel.

He'd seen that look only a few times before.  Once when she'd taken a
horsewhip to a man for kicking a cur dog, and once when she'd killed a
rattler in the henhouse.  Clell couldn't help being curious about the critter
causing such a reaction in her now.  Taking another step, he craned his head
around to see the far end of the table.

There sat a young man with his back to Clell.  He didn't even have a pair of
horns or cloven hooves.  His hair was silky and dark as-- Clell let out a low
whistle, realizing immediately where he'd seen hair like that before.  Only
once had he seen hair that precise color.

The sound of the whistle halted all conversation.  Everyone turned to look at
Clell, including the young man.  Feeling mighty embarrassed to get caught
sneaking around, Clell managed a timid grin.

"Sorry" ' he said sheepishly.

Hugh rose from the table, happy to see his old friend.  "Clell, please, sit
down and eat with us.  We have company.  Flynn brought this young man home.
Allow me to introduce you."

"No need.  I'm Clell, and you must be related to Bellami James."  Clell
grinned, taking a step toward the man with his right hand outstretched.

Brooks smiled.

"Was it so easy to figure out?"  He shook CleWs hand eagerly.

"Real easy.  I've seen hair that color only once.  On Bellami James.

Not to mention a certain resemblance.  " He colored slightly and let his
words trail off.  He breathed a sigh of relief when nobody commented on his.
slip of the tongue.  Explaining how he knew what Bellami James looked like
could be a bit tricky.

"Well, you're right, of course.  I'm Brooks, Bellami's twin brother."

Clell cast his eyes around the table.  The boys seemed to accept the young
Easterner completely .  but Missy .  Clell was surprised to see so much
hostility in her.

"Missy, is something' botherin' you?"  He pulled out the chair beside her and
sat down, never taking his eyes off her face.

She didn't answer.  Instead, she shot another venomous glare toward Brooks.
Flynn watched her from under partially lowered lashes.  Clell saw the
slightest twitching of his lips, as if a grin wanted to burst across his face.

Brooks James looked at Missy for a moment with deep intensity in his light
eyes, then turned to face Clell.  White teeth flashed in a dazzling smile.

"Miss O'Bannion is not very happy to have me here, I'm afraid."

Clell raised a gray eyebrow.

"Oh?  Why is that?"  Clell could se none of the O'Bannions were going to
explain anything to him.  Brooks would have to supply the details.

"She's afraid I'll persuade Bellami to return home with me to New York.
Actually, Miss O'Bannion has told me if I so much as try to speak to my
sister she'll shoot me.

"In my black heart," I believe was how she poetically put it.  " Brooks'
turned his full gaze on the pair of black eyes examining him intently.  For a
full minute they held each other's gaze.  There wasn't any backup in either
one of them.  This could be a problem, Clell mused.

Flynn coughed once behind his hand.  Clell knew he was fighting to keep from
busting out laughing.

"Well, if this isn't the damnedest thing I've ever seen," Clell whispered
under his breath.

Logan, ever the diplomat, broke the silence.

"Pass the tortillas and chili, please."  His co~ky smirk quickly withered as
two sets of eyes drilled him.  One pair was black as night, the other dove
gray, and both full of defiant strength.

Chapter Eleven.

Bellami touched the pup affectionately.  He made little
growling noises in his throat, and his whole body vibrated.  The pup stuck
his nose deeper in the pan, smacking his jaws as he braced his paws,
jealously protecting his food.

Bellami giggled.

"Little pig."  She'd been feeding him a concoction of corn breadl eggs, bacon
drippings and whatever scraps were left from dinner.  He looked bigger
already.  His head was wide, topped by petite pointy ears with black tufts of
hair.  She didn't know what kind of a dog he was.  Nothing in New York looked
quite like this.  She'd been calling him Tip, for the tips on his ears.

For the past week, she'd been hurriedly finishing the evening meal in order
to go to her room.  Mr. O'Bannion had been more sullen and pensive lately,
anyway.  He didn't even seem to mind her early departures.  She suspected he
enjoyed his solitude, since it appeared he barely tolerated her presence most
of the time.  There'd been a subtle change in him recently.  He seemed to be
losing some of the restless energy that plagued him.  He acted calmer,
quieter.  She didn't know if that was a good sign or not.  Maybe this new
attitude signaled acceptance of his situation.

Bellami shuddered at the thought.  Trace O'Bannion was by far the rudest,
most self-pitying man she'd ever met, but it made her sad to think he might
be settling into a safe, undemanding life.  A life where he'd have no
challenges.  She felt color drain from her face.

She realized she didn't want him to do exactly what she'd done so many years
ago.

She'd withdrawn into a safe, insulated world, where her limits had never been
challenged--until now.  Her quiet soul-searching was interrupted by a
determined tugging on the hem of her cotton gown.

She looked down into amber eyes that caught the light from the kerosene lamp
and reflected it back.  Never had she seen such odd eyes.

"Tip!  You little scamp.  Are you ready to go to sleep?"  Squatting down, she
ruffled his neck.  She picked up the heavy pup and took him to the corner of
her room to put him in a basket filled with soft cloth.  Bellami's best
flannel gown now made a bed for her new pet.

When she placed him in the basket, he regarded her for a moment with serious
eyes.  His head plopped down between outstretched paws.  She smiled as a
contented sigh escaped his body.

"Happy?"  she asked, giving him one last stroke through his thick ruff.  The
cub blinked a couple of times at the sound of her voice.

When the hoofbeats began, low and regular, as they did every night, Bellami
moaned, and turned over.  She squeezed her eyes tight, refusing to leave her
warm bed and dreams.  It was just too difficult to break the bonds of sleep
and walk to the window.  She slipped back into the dream.  Brooks called to
her from a distance.  She knew she must seek him out, but in her dream she
couldn't move.  A gentle force kept her firmly rooted: She couldn't break
away, and she really didn't want to.  The hoofbeats quickened as she slipped
further into the velvet softness of her dream.

Trace reached the bottom of the stairs and sat down, pulling on his boots and
shoving his arms into his denim jacket.  The.  spring nights still were cool
enough to frost sometimes.  Every night it seemed to take longer and longer
until he didn't hear any sounds coming from Miss James's room.  He grinned,
thinking about the little charade he'd been playing the past couple of weeks.
Ghost had been prancing and pawing, anxious to get started for a while now.

Opening the back door and screen, Trace crept to Ghost's corral.  The huge
gray stallion whiffled his nose against Trace's cheek in greeting.  Trace
leaned his face against the horse's head affectionately.

"Hello, old boy.  So you've been waitin', too, have you," Trace whispered as
he felt the stallion's ears working back and forth.

Trace didn't open the gate.  Instead he folded his muscular body and squeezed
between the rails of the fence.  Once inside, he ran his hand along Ghost's
neck, feeling for a handful of mane at the withers.

Giving the beast one loving pat, he vaulted up onto his back.  Trace braced
himself for the customary dizziness as it predictably swept over him.  It
passed, as usual, within 2 minute or two.

Firmly planted on the stallion's back, he shifted his weight almost
imperceptibly, and the horse moved.  There was no bridle, no saddle, only
horse and man.  Both of them reveled in the newly discovered freedom of the
night.  Trace rode in the large corral, animal and man exploring, learning
together.  The subtle knee commands, the shifting of his seat.  Ghost never
faltered and, so far, Trace had only fallen once.

He thought back to the first night, and his clumsy attempt.  It made him
chuckle.  He had tried to ride immediately after one of his "spells."  That
was how he thought of them now, as spells.

Trace had had trouble sleeping that night.  He'd been pacing his room when
the pain came blazing through his head, bringing him to his knees in a cold,
gut-wrenching sweat.  He'd bitten down on his lip until it bled to keep from
crying out.  He hadn't wanted to alert Mits James.

For what seemed an eternity, he'd lain on the cool wood floor, paralyzed--in
too much shattering agony to move.  When the pain abruptly left, he'd heard
the horse nickering to him, calling to him to try, just once more.  Trace had
felt like a small boy sneaking out of the house that night.

The episodes of pain were becoming more frequent and more severe.  He knew he
had only a short time to live.  Death lay just around the corner.  The doctor
had warned him--he knew what to expect.  He was going to die, and he was
damned well going to ride again before he did.  It was that simple.  Now
Trace grabbed for all the life he could and held on to it with both hands.

They'd settled into a pattern, he and Miss James.  As soon as dinner was
over, he discouraged any conversation with her so that she'd go to' her room.
Funny, she hadn't seemed to mind too much, either.  She seemed almost eager
to climb the stairs each night.

Ghost changed leads, and Trace shifted his weight and regained his balance.
He intended to show Miss James what he'd accomplished, just once, before he
died.  The thought of how impressed she'd be brought .  a silly grin of
vanity to his lips.

The memory of his first attempt returned.  Trace chuckled out loud, thinking
of what a fool he could be at times.  He'd been so excited to be riding
again, he'd vaulted completely over Ghost's back.  He'd hit the ground,
laughing like an idiot.

When he finally got up and back on the' horse, he'd felt better than he had
in a long, long time.  Now, only a short time later, he had regained the
grace and strength lost during his long period of inactivity.  He was
developing senses that he'd never relied on before.

The stallion felt the slight change and stopped on command.  Taking a deep
breath of the clear air, Trace prepared to dismount.  Then, from nowhere,
came another keen stab of pain.  A sensation like someone cleaving his head
from his shoulders seized Trace.  He sagged forward, onto the gray's neck,
holding the mane with quivering hands.  Cold beads of sweat broke out on his
face and upper lip while he groaned in agony.  Incredibly, for a brief
instant, Trace saw a glimmer of light.  Like the first weak ray of sun in
winter.  He wasn't really sure his impression of sight was real, he was in so
much pain.  But for an instant there did seem to be light, or at least less
darkness, as if someone had raised a curtain in a darkened room.  Then it was
gone.  With the vanishing beam went the pain.

He slid weakly off Ghost.  His knees buckled when his feet touched the
ground.  Moaning, he held on to the thick neck for support, waiting for the
weakness to pass.  Finally he was able to make his way to the house.  He
crept up the stairs, exhausted.

He had just placed his hand on the doorknob to his room when he heard a sound.

"I must be going' crazy," he whispered to himself, He could've sworn he heard
soft whining coming from inside Miss James's room.

"Fool," he said, shaking his head.

He closed the door behind him and pulled off his boots, dropping them easily
to the floor.  He stripped off his clothes and climbed stiffly into bed.
Soon he was dreaming of riding Ghost across the New Mexico Territory.

Bellami woke to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

"Impossible," she muttered to herself as she flopped over.

Pulling the blanket over her head, she tried to shut out the bright light.
She'd had dreams all night long, and this was obviously just one more.  But
the persistent smell lingered, and finally she opened her eyes and sniffed
suspiciously.  It was coffee!

Dressing hurriedly, she kept glancing at Tip.  Now how on earth could she get
him outside without Mr. O'Bannion knowing?  The man had become extremely
perceptive--even if he was sightless.

Bellami worried her lip with her teeth while she tried to find an answer.
Silently she cursed herself for being so timid.  She'd been afraid he would
object to her keeping a dog, so she'd kept her new pet a secret--and now she
didn't know how to tell him.

Amber eyes scrutinized her somberly from inside the basket.  Tip raised his
head, moving his pointed ears back and forth, but he remained silent.
Bellami marveled at how quiet he could be.  She remembered the strays she and
Brooks had dragged home in New York.

Their noise had kept the whole family awake all night long.

Not Tip.  He would obligingly lie quiet as a mouse until Bellami came to take
him outside.  She tried to find some way to hide him as she came downstairs.

Bellami adjusted her long skirts again.  With luck, this just might work.
The pup had been stuffed inside the oversize pocket sewn within her skirt.
Mr. O'Bannion would think she was on her way to the outhouse.  Surely even he
wouldn't ask any questions about that.

Feeling like a little girl, she tiptoed down the stairs.  Mercifully, none of
them creaked under her feet.

Trace sat at the table drinking coffee.  His head came up with a snap of
awareness when she entered the room.  His scrutiny never ceased to unnerve
her.  The haunted, probing look in those emerald eyes as he looked toward her
face.  His jet-black hair was neatly combed back, and little damp curls of
dark hair showed at his temples and.  the nape of his neck.  His beard was
beginning to grow scruffy again.  She grimaced, remembering the time she'd
shaved him.  Considering what a mess she'd made of his face, Bellami felt
certain that first attempt would be the last.

"Good mornin', Miss James," he drawled lazily.  Again Bellami detected a
subtle difference in his demeanor.

"Morning," she said crisply as she slipped past him, out the back door.  As
she shut the screen she thought she heard him chuckling.  She hurried toward
the outhouse, slipping Tip out of her skirts as she went.  He hit the ground
running, ready to begin his usual daily routine.  She watched him
investigating the yard with his customary thoroughness.  The silly pup put
his heart and soul into the morning's diversion.

He spent a lot of' time at the little stream, each day.  Giggling, she
allowed herself a peaceful moment to observe his antics.  He laid his ears
flat against his broad head, lowering his body.  With precision he placed one
foot in front of the other, creeping up on his intended victim.  Today it was
a large, grayish goose with a black head.  It was considerably taller than
Tip, but that seemed of little importance to the mighty hunter.

She saw the dog recoil quickly when the bird's long neck snaked out
menacingly toward him.  The goose made a hissing noise that sent shivers up
her spine.  Bellami watched for a few minutes longer, then decided she needed
to get back inside.  The time had come to accelerate Mr. O'Bannion's training.

"Miss James, I think you are crazy!"  Trace's voice was deep and rich.

Bellami felt the timbre of it as he spoke.

She had expected him to bea little stubborn, but this was ridiculous.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, I assure you I'm not crazy.  Blind people do read using Mr.
Braille's system."  She sighed heavily as she started explaining for the
fifth time this morning.  They were not going to get much done today if he
continued to be so obstinate.

"In New York, this has been in use for some time..  Now, if you'd try to be a
little less..."

"Pigheaded?"  he supplied thoughtfully, grinning happily in her direction.

Bellami felt the color rise in her face.

"Yes!  Pigheaded, bullheaded, mule headed whatever animal you feel like
today!"  She slammed the book against the table in frustration.  The room
shook with the force of it, He laughed.  A rich, hearty sound.  When he
turned sightless yet compelling eyes in her direction, she saw that they
twinkled merrily.

Today he wore a plaid shirt with pearl buttons.  A sprig of black chest hair
curled over the top of the first buttonhole.  When he moved, the material
stretched over his abundant chest and shoulders.  Such a handsome brute, the
way his dimples threatened to show as he laughed.  She just couldn't find it
in her heart to get angry with him, not today.

"Miss James, sit down," he ordered softly.

"You work too hard.  You certainly work me too hard!  Don't you ever want to
do anythin' else?

Tell me about yourself.  Tell me about New York City.  " He adjusted his long
legs, and she couldn't help but notice the softer, lighter blue denim at the
juncture of those long legs.  His muscular thighs bulged against the fabric
as he moved to find a comfortable position.

Bellami swallowed hard, obediently sitting down.

"What would you like to know?"  Her voice was almost a whisper.  Her throat
felt tight and funny.  This happened every time she let her guard down
lately.  Every time she looked at Mr. O'Bannion as a man, instead of as her
student.

"Everythin'," he said huskily, throwing his head back.  He closed his eyes.
Jet-black lashes, curly at the ends, lay against his finely sculpted
cheekbones.  Except for the scar where the bullet had creased his head, he
was flawless, even with the now almost healed razor nicks in his chiseled
chin.  She hadn't noticed until now how utterly perfect his features were.

She could see the pulse in his neck.  A sharp pang of regret gripped her.
The man was beautiful!  What kind of a woman did he desire?

Certainly someone who could match his physical perfection, not some pitiful
flawed creature like herself.

"Miss James?  Tell me about your family."  The silence had slipped by as she
momentarily lost track of time.

"All right."  She swallowed hard.  With great determination, she tried not to
be mesmerized by his face and his jewel-colored eyes.

"I have two brothers and one sister.  My father retired a few years ago.  Now
he spends all his time doting on my mother.  I--I don't know what else to
say," she stammered apologetically after another moment of silence passed
between them.

Her fingers worried on the edge of her bodice.

"Tell me about you.  What do you do in New York, besides work with blind
children?"  His voice was hypnotic.

Bellam: searched her mind for an answer.  What did she do?  The cloth knotted
and twisted as she wrung it between her fingers.

Trace could feel her panic rising.  He knew it as surely as if he could see.
He knew her.  He had learned her eve mood, and yet he didn't know her at
all.  The flame of riosity blazed to life again.  She was the strangest
Always his little general, in control, ter of every situation.  Except one.
The few times Trace shown any interest in her private life, he'd felt her
alarm, felt her fragile veneer of control crumbling.  He he should back off
and leave h alone, side urged him on.  He continued to press her.

"Surely ~ are lots of things to interest you in New York."  one of them.
What is it you do for fun, Miss James?  "

Bellam: could feel her face going pale: Fun?  Fun?

was the last time she'd had fun?  Her mind raced like a away horse.

Bellam: was being drawn back to that against her will.  That terrible day.

A carnival.  Brooks and Bellam: had been going carnival.  Bellam: stood up
quickly.  Her full' skirt the edge of a chair, causing it to tumble backward
and the floor with a crash.  Her head was spinning.  tions spun out of
control, as well.

Trace felt her fear and panic, and his need to comfort l surged forward.  He
reached out for her as he stood up could hear her muttering something
incoherent.  to sway, stumbling.  She was going to fall--he sensed it.

"Miss James?"  Instantly he regretted q realized too late how much it upset
her.  But why?

l'earless Hearts 171 could have happened to her?  The need to protect her
bloomed inside him.

A cold, sick feeling gripped Bellami's stomach.  The memory of that day
washed over her, and she felt as if she were suffocating.  She fought for
control.  She tried to push the memories back into the reg.

esses of her mind, where they'd been safely tucked away for years, but they
refused to obey.  Her vision blurred, and she couldn't seem to find her
center of gravity.  She was flying away, slipping, losing herself.  Then,
somewhere in all the confusion of her senses, she felt strong arms and hands.

Trace took hold of her shoulders, steadying her.  Even though she was still
gasping for breath, she felt comfort in that steely grip.

Closing her eyes, she leaned into his chest', panting.  The room still tilted
c;~azily, and a sick dizziness threatened to make her spill the contents of
her stomach, but she sucked in great gulps of air.

"It's all right, Miss James.  I'm here, it's okay, just relax.  Lean against
me.  There, that's the way."  He spoke to her like he would a scared animal.
He felt her breath coming in short little gasps against his chest.  She
shuddered and continued to cling to him.  ' To him.

Trace felt her small hands on either side of his ribs, clutching his shirt.
Twisting her hands and squeezing tighter, until the pearl buttons started to
pop open.  One by one, they broke off and hit the floor with a hollow clink.
He felt the cool air on his bare chest.  An unreasonable sensation of
satisfaction flooded his body.  He knew she wasn't aware of her actions; she
just kept clinging to him as if she were too terrified to let go.  But still,
he felt so good holding her, offering comfort and solace to the little
general.  He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the sweet scent of
her.  She shivered within his grasp.

What was happening to her?  This had never happened before.  Even when she
came home from the hospital, there'd been a calm about her.  She didn't
understand.  Why was this happening?  At this moment, the only thing
sensible, realistic Bellami James could be sure of were the strong arms
holding her.  A small, anguished cry escaped her lips as she struggled to
master her terror.

Trace heard one muffled sound of utter pain and desolation leave her.

It went ripping through his heart like nothing had ever done before in his
life.  The need to protect the frail woman within his arms surged through
him.  Bending his head toward her, he caught the unmistakable smell of her.
Lavender and woman's smell.  Soft, sensuous, powerful.

Holding her tighter, he whispered things he wasn't even sure made sense.
Trace didn't know what else to do.  His experience with women was somewhat
limited.  He'd certainly never tried to comfort one before.  Even as a child,
Missy had been less vulnerable than this woman.  Miss James's sorrow ripped a
hole in him as wide as the San Francisco River, and he didn't know how to
help her.  Gently kissing the top of her head, he could feel the silky
strands of hair against his lips.  In a heartbeat, the urge to comfort her
became something different.  He felt the blood heavy and thick in' his veins.
She felt so warm, so soft, so totally helpless and feminine in his grip.

Trace released one arm, slipping his hand around her back, pulling her
closer.  Now he squeezed her form against him all the way down from his bare
chest to his thighs.  He could feel the heat of her through the fabric of his
Levi's.  A sensation of pleasure rocked him from head to toe.  Tightening his
grip, he appreciated the smallness of her waist.  The end of her long, heavy
braid brushed the back of his hand.  It was so long and soft.  He tried to
guess the exact shade of brown.  Not brown, like she said, not just plain old
brown, but dark, like the velvety night.

Feeling her growing still and calm in his arms, he suddenly was afraid she
might shove him away.  The fear of rereartess t~earts 173 jection squeezed
his chest.  Fear and his instinct for self-preservation chilled the warm
feelings growing within his heart.

Foolish, foolish man.  Foolish, blind man, he chided himself.  What would any
woman, even an ugly woman, want with half a man?  Still, he couldn't release
her.  His body had a will of its own.  He continued to hold on to her as if
she were the essence of his life, warm and fragile.  Closing his eyes, Trace
breathed deeply, wanting to cherish and memorize every scent, every curve of
her warm body--before she shoved him away.

Bellami became vaguely aware of her surroundings.  A warm firmness pressed
against the entire front of her body.  For a moment her mind refused to accept
the situation She simply could not believe it--Mr.

Trace O'Bannion Was holding her, Holding her as if she were something
precious to him.  She knew she should remove herself from his arms, but she
felt so safe, and yet at the same time so vulnerable.  She felt at this
moment more a woman than ever before in her life.

Without realizing it, she moved closer to that wonderful, hard warmth.  His
arms felt like a haven from the world.  With a deep sigh, she relaxed against
his chest, content and calm.  Finally, Bellami forced herself to lean away
from him, just a little, so that she could see his face.  His expression was
beautiful.  Utterly, painfully beautiful.  She marveled at the kind of wonder
surrounding his face.

His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, as if he'd been chopping
wood all morning.  Fascinated, she continued to look at him with her head
tilted back.  Then, slowly, he started bending his face toward hers.  She
watched for a moment, but then the image became too achingly magnificent for
her to watch, and she allowed her eyes to flutter shut.

When his lips brushed hers, something primal and strong exploded inside her.
Bellami felt as if she had touched hot embers.  She worried she might faint
away from the force of it.  Some instinct in her wanted more, wanted to
explore and taste him.  Parting her lips, she felt a shock ripple through her
as his tongue invaded her mouth.  He outlined the inside of her lips.  She
let her tongue meet his and tentatively touch.

Bellami had.  never been kissed before.  The feel of his stubbly beard
against her face was rough and exciting.  She caught a taste on his lips.  It
was unlike anything she had known before, and it whetted her appetite for
more, much more.

Trace wanted to devour her.  He wanted to hold and kiss and lick every part
of her.  She tasted sweet, like nectar he'd once sucked from a honeysuckle
blossom.  The taste and feeling of her imprisoned him like a spider's web.
He raised his hand to touch her face, and allowed his fingers to caress her
neck and along her cheek.  He immediately felt her' stiffen in his grasp.

Bellami pushed herself away from him.  The magic moment had ended the minute
his fingers neared the scar on her face.

For long moments they stood apart, but not apart.  Not touching, yet each
feeling the other intimately, as if they were skin to skin.

Taking a deep breath, Trace tried hard to tamp down his passion.  He had
never felt anything like it before.  There was no reference point for the
power this woman had over him.  She scorched him, and yet she refreshed and
cooled him, all at once.

Bellami could see his jaw tightening.  Suddenly she saw him tense every
muscle in his body.  His shirt hung open, and she watched the muscles in his
stomach ripple with hidden strength.  Something told her touching him would
feel so good.  If she just trailed her fingers over that chest, downward.
rear tess Hearts 175 The dark hair growing in a line down his flat belly
looked damp.  She followed it with her eyes.  A tiny gasp escaped her
kiss-swollen lips when she saw the hard bulge within the soft, pale denim.
Blood heated her cheeks as she snapped her eyes back up to his face.  He had
opened his eyes, and a tiny grin teased his mouth.  Emerald eyes smoldered
with some secret emotion she couldn't fathom.

"Miss James?"  His deep, husky voice made her stomach contract.

"Would you do something' for me, please?"  He was still breathing deeply.

"Of course" Mr. O'Bannion.  " If she could just remem, her she was his
teacher.  He was her student.  He needed her to teach him.  : " Would you
give me another shave?  " The dimple appeared in his cheek, along with the
impish grin.

Trace decided he could endure any amount of torture, just to have her hands
on him again--even if it meant being peeled alive.

Minutes later, her fingers trembled as she worked the brush along the contour
of his jaw, Bellami swallowed hard as she lathered his face.

Closing his eyes, he ordered his body and mind to memorize the feel of her.
Again he cursed himself.  for being such a fool.  This was pointless torture,
and he knew it.  Still, while his mind told him that he was a cripple, with
no right to hope and dream, a tiny seed of want and hope grew valiantly in
his chest.

He heard her heavy sigh and felt the cold edge of his own razor skim along
his jaw.  No sting or burn accompanied the feeling this time.

She hesitated.

"It's all right Miss James.  I survived your first attempt, remember?"

Trace clenched his fists, forcing them down into his lap.  God, he wanted to
reach out and grab her.  He wanted to hold her, to cover her slim body with
his.

Bellami couldn't stop her hands from shaking, and yet he seemed so calm.  He
actually acted as if nothing peculiar had taken place.  She watched his face
for a moment, and suddenly it dawned on her.  What had happened wasn't
anything extraordinary for him at all.  Fool!

Silly little fool, she told herself.  A man as handsome as Trace O'Bannion
had probably been kissing girls like that since he was a half-grown boy.
With a feeling of bitter disappointment, she chided herself again.  Bellami
had spent many years telling herself she had no right to expect love and torn
ant4 like other women, and yet the first man to treat her like a woman made
her forget all that.

Suddenly she felt a resentment so deep it hurt.  She turned that resentment
toward Trace.  How could he have taken such liberties?  How could he do that
to her?  The kiss had been nothing, had meant nothing.  It was such a small,
insignificant thing to him, yet-he'd never begin to know what it cost her.

Now she knew.  And the knowing was like bitter poison to her.  What had been
a mystery before now had shape arid substance and form.  She was no longer
ignorant of what she was missing--would always miss.  She cursed him silently
Damn you, I wish I hadn't found out.

A dam of emotion inside her broke.  All her pent-up and dreams suddenly
poured out, engulfing her flooding her judgment with painful to shout at him,
to beat her fists against his chest.

him hurt the way she was hurting now.  Why, oh, why?  she'd go through all
the rest of her lonely ing the feel of his embrace, the touch of his lips,
the ant scratch of his beard.

Gritting her teeth, she somehow forced her hand still.  She began sliding the
razor across his chiseled jaw.

I wish I'd never laid eyes on you Trace O'Bannion.

Chapter Twelve.

Trace tried to calm the vortex of thoughts swirling through
his brain as he rode the stallion.  He felt like he was going to explode,
shatter into a thousand little pieces.  This situation with Miss James
nibbled away at him like some strange disease.

He caught himself thinking of her at least a hundred times each day, and a
thousand more at night.  When she leaned over him to place his fingers on the
odd little raised dots that she said would make words, he felt himself
falling into a bottomless pit.  Just the touch of her hands or the scent of
her near him drove him into a hot frenzy of passion.  He'd been adjusting his
pants to accommodate his swollen tumescence with amazing regularity lately.
Did she know how often his face burned with embarrassment?  How could she not
know.  He was the blind one, not her.  He was as randy as a mustang stud all
the time, and it was Miss James that made him that way.

Trace knew his tenuous grip was slipping.  He knew he was losing the battle
being waged within himself.  Persuading her to shave him had been both
torment and euphoria.  Each time she came near, his sex rose and burned with
unrelenting heat.

Ghost picked up his pace, changing leads.  Nearby, a coyote yipped
mournfully.  Trace patted the side of the stallion's neck appreciatively.

"Good boy."

If he didn't have this outlet for his frustration, he didn't know what would
happen.  The past three weeks had been a Sort of delicious hell.  Since he'd
kissed her, she'd never left his thoughts for very long.

Trace had shocked Miss James mightily by insisting they have lessons twice a
day, instead of one, as they been doing since her arrival.

She'd been damned hesitant at first.  He squeezed his eyes shut in misery.
She didn't want to be with him any more than was absolutely necessary, that
was obvious; He didn't care.  He had no pride left when it came to her.  If
enduring the slow, complicated process of learning braille: kept her near
him, then he'd do it.  He'd willingly walk through fire if he could hold her
once again.  Just thinking of her now in the still night brought on another
painful erection.  Snorting with disgust at his weakness, he swung his leg
over the horse and slld to the ground.  Standing in the open corral, he
pointed his face toward heaven.  "Please; God,"

he whispered into the night.

No answering voice came.  His plea floated on the night air, lost amid the
whispering wind and the chirping of crickets.  Walking back to the house,
Trace took long, deep breaths, trying in vain to calm himself.

He opened the door with the stealth of long practice and stepped inside,
Finding a chair, he sat down and quietly pulled off his boots so that he
could tiptoe up the stairs like he had every night.  When he reached the top
of the landing, he heard it again.  A low sort of whining noise.  Taking a
step closer to Miss James's door, he listened.  He strained for a sound of
her.

Just thinking of her lying in bed, sleeping, made his heart beat faster.
Clenching his boots to his chest, he turned to his own room.

Then he heard her cry out.  Without even thinking about it, he dropped his
boots to the floor with a thud, and burst through her door.  For a moment,
and only amopearless Hearts menthe was disoriented.  Then he took a deep
breath, knew exactly where she was.  He knew by her sweet lay der scent.  She
Was standing in the middle of the ro Immediately he sensed the same panic
issuing from body, the same as before.

"Miss James?"  he asked softly, "are you all right?"  kept moving slowly
toward her as he spoke.  She didn't swer.

Trace lifted his right hand and brushed his fingers aga soft fabric.

Her whimpering moans and his breathing w the only sounds he could hear in the
room.  He closed fingers gently around the warmth of her upper arm.  ,~
started to make more of a sniffling noise.

"Miss James?"  Stepping to her side, he felt her tr bling all over.

It tore right: through him.  He wrapped arms around her, and he experienced
such a powerful r of pleasure, it was almost obscene.

Trace cursed himself feeling so happy to be holding her when she was locket
some nightmare of pain.

The firmness of her breast under the thin gown eau liquid fire to burn in his
veins.  He was glad she wasn't ally awake.  If she knew how much lust was
coursing throttle his body, she'd recoil in horror.

Trace knew he'd die if rejected him.

He held her head gently, and she suddenly leaned aga: his chest.

Smoothing back her loose hair, he allowed h self a wild moment of indulgence.
He wrapped a lengtl: it around his fist, savoring the feel and weight of it.
smiled because of the sheer pleasure embracing her g him.  Then he heard her
voice.

"Oh, Brooks.  Brooks, it hurts."  Her voice was full anguish and pain.

Pure, cold jealousy filled him.  Trace clamped his jaw tight it throbbed.  He
didn't know who Brooks was, but loathed him.  Whoever he was, Bellami cared
for him,.  from the anguish in her voice and her words, it was pi he'd hurt
her.  He continued to hurt her now, in her nightmarish prison.  Trace kept
stroking her back, trying to comfort her while visions of her caring for
another man wrenched his gut.

Bending down, he slipped an arm under her firm buttocks.  He lifted her
slender body and took a step.  Pushing the sensation of the way it felt to
hold her to the back of his mind took a monumental effort.

Crossing the room with her in his arms was the longest and the shortest
journey of his life.  Gently he laid her down and pulled the blanket up over
her legs.  He smoothed the long hair back from her face.  She never woke up.

Determined to curb his primal desires, he remained a moment by her bed.  He
allowed his fingers to touch her softly.  HIS hand moved down her neck with a
will of its own--down her chest.  Feeling the nipple firm beneath the fabric,
he sucked in his breath.  Then he felt the outline of her body.  Sh6 felt
utterly perfect beneath his rough fingers.  He wanted to stroke her face,
cover her body, bury himself deep within her.

Knowing that if he stayed his control would evaporate, Trace sighed heavily
and moved toward the door.  He stopped at the door and listened to her even
breathing.  She started to whisper again.

"I love you, Brooks."

Trace blindly stumbled to his room in a jealous rage.  He closed the door and
leaned against it, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing the images into the
darkness that was his world.  Her words echoed in his head, more powerful
than the kick of a mule.  His breath came in short, painful gasps.  Miss
James was in love.  It explained a lot.

Trace had wondered why she had consented to take this job, way out here, so
far from her home and family.  Now he knew--she was obviously not a woman
happy in love.

His hurt feelings busily constructed the entire situation.  He could see the
innocent Miss James being lured to destructibn and ruin by a more worldly
man.  Then, in another cenario, he saw her wiping tears from her face,
waiting at the altar for a bridegroom who never came.  Brooks.  His rival had
a name.

Sheid been ridiculed, She'd given her heart to someone who p~ayed her false.
That was why she called herself ugly.  Had he left her for a prettier woman?
Feelings of hate assaulted Trace as he sought an explanation for Miss James's
torment.  Bailing up his fists, he pushed himself away from the do~r, cursing
as he walked toward his window.

He raised it roughly.  The clean, crisp air rushed across his face.

Theiintensity of pain that engulfed him was the worst so far.  H felt his
knees turn to water as he grabbed for the railing[ on the balcony, but it was
too late.  He fell heavily, as if he'd been clubbed from behind, This time he
feared he would lose consciousness.  Clamping his jaw down, he fought to
master the anguish with all the strength he possessed.  ~ With one shaking
hand, he, finally found a purchase on thel railing and slowly pulled himself
up.  Panting with effort,~he opened his eyes a crack.

Below, Trace could see, through a milky fog, the distinct outline of a
corral, and inside it a pale horse.  Ghost.

Disbelief gripped him.  Then, when he allowed himself to believe it might be
true and not the wishful image his tortured mind conjured up, it started to
dim and rapidly disappeared.

Trace understood!  Laughing, bitterly disappointed, he knew what lay in store
for him.  He'd see again, all right, and then h~e'd die.  A few months ago,
even a few weeks ago, Trace would've welcomed death.

Now a tenuous little flame struggled to burn within him.  Trace clung
tenaciously to his life, limited though it might be.  He wanted laughter,
sunshine.  He wanted to ride Ghost and feel the sun on his shoulders.  But
most of all he wanted Beilami James.

Waking early, Bellami smelled coffee again.  Wincing, she threw her hand
over her eyes.  Her nights had been one torturous nightmare after another
lately, and her lack of restful sleep was beginning to wear on her.  When she
turned over, her hand slid from the mattress and her knuckles came to rest
against the floor.  A soft nudge was followed by a rough, wet tongue licking
her hand.

"Good morning, Tip."  She turned her head and looked into somber yellow eyes.
His large head was nearly level with the bed now.  In a matter of weeks,
he'd grown so much he no longer looked like a pup.

Tip was reaching the gangly stage of puberty.  He stood as tall as the shelty
she and Brooks grew up with in New York, and he was growing more every day.
She grinned at the serious canine face wishing she could read his mind.  The
answer to some mysterious secret seemed concealed in his amber eyes.

Nudging her again, he indicated how anxious he was to escape his confinement.
~ Grudgingly, Bellami got up.  After she smuggled him outside each morning,
she watched him lope off across the prairie, wondering where he went and what
he did all day.  Carrying him downstairs had become impossible in the past
couple of weeks.  Now she was forced to wait until Trace went to brush Ghost
every morning, then slip into the parlor and let Tip out the front door.  He
was always quiet, so it had worked thus far, but how long would her luck hold?

Sticking her head out her doo~r she listened carefully.  No sound came from
the kitchen.  She assumed Trace had gone outside.  He'd developed the custom
of rising before her over the past several weeks.  She saw him at lesson time
and at meals.  The rest of the day he kept busy here and there outdoors.  He
still insisted they work double-time on his training-probably in an effort to
send her packing as soon as possible.  She puzzled over his changed attitude.

He'd become almost fastidious in his appearance, too.  Now he insisted,
rather forcefully, in fact, that she shave him regularly.

His beard barely had time to grow at all before he would begin badgering her
about needing a shave.  In fact, only her pleading fatigue and exhaustion
kept it from being a daily event.

When she lied and told him how tired she was, he quickly consented to being
shaved every other day.  The look of concern on his face seemed almost
genuine.  She allowed herself to feel flattered by it, for a brief moment,
until her better sense prevailed.  Trace O'Bannion's mind was changing daily,
right along with his appearance, as if he were being driven by some unseen
force.  Bellami made a quick slicing motion vith her hand, and the lanky
animal-fell into step beside her.  They made their way downstairs quietly.
She crossed the floor on tiptoe.  As she opened the heavy oak door, she
whispered softly to Tip.  He froze in midstep.  His amber eyes glowed.  His
ears lay flat against his head.

"What is it, Tip?"  Bellami frowned.  She'd never seen him act like this
before.  Turning back to the doorway, she gave a startled little yelp of
surprise.  Trace stood no more than six inches from her face.

"Miss James, did I startle you?"  They both heard the low snarl behind
Bellami in the parlor.  She glanced back.  Tip crinkled his flews across the
top of his broad muzzle.  White fangs flashed against rose-colored gums.  A
deadly look blazed within his eyes.

"What have you got in there, Miss James?"  Trace asked her mildly.  He slowly
moved into the doorway, positioning himself in front of her.

Broad shoulders rested against the frame of the door.  He crossed his arms at
his chest.

He had his shirtsleeves rolled up, and Bellami chided herself for noticing
the knotting muscles in his forearms.

"It is, er, that is... I found... Oh, drat--it's a dog," she finally blurted
out in disgruntled embarrassment.

"A dog?  Sounds more like a mad badger."  One dark eyebrow rose, as if to
emphasize his point.

Tip was not moving.  He held his body in a low crouch.  Bellami could see the
muscles tightening in his body, as if he were readying himself to spring.
The change in her beloved pet was uncanny.

She felt a soft whisper.  Trace's breath fluttered across the hair on her
neck.  An involuntary shudder immediately traveled down the length of her
body.  Tip's eyes darted from Trace to her and back again.  A vague worry
that Mr. O'Bannion might be in jeopardy nagged at her.

"Does this dog have a name?"  Trace leaned in closer toward her as he spoke.

"Tip.  I call him Tip.  I hope you don't mind.  He's very quiet.  I found him
at the back door.  I should've told you.  I apologize."  She frowned, trying
to will her body to stop trembling with excitement.

When she looked up at him, she was struck by the mainly picture he presented.
His eyes were half closed, in a lazy, sensuous expression.

He seemed to be contemplating something, Her heart flip-flopped as it always
did when he was near her.  Memories of his searing kiss returned, unbidden
and unappreciated.

It was almost enough for Trace, being this close.  Almost.  He kept talking,
allowing his senses to enjoy her nearness.  Each time he inhaled, lavender
scent floated to his nose.  He could feel the heat from her body.  When she
spoke to him, soft puffs of her breath tickled his lips.  He wanted to kiss
her.

He'd been aware of the animal for a while now.  Actually, he'd expected to
find she'd smuggled in some sort of a cat, or a baby coon.  The soft padding
of the paws didn't sound like any dog he knew of.  He'd been a little
surprised to hear the deep, throaty growl coming from inside the parlor.  The
critter sounded big and mean.

"I

don't care a bit about the dog, Miss James.  If you like it, keep it.

Keep as many as you wish.  Keep a dozen, if you want.  I'd like you to feel
at home here.  " With a sigh, he pushed himself away from the door-frame and
sauntered away.

Tip relaxed immediately.  He moved nearer to Bellami, sniffing, as if to
assure himself she was well.  Then, with one last glance of his oh-so-wise
gold eyes, he padded off the porch into the sunshine.  She watched him go.
With a grin, she noticed that he traveled using a lazy gait similar to
Trace's own.

"Men."  She sighed as she shut the door.

Trace leaned against the corral and listened intently to the sounds of life
around him.  He could identify geese flying overhead, and a meadowlark on the
fencepost of Ghost's corral.  The chickens were scratching the dirt, and
Bellami was moving around in the kitchen.  He felt her presence even at this
distance.  He wanted her.  His mind and body ached with wanting her.  Each
time he found himself thinking about the way her soft voice sounded in the
night, blood boiled in his veins.

"Damn you."  He cursed no one in particular.  He felt his body grow rigid
with frustration and want.  Then a thought came 'to him, and he sucked in his
breath.  Beliami was in love with another man, but she was here, and the
mysterious, fickle Brooks wasn't.  Trace didn't have much time left--he knew
that.  But what time he did have, he wanted to spend with Bellami James.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he walked to the' kitchen.  He heard her
stand up quickly when he entered the room.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, are you ready to begin your braille lessons?"  She sounded a
bit breathless.

"No, Miss James, I'm not,.  Today we're going' to do something' different."
His voice rang with authority.

She watched him and felt slightly perplexed when he cocked one eyebrow.
Bellami wasn't sure she trusted him when he acted like this.

He could be so unpredictable at times.

"What are we going to do today?"

"We're going' on a picnic."  Trace was grinning like a happy boy.

"A picnic?"  Disbelief echoed through the kitchen.  "Yep.  You pack the
basket.  We can go on Ghost.  Of course, you'll have to sit astraddle.

I'll ride in back.  " He moved away from her and turned his back so that she
couldn't see his face.

She started to protest--to say she couldn't possibly ride--but what could it
hurt?  There wasn't anyone around.  Hugh O'Bannion had never shown his face
or sent word, and the mysterious benefactor who'd left the fried chicken and
the other things remained a mystery.  Who could possibly know or care?  The
idea of getting away from the ranch was appealing beyond belief.

"Fine, I'll pack a lunch.  Can we take Tip?"

Trace heard the gentle appeal in her voice as he headed toward the 'stairs.
His heart soared.

"Sure, but he has to walk!"  A deep bass chuckle wafted down the stairs, the
sound of a closing door punctuating it.

She smiled and shook her head.  Trace O'Bannion had a Sense of humor.

She never would've thought it.  Bellami started collecting things and packing
them into the basket.  She smiled again when she realized she was humming.

He took the stairs two at a time.  She'd said yes!  He felt relief and hope
beyond anything he'd even imagined up to now.  He told himself she just
wanted to get away from the ranch for a few hours.  He warned himself not to
make too much of this.  She'd been little more than a prisoner here.  Still,
he wanted to believe it might be more.  Hoped it might be more.  He went to
his closet and felt around for his saddlebags, in the back, on the floor.
Pulling the heavy Indian blanket off the rail at the foot of his bed, he
rolled it up as small as he possibly could and stuffed it in one of the
leather bags.  He opened up a tin and poured his shirt pockets full of
pitiion nuts.

Trace knew Clell only shared his pitiions when he owed someone a peace
offering.  Funny thing, though, he honestly didn't know why Cl'ell had left
them for him.  He forced his shirt pockets shut and was barely able to button
them over the bulging nuts.  By feeling along the closet wall, he located a
pile of clothes.  When his fingers touched the cold metal of round silver
conchos, he knew he had the right bundle.  Missy had left a pair of chaps,
gloves, some Levi's and an old plaid shirt at his house before the shooting.
He could only hope they'd fit Miss James.  Both her looks and her overall
size were vague mysteries that nagged at him constantly.

Thinking he might learn a little more about her by giving her the clothes to
wear sparked his curiosity even more.

She met him coming up the stairs when he stepped out of his room.

He'nearly allowed himself to touch her when he sensed her so close to him.
The thought of pretending to bump into her accidentally made his cheeks burn
with embarrassment.

"Ma'am, here's some clothes that you may be able to use--for ridin', I mean."
Trace's mind reeled with exquisite awareness of her essence.  Every nerve
ending in his body longed to reach out to her.

"See if they fit."  He thrust the bundle out quickly before he weakened and
crushed her to him.  Then he hurried down the stairs.

Bellarni turned and watched him descend the stairs.  It was like poetry,
seeing the play of the muscles in his back and' legs beneath his clothes.
Her heart ached with a desire she didn't dare indulge.

Bellami kept telling herself it was futile to hope.  Why Would such an
incredibly handsome man ever want an ugly woman?  With a deep intake of
breath, she turned toward her bedroom.  She started unbuttoning her dress
before she shut the door behind her.  It surprised her, but she was anxious
to go.

Bellami tried using the small mirror to look at herself, but it was next to
impossible.  The pants seemed obscenely tight, and the chaps hugged her like
her own skin.  Only the shirt was roomy and soft.  Evidently whoever wore
these things liked to be able to move their arms without binding.  She had
brought a pair of her own riding boots from New York, and she slipped them on.

The effect couldn't be called high fashion, but she decided it would serve
the purpose.  A tiny smile tugged at her lips when her eyes fell upon her
long-unused veiled hat.  She realized how much freedom she'd been enjoying
while in the presence of Mr. O'Bannion.  His blindness allowed her a measure
of freedom from the bonds she'd created for herself long ago.  It was silly,
but she felt a debt of gratitude to him for it.

A pair of leather gloves to protect her hands was the last thing left in the
pile Mr. O'Bannion had given her.  She pulled them on and flexed her fingers.
They fit perfectly.

She found herself wondering if it was a woman who owned these things.

Who else would have such small hands?  What was the woman to Trace O'Bannion?
A hollow sadness crept into Bellami's heart when she thought about the
faceless female.

She went outside and found he already had the horse saddled, bridled and
ready to go.  Without her asking he helped her into the saddle, then climbed
up behind her.  She felt the pull on her heart when he settled himself
against her.  The gentle fluttering in her stomach turned into a million
beating wings when he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"Well, it's up to you--lead the way," he purred pleasantly in her ear.  His
soft breath made tingles run down her arms.  He squeezed her a little tighter
around the waist.  She tensed her body and tried to steady her breathing.

"So I won't fall off, Miss James.  Don't think I could stay on, otherwise.
You understand, of course.  I hope you don't mind."

"Oh.  No, of course not, not at all, Mr. O'Bannion."  She was instantly sorry
she had reacted.  She was acting silly.  He was only holding her because he
needed to--he wasn't enjoying it.

What a change.  A few weeks ago, his pride wouldn't have allowed such an
admission of weakness.  The least she could do would be to behave graciously
about it.

Grinning like a fox in a henhouse, Trace signaled Ghost to move.

Bellami couldn't even guess, but he was about as helpless on Ghost's back as
the gray-and-cream shadow that fell unseen into step beside them.  From one
bush to the next, from shadow to shadow, the animal loped silently, keeping
amber eyes on the woman.

Clell rolled a cigarette and waited patiently until they were well away from'
the ranch before he came down.  The wolf had grown, a lot.

He stubbed out his cigarette and tied his horse to the railing around the
porch The sight of Trace on Ghost's back, riding like a Comanche brave, made
a lump stick in his throat.  That made all his meddling and scheming worth
it.  The man was going to be all right.

"I guess I'd better hurry and move all these damned trunks," He muttered
grudgingly to himself as he opened the heavy oak door to the empty ranch
house.  He dragged the back of his hand over misty eyes and said a prayer of
thanks for Miss Bellami James.

Chapter Thirteen.

Brooks tried to catch his breath and spit out the dirt and
manure in his mouth at the same time.  When he rolled over on his back, his
muscles cramped in protest.

"Tell me again, Clell," he said, letting his head fall back into the dirt and
closing his eyes for a moment, "All right.  There never was a horse that
couldn't be rode and there never was a man who couldn't be throwed."  CleWs
singsong voice recited the old saying for the twentieth time this week.

"Yeah, that's it," Brooks said.

"Now tell me again, why am I doing this?"  He leaned forward on one elbow,
frowning at Clell.  The chaps he'd purchased two weeks ago no longer looked
new.  Dirt and manure covered nearly every inch of his body, and his lean
face was brown from the sun.

Clell chuckled as he thought back to the first day Brooks had worn his new
finery.  Missy had been determined to shame the young tenderfoot.  Day after
day she'd goaded him, until finally he'd taken the bait.  She started out by
gracing him with some Western wisdom she'd learned.  Whenever he was around,
it seemed, she'd tossed out one of those salty little sayin's old cowboys
were so fond of.  Sort of "outhouse logic," Ciell called it.  Brooks had
taken it all in stride, showing remarkable restraint--for a while.

Brooks shifted his position on the ground.  It seemed like a hundred painful
years had gone by since he and Flynn had gone to Magdalena so he could send a
telegram to his family.  It had been short and to the point.

MAY 19, 1885

BEL LAMI WELL AND BUSY STOP TERRITORY EXCITING

STOP STAYING LONGER STOP

LOVE BROOKS

He'd told himself it was the truth in the strictest sense of the word.  He
hadn't been so convinced, however.  Before they left town, he'd bought some
new clothes, something more practical for his stay.

Levi's, shirts, chaps, boots and a good wide-brimmed hat.  When Brooks
appeared at dinner that evening wearing his new clothes, Missy had given him
an appraising look.  Then she'd announced in a tone that would have singed
hair,

"It's the man that makes a cowboy, not the riggin' he wears'."

Shane and Logan had' watched with wry amusement as Missy kept digging her
spurs into the New Yorker.  All through dinner, Brooks had ignored her
vicious swipes at him.  When Hugh and the boys suggested he come and help
with the roundup, she'd snorted in contempt--and that was all she wrote!

The man had stood about all he intended to put up with.  Brooks had accepted
only because she kept making it plain she didn't think he had the guts, or
the stomach, for such work.

Missy had it in her head he was soft and lazy.  He'd set out to prove her
wrong.  For two weeks now, they'd been rounding up cattle.  Now the hard work
was really beginning.  Branding, dehorning and cutting.

Brooks had his work cut out for him, that was certain.

Clell chuckled out loud from his perch on the fence.  He had grown fond of
the Easterner.  He had grit, and he wasn't soft.  Clell didn't know what
young gentlemen did to stay fit in New York, but they sure did something,
'cause Brooks was as hard and lean as any range hand.

Three days ago he'd come asking for advice on picking out a mount for the
roundup.  Brooks had wanted something that would take Missy down a notch or
two.  They'd looked over the broke stock, but discounted them all as too
tame.  When the wranglers brought in the mustangs, Brooks's eye had gone
immediately to an oxblood paint.

With considerable effort, they'd finally managed to get him snubbed up.  Then
Clell had started instructing Brooks on how to proceed.  For two days he'd
met the horse head-on, never once wavering in his resolve.  He vowed to'
break the horse and use him for the roundup.  And it appeared he was going to
do it if it killed him!

Clell laughed as Brooks got up off the ground, dusted off his rump, and
headed for the bronc again.  In the wink of an eye, the man was on the
stallion's back.  He grabbed hold of the rigging, and away they went.
Straight up.

Clell winced when the horse hit the ground stiff-legged, taking a few
bonecjarring hops.  That had to hurt like the be-jesus.  Riding like that
made your back hurt, and usually a man pissed pink for a week.

Amazingly, the horse stopped.  Then he started trotting--hesitantly at first,
then it smoothed out.  After a few minutes, he seemed to accept his fate and
to submit to the man's'will.

Missy climbed up next to Clell on the top rail of the corral.

Swinging one long, slim leather-clad leg over the fence, she sat down.  When
she pulled off her hat, the sun hit her blue.  black hair.

For just an instant, Clell saw something like admiration in her dark eyes.
Brooks grinned, and C!  eli could see the unmistakable look of satisfaction
on his face.  He was just getting ready to tell Brooks what a good job he'd
done when a feminine voice cu~t through the air like a knife.

"On a gentle horse, every man is a rider."  Then she slid off the rail and
sauntered away.

"Damn and double-damn her, Clell!"  Brooks took his brand-new Stetson and
slapped it across his thigh with conviction.  The crown of the hat crumpled
with the force of the blow.

"What did you expect?  You didn't really think she'd say something' nice, did
you?"  Clell watched Brooks closely.  It occurred to him that was exactly
what had motivated Brooks to suffer days of bruises and pulled muscles--the
idea that Missy might say a kind word or two.

"Listen, Brooks, I'm going' to tell you something', and it ain't for
publication, okay?"  Clell stepped down and walked slowly up to the skittish
horse.  Reaching out a gnarled hand, he gently stroked the horse's muzzle.

"There will be one way, and one Way only, a man will win Missy O'Bannion."
He waited a moment for the words to sink in.

When he was sure Brooks was really listening, he continued.

"The man that can best Missy, just like you did this horse--that'll be a man
she can love.  She'll never give her love away.  It'll have to be hard won
and taken."

Brooks frowned as he set his hat back on his head.  Then he turned to Clell,
grinning broadly.

"If I didn't know any better, Clell, :I'd swear you were looking forward to
the day and the man."  His bright blue eyes twinkled.

"Could be," Clell said, then turned his head and spit in the dirt.

"Will you do one more thing for me, Clell?"  Brooks grew serious again.

"Sure, boy.  What?"  Clell wiped a dribble of tobacco juice from his lips
with the back of his hand.

"Teach me some of those damned irritating sayings!"  Clell couldn't help but
laugh at the look on the young man's face.  He didn't have the guts to tell
Brooks Missy'd learned every damned one of those irritatin' sayin's at his
knee, before she was even old enough to go to school.

"All right, boy.  All right," he replied, and turned away from Brooks when
he heard the hoofbeats of a single horse.

The old cowboy squinted his eyes against the sun.  He could make out a dark
man of medium build wearing a wide-brimmed hat, riding a palomino.  As the
horse got closer, he recognized the rider as Elfego Baca.  His horse was
heavily lathered around the saddle, like he'd been ridden hard.

'~4migo.  " Clell greeted him as he stepped up to take the tired horse.

Elfego dismounted, and Clell led the thirsty 'horse to the trough, letting
him drink.  Then he began walking him out to cool him down.

"Gracias, amigo," the man said gratefully.

"Where's Flynn?"  Clell saw signs of fatigue in his face.

"Here he comes now," Clell said, and motioned with his chin toward the tall
figure walking from the ranch house.

"Flynn, it's good to see you looking so rested," Elfego said.  He smiled and
shook the larger man's hand vigorously.

"Que paso, amigo?"  Flynn grinned.

"What brings you here in such a hurry?"

"Trouble.  You've heard about Sefior Curtin?  He has a new plan to get
Socorro out of debt.  He's been fining the gamblers and whores.  In the last
ten days, fifteen whores and ten gamblers have paid two hundred dollars.  Now
Mayor Eaton is accusing Marshal Monroe of, uh--improprieties."  Elfego took
off his hat and wiped his shirt sleeve across his forehead.

"Just what sort of improprieties?"  Flynn narrowed his eyes.

"The mayor is accusing the marshal of neglecting his duty.  Not arresting
enough soiled doves and gamblers.  Also accusing him of allowing opium dens
to continue undisturbed-and for trading favors to obtain a railroad pass for
himself."

"Damn," Flynn said flatly.  He hated to have to get involved in politics.
The bad blood between Monroe and Eaton was common knowledge.  Getting
involved in their squabble would be serious enough, but these new laws and
all this fuss over morality well, it went against Flynn's grain.

At the first of the year, the new city government of Socorro had taken bold
action.  Wanting to pacify the families of the socially prominent, they'd
passed an ordinance outlawing "bawdy houses, houses of ill-fame, houses of
assignation, or places for the practice of fornication, or for the practice
of smoking or otherwise using opium."  When Flynn read the new ordinance~
he'd nearly guffawed.  He had no love for the opium trade, but damn, trying
to outlaw whorehouses seemed downright barbaric, almost uncivilized.  What
was the territory coming to?  All this change made him damned uncomfortable.
There'd even been some talk of a skating ring and something called baseball
teams.  It was too much, too fast, as far as he was concerned.  This kind of
thing made him itchy to saddle his horse and take off for parts unknown.

"I've been sent to get you, Flynn.  There are going to be formal charges
filed, and an investigation.  The committee wants you there, just in case."
Elfego smiled apologetically at his friend, Sighing in disgust, Flynn said,

"I'll get my horse."  He turned toward the barn, and Clell noticed the deeply
etched lines on his face.  He knew Flynn wanted to stick around awhile
longer.  His trips to Trace's place had become a lot more frequent lately.
Clell was pretty sure Flynn had been keeping a close eye on Trace--and Miss
James, of course.

Brooks dismounted, then went to put the paint stallion away He alked to the
trough to join Clell and the v over Mexican deputy.  He listened,
fascinated, as the two Old friends discussed family and friends.  Baca
laughed at some silly joke of Clell's, then turned serious again.

"The bullfights are scheduled for the Fourth of July.  Only a few weeks
away.  Say you will persuade the O'Bannions to join me in my box," Elfego
cajoled, his black eyes sparkling.

"Bullfights?  I've never seen one," Brooks said enthusiastically.

"Well, personally, I don't care for it," Clell said as he regarded the toe of
his boot, "but I guess it'd be rude to decline such a generous invitation.
I'll talk to Hugh and Shane.

Logan will go along with whatever they decide.  "

"What about Missy?"  Elfego asked.

Clell shrugged noncommittally.

"Who knows?  That's a lady that makes up her own mind--'bout everythin'."  He
slanted a sly look toward Brooks.

They all turned when they heard Flynn approaching.  His saddlebags were slung
over his broad shoulders, and he was leading his favorite gelding, Jack.  He
shook Brooks's hand, then had a word with Clell before he swung his body into
the saddle.  Clell and Brooks watched them till they were completely out of
sight.

They'd just started washing up at the trough when the sound of buggy wheels
singing on hard-packed earth caught their attention.  Their shirtsleeves were
damp at the cuffs.

"Damn, I don't recall so much company in nigh on to a year."  Clell said,
rolling a smoke as he waited for the buggy to come to a stop.

Brooks slicked back his wet hair with the palm of one hand.  His face
darkened when he saw a blaze of red hair and yellow ruffles emerge from the
covered buggy.  He heard a distinct groan come from ClelI as Becky Kelly
swayed up to the men, a ruffled parasol twirling in her gloved hand.

"Well, now, don't the both of you look cool," she exclaimed.  "I think it's
mighty unfair that you men can dunk yourselves whenever you wish.  I'd give
anything to be able to do that."  She lowered her lashes and fluttered them
expertly.

"Why don't you, then?  I'd be glad to help you into the trough."  Missy had
come up on them as quiet as any Apache.  She looked as deadly as one, too.
There was pure loathing in those jet eyes skimming over the visitor.

"What are you doing here?"  she asked without ceremony.

"Flynn and Mr. James invited me.  Isn't that right, Mr. James?"  She'd lost
some of her color and she seemed to be tearing the lace off her parasol under
Missy's level gaze.

Brooks neither confirmed nor denied her statement.  It made him furious to be
put in the middle of two spitting wildcats, but he had been raised to be a
gentleman, even if it hurt.

"Actually, I came by to ask Mr. James if he'd like to escdrt me to the
bullfight at the Fourth of July celebration," Becky said sweetly.

She smiled seductively while she waited for Brooks to accept.  She Stood
twirling her parasol, completely confident of her carefully practiced charms.

Brooks couldn't resist.  It had never occurred to the little tart that he
just might refuse her.  First he grinned, almost shyly.  Then he put on one
of his most devastating phony New York society smiles.  The kind guaranteed
to reduce any feminine creature to pliant jelly in his expert hands.  When he
was sure it was having the desired effect on Becky, he took a step forward.

Toward Missy.

She'd been leaning against a post, with one shapely leg hitched up on the
rail behind her.  He noticed how her shotgun chaps hugged her thighs as he
neared the dark-eyed beauty.  When he was less than a yard away from her, he
suddenly reached around her waist and pulled her into the crook of his arm
and against his hipbone.  He held her there, feeling the heat from her firm
thigh against his leg.  She tensed, but refrained from sticking a knife in
his ribs--yet.

Probably because he'd surprised her, he thought with wry amusement.

Brooks turned his cool stare back to the little vamp, who now showed signs
of tension in her rehearsed smile.

"I'd love to, Miss Kelly, I truly would, but I already asked Missy, and she's
consented.  After all, what man could pass up the chance to take the
prettiest girl in the territory?"

It worked.  On both of them.

Becky paled and began making excuses why she couldn't stay any longer, and
Missy remained mute.  In a remarkably short time, Clell was helping Becky
into the buggy.  Raindrops started pelting the ground as the buggy
disappeared from sight.  A sharp crack of the whip indicated she was leaving
quicker than she'd arrived.  Discreetly and very wisely, Clell made himself
scarce.

"I'll be at the barn.  Never could stand bloodshed," he quipped as he left.

"What in the Sam Hill is this about?"  Missy threw his arm off as soon as
Clell was out of sight.  Then she drew herself up to stand on tiptoe to shout
up into Brook's face.  Several raindrops landed on her upturned nose and
eyes, spiking her long black lashes.  Brooks was totally caprivated by the
sight of her.  She threw sparks at him from her dark eyes while the rair~
made her skin dewy and soft.

"I guess it is kind of playing dirty, isn't it?"  he mused as the rain fell
harder.  His hat shed water down the back of the brim as it was intended to
do.  Soon a dark, wet stain plastered the wet cloth to his body.  He was
oblivious of everything except the snapping black eyes before him.

Brooks bent down to pick a blade of wet grass, glancing briefly away from the
vixen before him.  He bit the end off, tasting the tart liquid.  It mingled
with the sweet, warm summer rain trickling into his mouth.

"I really do want to take you to the bullfight.  Besides, I couldn't pass up
an opportunity to shame her."

Missy was still furious.  She didn't know what to make of Brooks, and she was
unsure of his motives.  Clamping her jaws shut with a click of her teeth, she
frowned at the man towering above her.

"Why?"  She regarded Brooks warily, like someone observing a coiled
rattlesnake.

He shrugged his muscular shoulders, still looking down into her damp face.

"I dunno," he said.

"I don't like her.  I heard what she did to Trace."

Missy felt something--not pride, but something warm and satisfying--for the
man who looked at her with pale, probing eyes.

She could see her reflection in those remarkable eyes while he studied her
intently.

"Besides, you are the prettiest girl in the territory."

She turned and walked away, shaking her head in amazement.  What could she
say to him?  Missy had never met anyone like Brooks James, and she wasn't
quite sure she was happy to have made his acquaintance now.

His presence was having an odd effect on her.

Clell materialized from the shadows near the barn.  The old cowboy casually
walked up beside Brooks.

"Boy, I'm going' to start teachin' you some territorial wisdom right now.
Are you ready?"

Brooks inclined his head slightly, waiting.

Clell cleared his throat, speaking solemnly, as if he were a Baptist preacher
on a Sunday morning.

"Never marry a woman with the kind of looks you'd like to see on another
man's wife."  Then, with a mischievous chuckle, he turned and left.

Standing alone in the rain, Brooks realized he should've known it wouldn't be
simple.  Now, every time Clell said something to him, he'd be searching for
some hidden meaning in the old man's words.  What a place this territory was.
He walked toward the ranch house thinking hard about tomorrow.  The roundup
would bqgin at dawn.  Hugh said they'd be gone for a couple of weeks.  Brooks
set his jaw, determined to be up to the task ahead.

Chapter Fourteen.

"Mr.  O'Bannion?"  Her voice sounded soft and shaky and too
hopeful.

"Yes, Miss James."  His breath fluttered across the back of her neck.

"Have you ever been married?"  Bellami blurted out the words.  The heat of a
blush rose on her cheeks a second later.

"Nope."  He smiled, happy to hear her curiosity, and more than a little
surprised by it.

"I was makin' plans to be married before I got shot."

Bellami noticed there was no bitterness in his voice, only a wistful, dreamy
sound.

"What happened?  If--if you don't mind my asking?"  she stammered.

"I don't mind.  Guess it's the least 1 can do--I mean, to tell you about it.
Seem' how all this is why you ended up out here."  ' Bellami let the horse
pick his own way.  There didn't seem to be any hurry, and she was completely
content to let the animal guide her.

Being away from the ranch and feeling the sun on her exposed face thrilled
her.

"I was fixin' to ask a girl by the name of Becky Kelly to marry me.  I built
that house for her."  Trace paused for a moment, and Bellami felt his arms
stiffen around her waist.  "That's not exactly true.  I built the house for a
wife and family, but truth to tell, I can't say it was Becky I pictured in
that house."

A tiny flame of hope, or something like it, flared within Bellami's breast.
She trembled slightly.

"Miss James, are you troubled?"  Trace asked.

"No, not at all.  Please go on, Mr. O'Bannion."

"Not much to say.  When I got shot, she hightailed it out of my life.

Told me how she had expectations.  " He chuckled dryly, thinking back.

"Sounds pretty stupid now.  Expectations.  What the hell is that supposed to
mean, anyway?"

"Was she pretty?"  Bellami asked in a whisper.

"I thought she was the prettiest girl in the territory," Bellami frowned,
trying to decide if his voice was quivering from pain or something else.  He
fell silent then, and she asked no more questions for a few minutes.  Ghost
moved steadily onward, seeming to respond to her commands before she even
gave them, She'd never ridden astraddle before, and the sensation was not
altogether unpleasant.  She loved the smell that drifted up when the horse
rubbed against a stubby bush.  A sweet odor filled the air each time a twig
or branch broke under his hooves, She hated to break the comfortable silence,
but her curiosity was up again.  She finally decided to ask Trace what the
aromatic plant was.

Before she had a chance to speak, he shifted his weight behind her.

Then he exhaled softly.  She felt his breath, warm and intimate, on her neck.
He moved her heavy braid aside with one hand.  His nearness had a most
disconcerting effect on her.  The area in her lap where he gently rested his
free hand had steadily become hotter and more moist.  She shifted her body a
bit, but his hand only seemed to sink deeper into the cleft between her legs.
She wondered if he could feel how warm she was where he touched her.

"Mr.  O'Bannioh?"  The catch in her voice embarrassed her.

"Yes," Trace replied, and grimaced when he heard the deep huskiness in his
voice.  He'd been mighty grateful that the cantle of his saddle stood between
him and Bellami.  If it didn't, his sex would be pressed up against her hips.
He didn't think he'd be able to stand it.  As it was, he'd been fighting for
hours to keep from opening his hands and rubbing her.  He could feel the heat
at the juncture of her legs.  She was deliciously warm at the open spot in
the chaps where only denim separated his hands from her flesh.  A pitiful
poor barrier between them--a flirosy scrap of cloth, and the leather cantle.
Her soft voice shook him back to reality with a jolt.

"What's that wonderful smell?"  It was hard for her to focus on what she'd
wanted to ask only a moment ago.  Bellami's entire concentration seemed to
keep drifting back to a pair of lean brown hands.

"It's sage.  It does smell nice, doesn't it?  Miss James, what is the
wonderful smell on you?"  He inhaled deeply, and waves of passion surged
through him.

She squirmed uncomfortably.  His question was so personal, so unexpected.
Color flooded her face.  She knew it because of the heat in her cheeks.

Trace felt her blush.  There were times, like now, when his blindness almost
seemed an asseL He had become so attuned to her.  If he could see her, would
he still be as aware of her shifting moods, of her very spirit?  He doubted
it.

Bellami tried to clear her throat.  She knew that if she didn't, it would
squeak and break again.  She didn't want him to know how much his innocent
conversation affected her.

"It's lavender, Mr. O'Bannion.  Tilly packed my clothes in it for the trip."
She felt awkward discussing this with a man.  With him particularly.

Trace smiled.  He liked feeling her feminine mortification.  He had no way of
knowing for sure, but he imagined that all women guarded their little secrets
from the prying of menfolk.  A tiny wave of satisfaction washed through him.
He liked being the man who knew those little details about her.  He wanted to
be the only man who knew them.  It made him feel somehow more connected, more
intimate.  More like she was his.

It gave him pleasure each and every time he managed to get her to reveal some
mysterious woman's thing to him.

He allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to know all her secrets.
To know all the little things that made her uniquely her.  A fantasy of
spending countless hours and days learning why she was so special floated
through his brain.  Trace wanted to discover everything about her.  He wanted
to know things like what would make her writhe and moan beneath him.

He tried to push the pleasant vision from his mind before it was too late.
His Levi's were already becoming painfully tight, again.  He shook his head
in amazement.  Just the thought of her sent his blood to the boiling point.

Bellami was determined to find the perfect picnic area.  There wasn't
anything like the beautiful spot in Central Park where her family went.  Of
course, this wasn't New York.

She scanned the area again and dismissed every possibility.  Too rocky, too
brushy, too hilly--no shade.  After another hour, she heard her stomach growl
loudly, and nearly died of embarrassment.  There was no way Mr. O'Bannion
couldn't have heard it.

"Miss James, are you havin' trouble decidin' where to stop?"  he quizzed.

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I am.  I'm sorry."  She squirmed, and his
fingers brushed her groin.

"Please, don't apologize.  I'm perfectly content to keep ridin'."

Trace meant what he said.  The ride wasn't bothering him in the least--not
that way, anyhow.

"You do seem fairly comfortable," she mused as a tiny finger of suspicion
snaked up her back.  If he was ill at ease or felt awkward riding blind, it
didn't show.  In fact, when the stallion jumped over a small trickle of
water earlier, Trace had expertly kept her in the saddle with his strong,
sure hands.

Bellami saw it then--the perfect spot.  Smooth, no rocks, a satiny strip of
ground in the middle of the vast prairie.

"There it is, Mr. O'Bannion, our picnic spot," Bellami declared.

"Let's eat."

Trace held Bellami securely while she swung her leg over Ghost's neck.  He
sat immobile on the horse as he lowered her to the ground.

She was light as a feather, and he held her suspended above the ground for a
second longer than necessary, just enjoying the feel of her in his hands.

When she touched the ground, she started chattering pleasantly about the
color of the sky and the rocks and silly things.  Her voice soothed him.  He
liked it, the pleasant Way she chatted about little things he'd never noticed
or thought of before.  A tiny smile teased the corner of his mouth.  He slid
off the back of Ghost's powerful hips.  Feeling inside the saddlebags, he
pulled out the Navaho rug.  He shook it out with a pop of the heavy wool
fabric, then dropped to one knee and felt the ground.  With a flick of his
wrists, he spread it out.  She was still talking a mile a minute.  It seemed
perfectly natural, the sound of her voice against the quiet of the prairie.

"Miss James?"  he inquired.

Bellami looked in his direction.  He had such a nice voice, mellow and deep.
The sound of it struck some chord deep within her.

"Yes.  I'm fight here, Mr. O'Bannion.  Are we ready?  Oh, how wonderful, you
brought a blanket."  She felt very touched, the way he'd thought of this
little outing.  Bellami sniffed back little tears of emotion that threatened
to fall as she brought the basket to Trace.  He'd flopped his lanky body down
to recline comfortably on the rough wool of the blanket.

When she looked at him, an arrow of feeling whistled through her.  She
encountered his total maleness.  For the first time, she allowed herself an
uninhibited appraisal of him.

His long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

He reminded her of a young male lion she'd seen at the zoo in New YOrk So
powerful, sensual, in control, potent.  So very male.  He was grinning toward
the sky, at nothing in particular.  He let his head fall back, and the hat
toppled from his head, but he didn't seem to notice.  It was almost too much'
for her to abide.  The sun shining on his handsome face, his look of utter
contentment.  Suddenly he sat up.  His movement jolted her.

"Where's the grub?  I'm starvin'!"  he hell owed

She laughed; she couldn't help herself.  Being with him like this was so far
from what Bellami had ever imagined her days in the territory would he like.
Even though the little voice in her head cautioned against it, she permitted
her little fantasy to rush forward, beyond her control, with a life of its
own.

In her fantasy, Trace loved her, totally--without reservation.  He coveted
his privacy with her so much that he brought her here so that they could be
alone, with their love.  She smiled at her foolishness as she prepared their
picnic lunch.  : "Miss James, do you miss New York?"  he asked in a soft
voice.

"No, not too much.  i really didn't have much of a 'life there," she answered
truthfully.

"Funny, isn't it, how me getting' shot has made so many changes for so many
people," Trace said dryly.

They talked quietly for some time, finally letting an easy silence settle
over them.  Bellami was content just to watch him.

Trace was content just to feel her near him.  She radiated a force so strong,
it was almost painful to him.  He knew every breath, every sigh.  When the
wind moved her silky long braid, he knew it.  If she smiled, he felt it--deep
inside him.

Bellami thought he looked ten years younger than the first day she'd seen him
in that dark bedroom.  So happy, so relaxed, so at home in this rugged land.
She felt a powerful emotion ripping through her at the sight of him.  In that
moment, Bellami faced her greatest fear and hopes.  She was falling in love
with Trace O'Bannion.

He could perceive her deep concentration, and then a ripple of something
passed between them.  He didn't know what, but he sensed a deep change in
Bellami.  It was like an invisible obstacle suddenly drifting away from them,
a barrier that suddenly disappeared, leaving her presence to engulf him.  It
was like a door being opened to let in a strong breeze.

Gently he reached out to touch her hand.  He didn't grasp it.  Instead, he
simply laid his fingers on hers.  He felt her quake.

Abruptly he turned in her direction.

"Would you like to take a walk?"

His thick, dark brows were raised quizzically.

"A walk' would be nice."

"Good."  Grinning boyishly, he rose from the blanket.  Bellami watched with
appreciation as the muscles in his thick thighs rippled.

"Now don't go steppin' on a rattler," he teased gently as they fell into step
beside each other.  His easy banter filled her heart.  Ghost grazed idly
nearby.  His head came up abruptly and his tulip-shaped ears worked back and
forth, trying to identify some sound too faint for the humans to hear.  He
blew softly, pawing the ground.  Then he put his head down and began to clip
grass again with his teeth.

Every few seconds his head would come up and he'd blow softly.

As Trace and Bellami were walking, Tip watched them from a short distance.
His yellow eyes never left Bellami.  He, too, raised his wide nose into the
air, periodically sniffing, trying to identify some unknown smell.

Bellami saw Trace stop in midstep and inhale, like the animals.  He frowned
darkly.

"Miss James, where are we?"  His tone of voice made her heart plummet.  She
thought she must've done something to displease him, and that ripped at her
soul.

"We are out--here," she answered, allowing her hands to flutter in the air,
unseen by the man at her side.  She had no idea where they were in this vast
open plain.

"No.  What I mean is, what's the land around us like?"  Trace asked.

His frown deepened, and he sniffed the air again like Tip.  A raindrop fell,
then another.  One hit Trace's hat with a noisy plop.

Bellami looked around.

"Well, the ground is flat, and it's sandy and smooth," she began, trying to
find the proper words to describe the little path they'd been walking on.

"Miss James, is the land around us higher than where we are standin'?"  Now
Trace's voice sounded really concerned, and he spoke in ~ quick rush.  Fear
grew inside her.

Tip had started to pace back and forth in agitation.  Ghost screamed out one
of his shrill nickers from the hillside above them.

"Yes.  We are on a sort of path."  She could smell the rich, loamy fragrance
of wet earth as the rain fell harder around them.

"Run!"  Trace roared.

It happened so quickly that she didn't really have time to be shocked at his
fierceness.  Trace grabbed her wrist so hard she knew it was going to
break--snap right in two.  He began running full-out, at a right angle from
the direction they had been walking.  Bellami scrambled to keep her feet as
he jerked her along.

The sandy path was wide and flat, and it seemed as if he'd been running for
hours, dragging her along, pressed hard against his hip.

His legs pumped with powerful strides.  Bellami knew he was running as hard
as he could.  She just didn't know why.

When they were halfway across, she looked up and saw it coming toward them.
Rumbling and frothy, like fresh milk being squirted into a pail, but brown,
carrying sticks and boulders.  A wall of water crashed down upon them.

"Oh, dear God!"  Bellami croaked.  As she was sucked under, she heard one
word.

"Bellami" -- Of course, it could only have been her silly imagination.  Trace
had never called her by her first name.

Chapter Fifteen.

Through the veil of pain and returning consciousness,
Bellami distinguished two things simultaneously.  A rough tongue lick' rag
her cheek, and a callused hand smoothing the hair from her forehead: A silly
giggle escaped her lips.

"My champions," she croaked out.  Her mouth was full of grit and the taste of
blood, As she put her teeth together, they cruncher most unpleasantly, as if
she'd been eating dirt.

"Thank God."  Trace's voice sounded like it might've cracked with emotion,
but Bellami was sure' it must he a trick of sound.  She opened her eyes a
little wider.  Looking up, she saw a velvet-black sky above her.  It was
pitch-black, with a thousand jewels sparkling in it.  The most magnificent
night sky she'd ever seen.

Bellami tried to rise, and doubled over with a stabbing pain in her chest.
She moaned and sucked in a painful breath.  The more she tried to breathe,
the more the raw stinging took her breath away.  She let her body slump back,
taking short breaths.  There wasn't one spot on her body that didn't scream
with pain.

"Don't try to get up.  I think you've cracked a rib, Your breathin' has been
soundin' all wheezy."  A wide, splayed palm pushed gently on her shoulder,
forcing her down.  There was authority in his quiet voice.

 "What happened?"  She was dimly aware that Trace's hands were traveling
over her entire body.  Why?  Was he searching for broken bones?

He stopped his exploration of her form.  He seemed satisfied with her
battered, sore body.  She heard his deep sigh in the still night.

"Flash flood.  I should're warned you, happens out here all the time."

"Will we be all right?"  Fear tinged her words.  A long moment passed.

"Miss James, I'll get you back safe.  I promise."  His deep, throaty answer
rang with conviction.  He had moved away from her, and she was dimly aware of
him picking up small sticks and branches in the darkness.

She felt a little better, and slowly raised up on her elbows.  But when she
maneuvered around and tried to stand, her knees buckled beneath her.  She
collapsed with a cry of pain.  The hot, stabbing fingers radiated through her
ankle.

"What?  Miss James, what is it?"  Trace was beside her in a heartbeat,
dropping an armful of broken sticks and wood in a heap at her feet.

"My ankle.  I can't stand on it," she said, trying to steady the quiver in
her voice.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, how will we ever get back?  I can't walk."

The despair in her words slashed him to the bone.  There was real terror in
her voice.  Did she think he'd let anything happen to her?

"I'll carry you," he said simply.  Rising to.  his feet, he turned away from
her.  Slowly, methodically, he went about picking up the discarded wood.

She could perceive him feeling around on the ground until he located a piece.
Then he would move forward and repeat the process.  Somehow he managed to
get a fire going.  Bellami never knew how, but she was certainly grateful for
the golden flame.

Tip sat just outside the glow of the fire, watching intently.  Ghost was
nowhere to be seen.

"Do you think the horse is hurt somewhere?"  Bellami cracked open one of the
small nuts Trace had handed her.  Pifions, he called them.  He'd not only
managed to get them warm and dry, now he had supplied a dinner of sorts.

Trace knelt down beside her.  He squatted back on his st~'ong calves.

The flickering light of the fire played across his face.  Small bruises were
beginning to show on the r/dges of his cheekbones.

"No, I imagine he's headed for home by now," he said, and touched her lightly
on the arm,

"How are you feel ill'9 His deep voice rumbled through her.

"Better, thank you."  Bellami felt unworthy of his careful attention.

She should're had more sense.  She was supposed to train him, care for him.
Now, because of her stupidity, she had placed them both in jeopardy.

"You know, Miss James, there's something' very odd about your dog,"

Trace said softly.  Between words, he cracked the smooth brown hulls of the
pit ion nuts with his teeth.  He spit the shell out between words.

"Really?  What?"  She spit out a piece of broken shell, chewing the white
meat.

"I never would've found you if it hadn't bee, n for him.  He clamped on to my
wrist--pulled me to you

Bellami looked at the marks on her own wrist, visible just above her leather
gloves.  In the light of the campfire, she could see them clearly, encircling
her wrist.  Black-and-blue bruises, which outlined the shape of a perfect
canine maw.  Tip had dragged her to safety.

"Just as I reached the bank of the arroyo, you slipped from my grip."

There was a sound in Trace's voice she'd never heard before.

Fear.

"You must're been unconscious," he continued.

"I felt along the hank, called your name, but I couldn't find you.  Then the
dog brought me to you

She looked across the small fire at the glowing amber eyes.  Her protector,
ever vigilant.  Then her eyes fell upon the hard, determined man next to her,
and she knew.  They'd die before they'd let anything happen to her.  Bellami
had never felt more protected or loved than she did right now.

Sitting on the cold ground, battered and bruised, she knew she was safer here
in this desolate location than she'd ever been in the drawing room in New
York.  A warm feeling washed over her.

Trace felt the cold grip of terror.  He'd never been so scared in his entire
life.  Not for himself, but for Bellami.  If it hadn't been.  for that dog--
A shudder ran through his body.

"Will anyone find us out here?"  she asked.

"Maybe.  I'm pretty sure Ghost will head straight for the ranch.

There's a chance Clell or one of the hands might see the stallion saddled and
cot ~.  lookin', but we can't count on it.  " Trace shifted his weight on his
calves.

"Do you know what direction we rode in, Miss James?"

She swallowed hard, feeling a painful lump in her throat.  "No, I don't."

"I felt the sun on my right cheek, so tomorrow we'll keep it on the left."
He sighed.  He hoped he was right.  It seemed simple enough, but could he
navigate blind?  Tomorrow they'd begin the walk home.  A long shot, to be
sure--but the only one they had.

Trace listened to her steady breathing.  She was sleeping peacefully.

It made him feel good inside to know she trusted him to keep her safe while
she slept.  The nights were fairly warm in May, but when he touched her
forehead she felt too cool.  He scooted his long frame closer to her and put
his arms around her.  With infinite tenderness, he tightened his hold on her
slightly, until she stirred.  He stilled instantly.  She'd been different
lately.  Bellami seemed warmer, more open, but he still feared her rejection.

So far, Miss James was mercifully unaware of Trace's clumsy efforts to get
closer to her.  Each time he held her or touched her, she'd been asleep,
locked in one of her nightmares.  Except for that one kiss.  He closed his
eyes, remembering, and immediately felt the heat rise within him.  He hugged
her tighter to his body, savoring the sweet hell it put him through, having
her so close, yet so totally out of his reach.  Sighing heavily, he shook his
head.

"Only an idiot would hold a woman this close and try not to want her," he
whispered softly to himself.  Exhaustion overtook him quickly, in spite of
his intention to enjoy the painful pleasure of her nearness.

Soon he was dreaming.  Not of riding Ghost across the prairie, but of holding
Bellami--making love to her.  He could see her body clearly in his dream, but
no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see her face.

Bellami woke to the first light of morning, pink and gray and fresh after the
rain.  She couldn't move.  Panic gripped her.  Then she realized why she was
firmly rooted to the earth.  At her back, a hard chest rose and fell in a
steady rhythm.  In front of her, pressed against her belly and thighs, a
thick coat of gray and cream snuggled against her tattered, filthy Levi's,
The warm objects surrounding her were immovable.  She grinned.  A bushy.
tail covered everything except her furry companion's glowing gold eyes.  What
a silly group they made.  Had any woman 'ever been cared for by a more
unlikely pair?  A blind man and a half-tame dog of unknown parentage.  She
giggled at the sheer absurdity of it all.

The animal rose without a sound and gracefully stretched.  His rump stuck up
in the air as he placed his front paws out in front and executed a graceful
bow.  Bellami marveled at the sheer size of him now.  He'd grown tall, and
had filled out with hard muscle.  His wide head held almond-shaped amber
eyes.  His paws were wide and fleshy, his tail full and bushy, with a
diamond-shaped dark spot centered about six inches from where it joined his
sinewy flanks.  He gave the two humans one last glance before he loped off
into the breaking dawn.  He was out of sight before Bellami felt Trace stir
behind her.

Trace adjusted the woman in his arms.  He'd been walking steadily all
morning.  At first he'd stumbled frequently, unable to avoid rocks and small
yuccas, but now he seemed more aware of the brush and rocks.

"How are you doin'?"  he asked as he maneuvered over a small gully, "Fine,
just fine."  Bellami seemed shy and uncomfortable.  The arm around his neck
held him stiffly, and Trace wondered if she was afraid he might drop her.  An
involuntary grin curled the corners of his mouth.

"What's so funny, Mr. O'Bannion?"  As usual, she was completely mystified by
his behavior.  The man was as changeable as the weather in this place.

"It's silly."  He seemed embarrassed to tell her.  She realized he hadn't
been aware of the smile on his face or the deep dimples flashing in the sun.

"Please tell me," she cajoled.

"I was just thinkin'.  I've walked more in the time since I met you, than in
the rest of my life put together.  At the ranch, I thought of you fis a
little general.  Always makin' the troops drill."  He chuckled softly to
himself as he shook his head, obviously astonished.

"General, am I?  Once you did ask me who I admired more--Napoleon or Caesar,
wasn't it?"

"I did?  I asked you that?  Funny, I don't remember doin' that," Trace said
as he negotiated a gravelly hillside.

All morning long, the closeness of him had made Bellami uncomfortable.  She
couldn't move her head without getting a close-up view of his magnificent
profile.  The sun gleamed off his face.

Purple-and-black bruises colored his finely chiseled jawline and spots of
blood had dried on his forehead.  Now she noticed the length of his beard.

"You need another shave," she said wistfully.  She hadn't intended to speak
her thoughts aloud.  Heat rose to her face when she realized what she'd done.

"Yes, I expect I do."  He sounded pleased.

When he spoke, she could feel the deep vibration of his voice through his
chest.  He was altogether too masculine, too handsome, too appealing.  She
felt hot and itchy and out of control with awareness of him.

"Mr.  O'Bannion, could we stop?  I mean, you must be tired."  She had to get
out of his grasp before she lost all her composure.  The urge to touch his
brow, stroke his lips with her fingertips, was becoming almost unbearable.

He frowned for a moment.  Suddenly he seemed embarrassed by her request.
Color began to rise from the collar of his shirt.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Miss James, if you need-- Well, I'll leave you alone for a
few minutes," he said, and cleared his throat as he gently placed her on the
ground.  Quickly he walked away from her.

She realized with embarrassed distraction that he thought she needed to heed
the call of nature.  Actually, that wasn't a bad idea.  It had been a long
morning.  She hadn't had any privacy since they'd started their trek, shortly
after dawn.

With some difficulty, she hobbled to the nearest bush to relieve herself:
Bellami was horrified to see that nearly every inch of her smooth skin was
starting to color.  Bruises were showing up everywhere.  Her thighs and belly
were mottled with dark spots.  Trace wasn't the only one wearing marks from
their ordeal.

The water must have beat her against brush and debris.  If she hadn't been
wearing the protective leather chaps and Levi's, there was no telling what
she would look and feel like.

She finished quickly and hobbled back to the spot where Trace waited.

"I'm ready now, Mr. O'Bannion."

He grinned as he slipped his arm under her legs and crushed her to his chest.

"Would you tell me about-- What was it you called it?  A flash flood?"

Bellami was searching for a topic, any topic, to keep her mind off his chest
and the pulse throbbing in his neck.

"A small rain up high turns into a torrent in the lower, flatter country.  By
the time it has rushed down the hillsides, gatherin' speed and brush, tons of
water can come plungin' through the arroyos in a matter of minutes."  He
turned his face toward her, and her heart skipped a beat.

"It was my fault for not warnin' you.  I'm sorry, Miss James."

She listened in awe as he spoke her name.  It flowed over her like a kiss.

"We're lucky to be alive.  Many newcomers die each year."  In his strong
arms, Bellami had to agree she-was indeed lucky to be alive.

Later in the afternoon, they stumbled upon a little stream of water.

Evidently left over from the storm, it was cold, but muddy and dark as
coffee.  Even so, Bellami was tempted to take off her boots.  She finally
gave, in to her desire.  After some painful maneuvering, she managed to bathe
her sore ankle and wrist in the frigid liquid.  She sat at the edge of the
water, watching Trace scan the horizon with his beautiful sightless green
eyes.  He seemed to be trying to get his bearings without the benefit of
vision.  The thought came to her that they were hopelessly lost.  They would
wander around to end up dying alone.  She shuddered at the thought.  Then she
looked at the tall man with the scruffy beard and felt totally at peace.

She trusted him.

When he came to the stream, he crouched down near her.  She watched with
fascination as he dropped down on his hands, with his entire body
outstretched on the ground.

Then he submerged his head in the muddy stream.  She smiled with pleasure,
just watching his power and grace.

After a minute or two, he pulled his face from the cold water.

Droplets of water arched up and out as he shook his dripping head.  He gasped
for breath, filling his lungs with air as the muddy water dripped from his
beard and face.  He looked like Tip.  Fetal, strong, indestructible, and
painfully beautiful to watch.  His resourcefulness was endless and bountiful.

"Let me have your gloves, Miss James."  Trace sat by her side, water dripping
off the ends of his hair.

He took the gloves and filled them both with water.  Then, by feel alone, he
tied off the tops with the little leather strings made for tightening the
tops.  He had created makeshift canteens for them.

It wasn't a lot, but it would keep their lips wet through the long day.
Trace allowed Bellami to trickle a few drops down her throat every hour or
so.  It tasted so good, mud and all!

The next time they stopped Trace took a few minutes to instruct Bellami on
what a prickly pear looked like, then left her alone.  She painfully
maneuvered her body from one bush to the next.  It was murder avoiding the
long thorns, but she was determined to help forage for their food.  Earlier
he'd given her another handful of the wonderful pit ion nuts he carried in
his shirt pocket.  She was.  terribly hungry, and she wondered how he felt.
He'd been carrying her all day long without one word of complaint.  If he
felt tired or weak, he didn't show it.  Bellami was overwhelmed by his sheer
physical endurance.  It occurred to her now that she'd seriously
underestimated the man.

Since she'd been hired to teach him, she'd discounted his abilities.

She flushed with embarrassment at her mistake.

When the fire was going, Trace sat near Bellami and used his knife to cut
open the prickly pears.  The flesh had a flavor that took some getting used
to, but Bellami was so hungry she didn't care.  When they were finished with
the fruit and the pit ion nuts, they each took a sip of water from one of
the leather gloves.  The wet leather had a pleasant acidic odor.  It was
slightly metallic, but as with most everything lately, she got used to it
quickly.

Bellami saw Trace tense and turn his head a little, listening intently.  She
looked in the direction of his interest and saw a large gray-and-cream form
loping toward them.

Tip went to Trace, instead of Bellami, and dropped something at his feet,
Then the animal lowered his head, laid his ears back and dropped onto his
back, with all four legs sticking straight up in the air.

"What in the world?"  Bellami said with some distress.  She'd never seen Tip
act like this before.

"It's Tip, isn't it?"  Trace said, knowing the answer without having to hear
it.

"Yes, but I don't know what's got into him.  He's lying flat on his back,
staring at you, with his legs up in the air.  He's dropped something in front
of your boots."

Trace felt the ground in front of him and knew what it was the minute his
fingers touched the fur.  A cottontail.  Tip was providing dinner.

"I'll be damned!  There's something' mighty strange about your dog, Miss
James:" He opened the pocketknife he pulled from his pocket and began
dressing the rabbit by feel alone.  Again she was impressed.

He spitted the rabbit on a stick and thrust it toward Bellami.

"Can you hold this over the fire?  Not too close, though.  Never did like my
rabbit burned," he chuckled.

The smell of the sizzling meat made her mouth water.  "Is Tip still here?"
Trace had a curious look on his face.  Bellami looked at Tip out of the
corner of her eye.  He was still in his strange position.

"Yes."

Trace crawled on his hands and knees toward the sound of the animal.

When he reached him, he gave Tip a playfully rough shake.  Tip leapt up
immediately with a look of satisfaction on his face.  His tongue lolled out
one side of his mouth.  Bellami could swear he was grinning as he jumped from
side to side in front of Trace.  After a mo menthe loped off, disappearing
into the falling darkness.

They finished the rabbit, licking their fingers clean.

"I better make sure and save this last piece for Tip, since he was nice
enough to provide the meal," Trace said to Bellami.

She sat staring up into the sky again, captivated by the sheer size of it.
Everything seemed bigger out here, the land, the sky, and him.

She looked at Trace and at the piece of meat he held for Tip.  She remembered
another benefactor, and heat flooded her cheeks.  Guiltily Bellami remembered
how she'd let Trace believe she'd cooked that meal, baked the corn bread.
She felt very small sitting under the massive Southwestern sky.

"Mr.  O'Bannion?"  She saw his head come up and his sightless green eyes turn
toward her.

"Yes."  He had that husky sound in his voice, the one that always made her
breath catch in her chest and her heart beat a little faster.

Instantly he was beside her,

"Are you all right?  Do your ribs hurt?

Maybe we pushed too hard today.  " The concern in his voice touched her.

"Is there anything you need?"

"No.  It isn't that.  I need" -- She couldn't find the right words.

"I

have to tell you something.  "

Trace heard the strain in her voice, and his blood ran Cold.  Here it comes,
he thought.  Rejection.  He'd been such a fool to hope.  She'd no doubt seen
the desire in his eyes, been disgusted by his notions.  He hadn't hid it from
her well enough.  She'd felt his lust.  Now she'd set him straight, just like
Becky had.

"Go ahead."  He tried to harden his heart against the pain he was sure was
coming.

Bellami swallowed.  She could hear the coldness and contempt in his voice.
She didn't blame him one bit.  She didn't deserve to be with this kind,
honest man.

"Do you remember the night we ate chicken and corn bread?"

He felt his stomach knot.  How could he ever forget it?  That night he'd
first felt her warm flesh.  That night he'd started to compare her with
Becky.  He remembered he couldn't put a name to that special something about
Miss James.  Suddenly Trace knew what unnameable commodity Miss Bellami James
possessed.  The question that had nagged persistently at him since that night
was suddenly answered in a blinding bolt of knowledge.

He could put a name to it now.  Now, when she was going to crush any hope
living in his heart.  Why did he have to realize at this precise moment?  Why
did he have to face the truth now?  Worthless as it was Bellami James boasted
something Becky Kelly never had and never would.  Miss James possessed his
respect.  And--he realized with a painful sense of wonder--his love.  Bellami
James had Trace's love.

All of it, every flawed bit of it, and she always would.  He had fallen head
over heels in love with Miss James.  He hadn't heard half of what she'd said.

"I should've told you, but, well, I was mad and a little hurt," she said
softly.

"What?  What did you say?"  He shook his head, trying to clear away the
be,/vildering knowledge that he'd fallen for the little general.

"I said; someone left a basket of food.  I allowed you to think I cooked it.
I'm sorry."

Trace blinked.

"Basket of food?  That's the terrible thing you wanted to tell me about?"  He
started to laugh.  Deep, rich, booming laughter echoed across the land.

Bellami frowned.  This wasn't quite what she'd expected.

"Oh, Miss James," he said, slapping his thigh,

"I knew ~ all the time."

"What?"  Her voice was rising.

"Yes.  I knew.  Clell brought it out.  You were workin' too hard."  He held
hi, sides, collapsing clumsily on the ground near her.

She observed his mirth with growing aggravation.

"Mr.  O'Bannion," she said sharply.  There was anger in her words.

"Yes."  He wiped the smirk off his face.  He still chortled, sputtering a
bit, not quite in control.

"You mean you knew all along and you said nothing?  You let me think I had
deceived you?"  Her tone was sharp.

He knew she was angry.  Sheepishly he nodded, It had never occurred to him
she'd be upset.  He was just so damned happy it wasn't what he'd thought.
The tiny flicker of hope still burned stubbornly in his heart.

"Well!  I think that's the meanest thing anybody's ever done!"  she snapped
at him.

He listened to her agitated breathing, and he loved her.  He adored her.
Trace O'Bannion let the May breeze caress his face as he sat on the open
ground with a stupid grin on his face.  He didn't care if Miss Bellami James
looked like the south end of a northbound bear.

Actually, he wasn't even curious about her looks anymore.  He loved her.
With all his heart.

She could be the ugliest woman in the world.  Hell, he didn't care.  He had
fallen hopelessly in love with the little general!  Now he had a reason to
live, and finally he had the will to live, as well.

All he had to do was get her home safe and keep her with him.

Teacher, general, whatever she needed to be--all he had to do was keep her by
his side, and it would all be fine, just fine.  He made a determined vow to
himself--he'd keep her with him no matter what.

Trace's eyes showed signs of fatigue, but that was the only indication of his
weariness.  At sunrise he picked up Bellami, ever so gently, and without a
word started walking again.

As the day wore on, she began to feel a sort of selfish pride in him.

He'd learned so much in such a short time.  A deep sense of accomplishment,
and a deep sadness, enveloped Bellami.

Trace felt her stiffenin his arms.  For a while now she'd been thinking hard
about something that made her sad.  He could feel her pulse through his
fingertips.  Finally he could stand the worry no more.

"Miss James, is something' wrong?"  He stopped and bent over to set her on
the ground.  Then he knelt down beside her.

She looked at his face.  Tiny lines of worry showed at the corners of his
eyes.  The urge to reach out and smooth them with her fingers was so very
strong.

"I was just thinking what a good student you've been," she said softly.

He grinned, and some of the strain in his face eased a bit.  She felt
intensely relieved.

"I owe it all to you little general.  All that drillin' of the troops really
paid off," he teased her gently.

"When we get back, I'll really apply myself to the braille, I promise."  He
touched the back of her hand gently, and Bellami felt fire in his hands.  A
fire that burned without flame.

"Maybe braille isn't as important out here as I thought," she whispered.

"Sure it is, and all the other things you want me to learn, too."  He grinned
and belted her in his arms again.

Trace had been quiet all afternoon, his thoughts straying to his childhood
and his upbringing.  When his mother was alive, he'd known the softness and
laughter of a woman.  It was probably the best part of him.  The tenderness
he'd learned from her was what he had tried to show Missy and Logan when they
were babies.  Maybe they knew what was in his heart, maybe not.  Lord knew
he'd never gone so far as to actually tell them.

Trace and Flynn had been taught from the cradle that men showed no
tenderness.  Men asked no favors, and they gave none.

He realized he'd been taught to never, under any circumstances, allow himself
to need someone.  He'd never said

"I love you" to another human being since his mother's death--not even Becky.
He'd never said "I need you" to anyone in his life--never considered that he
even could.  Now, forcing himself to ponder the question of how much he might
actually need Miss Bellami James made his gut twist into knots.

This thought was a new and slightly discomforting concept.  It brought up
questions he'd never thought about before.

Bellami felt the sadness so deep in her heart it hurt.  There wasn't anything
left for her to teach him.  The truth of it had been shown to her, hour after
hour, while he carried her.

He could do more than just manage with his blindness.  He'd saved her life,
and he continued to do so now.  The time for her to leave had come.

The very idea seemed incomprehensible to Bellami.  She'd come here expecting
to stay through the summer with a little boy, Instead, she'd found Trace.
She'd spent one turbulent spring finding out that he didn't need her now and
he probably never had.  She looked at his lean, hard face and saw the
strength etched on every plane.

Trace O'Bannion was a man.  A strong, willful, independent man who no longer
needed a teacher--or a general.  She wondered if he ever really had.  All he
had ever needed was some time to heal and come to terms with the reality of
his life.  He had every skill he would ever use, and then some.

Now, as she faced painful truths, Bellami didn't think she'd really taught
him anything.  He'd finally just started to use what he already knew.  But
what he had taught her--now that was something else again.

Through Trace, she had learned of her own inner strength.  A strength she had
never had to call upon back in the city.  And then there was his kiss.  The
kiss had awakened her sensuality, and a hunger she had never known existed.
The thought of his lips on her own sent chilling shivers down her spine and a
bittersweet smile to her lips.

She'd never be the same.  Bellami could never go back to being the kind of
woman she'd been before.  She would never be able to hide behind her hat and
veil.  Now, for better or worse, she'd have to face life, meet it head-on.
The excuse of sparing the rest of 'the world her scar wouldn't do.  It was
funny, really.  A blind man had opened her eyes.  Trace could feel the
conflict within her.  Damn it, what was wrong?  She was hurting deep, he
could feel it.  A metallic screech carried on the wind as he struggled to
feel what was causing Bellami pain.

"What is that, Miss James?"  He snapped his head up to catch the slightest
sound.  Each muscle in his body tensed.  He was wary of any danger that might
harm the precious cargo he carried.

Bellami squinted her eyes into the setting sun.  It blazed orange, and its
brilliance momentarily blinded her.  At first she couldn't see anything at
all.  Then, slowly, a familiar silhouette took shape.  "A small round circle
atop a wooden spire.  The windmill.

"Oh, Mr. O'Bannion, you did it, we're home!"  There was a little catch in her
voice.  The sound of it nearly brought Trace to his knees.

Home, with Miss Bellami James safe in his arms.  With renewed efiergy, he
shifted her in his grasp and put one foot doggedly in front of the other.
Getting her home safe was the only thought left in his mind.

The rest of it could be sorted out later.

Thank you, God, He prayed over and over, silently.

Chapter Sixteen.

Bdlami felt like kissing the ground in relief, but at the
same time she was horrified.  She wanted to beg Trace to never take her back.

The emotions warred within her.  He had been so quiet the past hour, she'd
been almost afraid to speak to him.  The lines of concentration and fatigue
were etched deep in his face.  He was operating on sheer strength of will
alone as he topped the rise and trudged toward the sound of the windmill.
Bellami tore herself apart each time she knew it was time to leave.  Her
silent agony was interrupted by a well-known squeal.  Snorting playfully
through flared nostrils, Ghost trotted to Trace and Bellami.  He nipped at
Trace's shirt and shook his head.  Then he wheeled and ran back toward the
empty corral.  The last few paces toward the back door brought a lump to
Bellami's throat.

"Can you get inside?"  Trace asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Ghost, you gray devil, come here," he called to the animal as he opened the
gate to the corral.  The horse nipped at Trace on the way by.  The saddle was
still on him, but the bridle was gone.  Bellami stood leaning against the
door, watching.  Again she forced herself to acknowledge how accurate Trace's
intuition had been.  He said the stallion would go straight home, and he did.
Wiping impatiently at a blurry wetness in her eyes, she crept painfully to
the lean-to for the buckets.

Bellami had just finished bringing the last of the buckets inside when she
heard the screen slam shut.

"Miss James?"  Trace spoke softly, as if he were afraid he would disturb her.
He took slow, tentative steps in her direction.  The mud-caked boots left
little outlines on the wooden floor.

"I'll put some water on.  We need baths," she said wearily.

"You're not going' to i:1o anythin' right now."  He reached out to her.

"Sit down, please, Miss James."  He gently forced her shoulders down until
she sat in a chair at the long pine table.  Then he turned and groped for the
buckets.

One by one he unbuttoned what was left.  of his tipped and filthy shirt and
stripped it off.  Without hesitation, he let it drop at his feet.  Then he
stepped over it.

She smiled sadly.  Just another bit of evidence that he hadn't learned
anything from her.  Had never needed to.  He was a man to the bone, and
picking up his dirty clothes seemed inconsequential.

"After a nice long soak, you'll be back to your old self again," he told her
as he grasped the pump handle.

Bellami knew her old self was gone forever--regardless of what Mr. O'Bannion
thought.  Even though she promised herself she wouldn't do it, she watched
him fill the buckets.  Warmth flowed over Bellami as his powerful arm worked
the hand pump up and down.  A funny hollow place grew in the pit of her
stomach as the muscles in his back rippled beneath satiny skin.  When he
picked up the heavy buckets full of water and moved to the stove, a little
moan escaped' her lips.

"Are you all right?"  He frowned as he lit the stove, put the round black lid
back into place and set the buckets of water on to boil.

"Does your ankle hurt much?"  A lock of ebony hair fell across his dusty brow
when he raised his head in her direction.

"I'm fine," she managed to croak out.  She touched the pool of sweat that had
formed in the hollow of her throat.  It mingled with dirt and made a tiny
spot of mud on her fingertips.

Trace frowned when he heard the lie stick in her throat.  He could feel her
pulling away, withdrawing from him.  The door that had opened between them
was slamming shut.  She was leaving.  He knew it as surely as if she'd told
him flat out.  Trace clenched his jaw and realized with absolute certainty
when she'd made the decision to go.  A change had started taking place when
she said he didn't need to learn the damned braille.  His gut twisted into a
hard knot.  Trace felt like he was walking in a den of rattlers.  One wrong
move, one misstep, and it would all be over.  Forever.

The room crackled with the tension between them.  When he picked up the
buckets and heard the LITTLE sound she made, he had to fight the impulse to
throw her on the table and plunge into her right then and there!

Some vague notion of pounding all thoughts of leaving out of her head
occurred to Trace.  An ironic smile touched his lips: He knew, or he thought
he knew, what might keep her with him.  But even though his heart knew, his
mind fought against it.  He fought a dual battle.  One against the terror of
being rejected, and the other with the value he placed on being an
independent man.

Could he do it?  Could he say the words that might keep her with him?

Was it possible for him to ask her to stay?  It went against everything he'd
been taught, all his twenty-eight years.

Hard country made hard men--men like him.  Men who'd sooner end up alone and
lonely than acknowledge weakness or need of any kind.  Was he ready to face
that?  Was he ready to spend the years ahead without her?

The hair on the back of his neck bristled.  She slipped a little farther
away, and he felt powerless to prevent it.  The dirt in his teeth made a
harsh grinding sound as he clenched his jaw against the thought of losing
Miss Bellami James before he ever had her.

Dinner was agony for them both.  Trace managed to find some dry biscuits,
barely edible, but better than nothing.  He brought in a ham from the
smokehouse.  Bellami seemed content to allow him to hack off a few pieces
with a knife.  There were times when Trace thought she might admonish him for
his clumsiness, but she didn't.  She simply accepted the jagged pieces of
meat in polite silence.

That was the worst part.  The quiet.  An absolute hush seemed to have fallen
over the ranch.  Even the usual chirping of crickets and frogs from the
stream were quiet.  It sounded like the world was holding its breath.  They
ate in total silence.

He wanted to hold her again.  When she was in his arms, at least he could
feel her thoughts, could tell what she was thinking.  Now, with the distance
of two feet between them, he felt her shutting the door.

Bellami was locking him out of her heart.

God, I'll die without her!  a voice in his head screamed silently, but he
couldn't form the words in his throat.

Bellami could barely swallow the food.  Even after she'd drunk her fill of
cold, fresh water, her mouth was dry as dust.  She didn't think it was the
food.  Each time She looked at Trace a huge lump seemed to form in her throat.

He'd been so quiet and tense.  Any minute now she expected him to announce it
was time for her to go.  Now that he knew he was capable of fending for
himself, all pretense of a reason for her staying was gone.  He didn't need
her, and he'd made it plain from the first moment that he'd never wanted her
here.  Even his father had known it would he necessary to trick him.

Oh, God, 1 'll die without him!  Her heart cried out.

"Can you make it upstairs by yourself?"  he suddenly asked.  So it was
beginning--his dismissal of her from his presence.

"Yes."  She rose awkwardly from the chair.  Her back and legs were stiff, and
her ankle still hurt when she put too much weight on it, but that pain paled
compared to the rending of her heart.  Bellami limped up the stairs to her
room.  When she was inside, she shut the door and leaned heavily against it.
She had been drained of energy.

Her will to live was ebbing away.

Hot, dry tears stung her eyes, but she wouldn't cry.  She hadn't cried for
thirteen years.  Why start now?

She didn't know how long she'd been standing there in abject misery--maybe a
long time.  Time had seemed to fly by since they'd gotten home, She jumped
when she heard a soft knock on the door.  When she opened it, a tiny breeze
from the open window ruffled a strand of inky-black hair that had fallen
across Trace's brow.  How she wanted to reach out and push it back from his
bruised face.

"Miss James, I have a surprise for you," he said simply as he turned away
from her.  She hobbled along behind him quite numb.

He walked past his own room, farther down the landing.  She hadn't ever been
in this part of the house.  She really didn't even know the stairs went this
direction.  He stopped in front of a door that he pushed open with one wide
hand.  Then he stepped back, out of her line of vision.

A very large white porcelain bathtub sat squarely on ornate lion's-paw feet,
Steam rose in swirling tendrils from the water filling it three-quarters of
the way.  The empty buckets were stacked beside it.

She laughed; she couldn't help it.  How stupid she'd been!  Using that big
wooden tub, killing herself to empty it.  What a fool!

"Go ahead.  Take as long as you want."  His words snapped her back to the
present.

"When you're done, just pull that little chain.  It drains out back, in the
garden.  I'll heat water for my own bath, later."  He turned and left her.

Bellami closed the door behind him.  She felt very dimwitted indeed.  A dry,
ironic chuckle escaped her lips as she unbuttoned her ripped shirt.

The bitter sound of her laugh touched him all the way to his toes as he put
his boot on the stairs.  What was she thinking?  He paced back and forth in
the parlor like a caged animal.  Visions of her wet, naked skin kept flashing
unbidden through his head.  He could feel her, taste her.

"Please, God," he said in anguish.  He pushed the heels of his palms hard
against his eyes.

Then it hit him.

This time was the worst by a long shot.  He fell to the floor like a pole
axed steer.  Waves of nausea buffeted him.  Bile rose in his mouth, and his
stomach churned.  A cold sweat covered his face as he writhed in pain on the
Navaho rug.  Trace groaned incoherently when a flash of blinding white light
seared his eyes.  It was identical to the brilliant light he'd seen when the
bullet hit him.  It took every shred of strength he possessed to open his
eyes and look at it--but he did it.

Dim light surrounded a huge furry head.  Golden eyes regarded Trace without
emotion.  Trace tried to unsnarl the jumble of thoughts tumbling through his
head.  Was he dying of the bullet wound, or was he about to have his throat
ripped out by a lobo?  Nothing made sense in the crazy blurring vision before
him.

Anumb lethargy settled over Bellami, and she reveled in the luxury of a long
soak.  Her limbs were heavy, and she allowed her bruised body to sink into
the water.  Only when it became uncomfortably cool did she find the
motivation to get out.  As she pulled the little chain, the sound of draining
water gurgled through hidden pipes somewhere in the recesses of the quiet
house.  An ironic smile curled her lips as she dripped on the wooden floor.
A tiny puddle formed around her feet.  No towels had been brought in.  She
hadn't even noticed, she'd been so dumbfounded when Trace showed her the tub.

She cautiously peeked around the half-open door and saw nothing.  A little
trail of water on the wood floor marked her path as she padded quietly to her
door.  A blur of gray fur caught her eye when she glanced downstairs toward
the parlor.  Tip.  He slipped out' the heavy oak door, which stood ajar.
Trace must've let him in, Bellami thought to herself.  At least when she was
gone they could keep each other company.

She slipped on her prettiest gown, of soft white lawn, and then it dawned on
her.  Her room looked different.  She gasped in surprise.

Eight trunks neatly lined the walls.

Trace wondered how long he'd been unconscious.  He sat up and tried to clear
the cottony feeling in his head.  A cold panic gripped him when he thought
about Bellami finding him weak and vulnerable like this.

He'd die first!  Hell, he probably would die next time it happened, if this
was any example of what lay ahead.

Struggling to his knees, then shakily to his feet, he managed to stand.  His
teeth ground so hard together they made a screechy grating sound.  It
occurred to him that water was gurgling through the pipes.

She'd finished her bath.  A tender smile touched his lips.  Sucking in deep
breaths to ease his pain and weakness, he staggered toward the kitchen.

Laboring under the weight of steaming buckets, he managed to climb the
stairs.  Several times he stopped on the landing to catch his breath.  He
felt like he'd run halfway to San Marcial.  His muscles strained with
effort--the usual effect of the crippling pain.  While he was recovering from
the effects of being unconscious on the floor, the water had reached a boil.
He was forced to carry up two extra buckets of cold water so that he wouldn't
be cooked alive.  With each step, he cursed his weakness, and the frailty of
his body.

Finally, with a sigh of relief, he poured the last bucket of water into the
white tub.

Trace lowered his bruised form into the bath.  A thousand points of pain
radiated from his legs and back.  He couldn't see them, of course, but he'd
been battered enough in his life to know that if he could see it, his body
would be colored black and blue.

One rib felt so tender to the touch he could barely wash it.  All down his
right thigh the muscles felt soft and squishy under his gentle probing.
Soaping his left shoulder caused him to suck in his breath and wince.

"Funny, while I held Miss James I felt fine," he muttered into a handful of
soap.  He scrubbed his face and beard, wondering how he hadn't noticed any of
these complaints before.  It felt so good just to hold her, protect her, keep
her safe, he mused as he ducked his head under the water to rinse the heavy
lather.

He leaned back, trying to relax a body that was wound as tight as a spring.
He was on the edge.  He could feel all reason and control slipping through
his fingers like grains of sand.

"Maybe I'm going' 1oco," he mumbled under his breath, "seem' a wolf in my
parlor.  That country doctor probably didn't know how much damage the bullet
did to me."  He rubbed his hand over his scratchy beard, as if to wipe away
the thoughts.

A pang of deep regret seized his heart.  He'd probably never again feel the
touch of Bellami's soft hands as she shaved him.

Fool.  Soft, blind fool, he 'thought with contempt for himself.  Trace jerked
the little chain to drain the tub as he rose from the water.

Without any hesitation, he opened the door and walked down the hall to his
room.  Water sheeted off the hair on his legs.  He opened his bedroom door,
and a cool breeze hit his chest.  Only then did he realize he was naked as
the day he'd come into this world.

Trace moved like a man in a dream, like a man sleepwalking.  The only thought
in his head was Bellami.  Her name was like a chant.  Over and over the
cadence repeated itself--Bellami, Bellami.  Groaning against his feeling of
desolation, and battling against a weakness he could not control, he stepped
out onto the balcony.  With a cry of torment he gripped the railing so hard
his knuckles hurt.

He wanted them to.  Maybe the pain would drive her from his brain and his
heart.

Damn it, I'm a man.  A man is supposed to be strong.  Trace groaned.  He felt
anything but strong.  He'd been raised to ignore weakness, to fight against
frailty--to acknowledge need was to succumb to it.  This feeling he had for
Bellami was like the thing he'd been taught to deny.  How could he live with
the void her absence would leave behind?

Bellami turned toward her open window.  She stood looking around the room,
her room.  This would be the last night she spent in this house--Trace's
house.

She stumbled to the balcony, trying to see through the blur in her eyes.  A
pitch-black sky, and the same thousand enchanted jewels, twinkled above her
head.  The sheer beauty of the velvet night tore at her soul.  How could the
sky that had felt so safe and warm a day ago now make her feel cold and
alone?  Then she heard the sound.  A mournful thing.  An inhuman, tortured
tone.  She turned her head toward its source, but the blackness engulfed her.

Trace.  Her only thought was that something had happened to Trace.

Groping toward his section of the balcony, Bellami prayed, Please let him be
all right.

Trace felt her presence like a summer breeze.  His head snapped up as he
turned toward her.  She was no more than a foot from him, and coming closer.
The heat from her body stirred his emotions like he was being stroked with
her silken fingers.

He was afraid to move, afraid to speak.  He stood on shaky legs, afraid to
take a step.  If this was just one more mad delusion, then so be it.  He'd
gladly lose his mind.  After all, his heart was already gone.  He welcomed
the illusion, groped for it, blindly--willingly.

Bellami hesitated for a moment, listening.  She could hear his ragged
breathing.  Something wasn't right.  She took one more tentative step, then
halted.

"Trace?"

Trace heard her say his name.  Not his surname, but his first name.

Groaning deep in his chest, he wrapped her in a hungry embrace.  Her body
felt like all the good things he'd ever known in his life.  She was here, and
she was calling to him.  For the moment, at least, she was his.

He bent his head in surrender, covering her lips with his.  He crushed her
mouth.  Then he clenched his jaw, taking control of his lust, and forced
himself to be tender, gentle.  She grew warm, soft, more yielding in his
grasp.  Wildly he thrust his tongue in her mouth.  It was so inviting.  He
invaded her softness, as he would invade every inch of her.  Tomorrow would
come, but tonight, in the darkness, she was his.  All his.

Bellami felt a rush of power and passion flowing through her the instant his
arms folded around her.  This was what she'd feared and wished for.
Twenty-six years of female longing poured out into the night.  She had no
restraint, no inhibitions, no thought of tomorrow.

Holding nothing back, she met his lust and matched it, measure for measure.

He bent and took her into his arms.  She bit his earlobe.  While he strode to
his bed, she suckled his neck, licked his nipples.

Trace thought he'd burst into flame when he felt her mouth on his neck.  He'd
constructed fantasies of her, but this was far beyond anything he'd ever
imagined!  Grabbing the thin material of her gown, he ripped it cleanly down
the middle.

Suddenly she was fighting.  Not to stop him, but to help him tear it from her
body.  She wanted to be naked against him, and that knowledge fanned his
blazing passion like the wind across a range fire.  Trace wanted her like
he'd never wanted any woman in his life.  He ran his hands over her
shoulders, down her body.  His wide palms skimmed her waist, the flare of her
hips, down over the luxuriant thighs, to the tips of her toes.  He felt her
shudder beneath his ca-tess.  With deliberate slowness, he nibbled at her
feet.  He tasted her sweet flesh.  Palms open, he committed to memory every
valley, every mound, every inch of her body.

If all he could take was one night, then it would be a night that would live
in his memory forever.  He vowed he would know her, even if he couldn't see
her.  Trace's brain painted her picture in his heart as his hands discovered
her, inch by inch.

Bellami felt his soft, warm mouth on her instep.  It was the most incredibly
sensuous feeling she'd ever experienced.  A rush of moist heat began between
her legs.  The feel of his firm palms on her skin awakened each delicate
nerve ending.  His touch brought her to life.

As Trace moved up her legs, his warm chest touched her own, rubbing against
her susceptible nipples.  She became aware of his flesh against her flesh.
First her shins, then her thighs.  His skin rubbing against her own created a
sensual friction.  The moist excitement started changing, to become a dull,
aching need.  She reached out and grabbed a handful of his thick, tousled
mane.

He nearly exploded when she tugged on his hair.  Never in his life had he
known that a woman could be so passionate.  Biting down on the soft inside of
his mouth, he tried to control the wild fires of desire and need.  Her soft
whim-pets drove him nearly mad with turbulent passion.

Like a fetal animal, he closed his mouth over her spicy, damp mound, tugging
at her with his lips, gently, persistently.

Bellami writhed.

"Trace, oh, Trace..."  she whispered.  Each time she said it, he sucked
harder.  She jerked hard on his hair.

Trace couldn't tell if she wanted him to continue, or if she wanted him to
stop.  It didn't make much difference.  It would've been easier to move a
mountain than to cheek the yearning he felt for her.

She thrust her pelvis hard against him as he licked deep within her.

He sampled her wetness.  Suddenly she arched her back, slamming her pelvic
bone hard against his chin.  At the same time, her nails dug into the skin on
the top of his shoulders.  Warm trickles of blood seeped from under her
fingernails.  Some part of his mind, a tiny part still capable of rational
thought, wondered why his body no longer hurt.

Bellami rocked in rhythmic shivers as Trace continued his persistent
exploration up her stomach.  He nuzzled the downy softness above the hot
triangle he'd just abandoned.  When he reached her rib cage, the part of him
that hadn't succumbed to the madness of lust told him to be gentle.  Mindful
of her ribs, he delivered feathery kisses and nibbles up to her breasts.

When he found a hard nipple, he encircled it with his tongue, and she wrapped
her long, slim legs around his waist.  The squeeze of her muscles against him
was so pleasurable, it almost drove him wild.  A deep growl started somewhere
within his chest, rumbling out.

She bent her head to his chest, nuzzling within the soft whorl of hair there.
They lay locked against each other, rubbing their palms against each other's
nipples.  If she continued to do that, Trace knew, he'd be completely lost.

He forced her down to the mattress gently, hearing the deep intake of her
breath.  Little beads of sweat had formed on her skin.  He slid his hands
over the slippery moistness as he sculpted her smooth skin with flat, splayed
palms.  He knew her body now as well as he knew his own.

Bellami begged Trace for some kind of release.  She didn't know what it was
she wanted, but some instinct told her Trace knew.  He knew exactly what she
wanted, and how to give it to her.  If only he would hurry!

Suddenly he left her.  As the cool breeze washed over her body, she cried out
in frustration and reached for him.  Then he came back to position himself
over her hips.  She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his hard
shaft.  It jerked within her hand.  So hot and firm--that part of him she'd
wondered about so many times, when it was beneath his Levi's.

He jerked convulsively as her fingers stroked him.  When he moved toward her,
her hand slid up the length of his manhood, coming to rest against the coarse
hair there.  It couldn't have been better if he'd planned it that way.  A
satisfied sigh escaped his lips as he touched her mouth with his tongue.

She bit down on it gently, drawing his tongue inside her mouth.  He Placed
his hand over hers on his pulsing tumescence.  As one, they positioned
themselves together, and he plunged deep--as deep as he could get.  Bellami
gasped and arched her back, tensing.  Then he rocked against her
rhythmicallY.  She shuddered uncontrollably as he withdrew, slowly,
sensually, nearly to the tip.  Her legs entwined around him in an effort to
restrain him, to keep him close and deep within her.  He thrust again, harder
than before.  ^ cry of ecstasy bubbled from her mouth

She understood now.  He covered her mouth with his.  Again he pulled out,
nearly all the way, but not quite.  With exquisite slowness, he undulated his
hips in a circular motion.  So good, it felt so good.

Bellami felt her mind leaving her body.  Something within her fragmented as
her soul exited and shattered into a million little pieces.  In the
protective black-velvet night, the pieces that had once been her floated
among the stars.

He thrust against her again, and his roar of primal pleasure mingled with
her cries of ecstasy.  Somewhere, out in the darkness, a wolf howled, and a
stallion's triumphant cry pierced the silence of the night.

Chapter Seventeen.

The acrid odor of singed hair and searing flesh combined
with sweet burning sage in the clear morning air.  It created a picture so
vivid in Brooks's mind he knew he'd never forget it.

He doubted he ever could forget one moment in this dynamic environment.  The
thought of going back to the dissipated way of life awaiting him in New York
made a deep ache in his gut.

Shane roped, threw and tied the young bull.  When he lay relatively
motionless on the ground, Brooks picked up a red-hot branding iron and
pressed it against the animal's flank.  Moving quickly, he then went to the
head to mark one ear and dehorn, while Logan cut the bawling calf.  As soon
as the piggin' string was jerked loose, it hit the ground running.  The
healthy calf bled only slightly, running to join the hundred or so they'd
already cut and branded since sunup.

When Shane said the Circle B ran fifteen hundred head of short horn crosses,
Brooks had thought it was a joke.  Now, as the herd was being brought in, he
realized the cowboy had been completely serious.  The sheer mass of milling,
dusty, cattle was mind-boggling to behold.

As Brooks watched, Shane reined his dun back and forth.  Then he expertly cut
out a large bull calf, delivering it to Logan and Brooks.

"Here you go, boys," he said, and grinned cockily, bringing his horse to a
sliding stop.  The dun was lightningr quick.  Some of the other hands had
made the mistake of racing with him--once.

Shane tried to coax one more race out of the men drinking coffee by the cook
wagon, but had no luck.  Brooks had noticed that as these men worked they
always managed to find time for fun.

He looked at the rangy, long-limbed cattle called longhorns mixed with the
stockier, beefier short horns Clouds of dust swirled amid the anima.  is'
hooves.  Their constant lowing created a steady hum around the camp.  Hugh
explained that the tough, disease-resistant longhorns bred stamina and
endurance into the meatier short horns

Pride rang in Hugh's voice as he talked of the hearty 1onghorn's calving
ease.  He looked possessively out over the herd of animals, and over his
children, working them.

"It's a nice sight, ain't it, Brooks?"  Hugh Said,

"Same time each year, all the stock is brought here, That's when we do the
branding and cutting.  Then they go to 'the stockyards in Magdalena for sale
back East."  Hugh's face clouded.

"This is the first year Trace hasn't brought his stock to the roundup."

Brooks remained silent, allowing the man to speak his thoughts.

"Day before yesterday, I sent a couple of cowboys to Trace's, to round up his
three hundred head.  They're due back anytime now."  He took off his Stetson
and wiped the sweat from his face.  Both men turned to scan the fence line,
expecting to see a telltale cloud of dust on the horizon.  Nothingbroke the
vista: Missy had been watching Brooks:for the ast half hour.  She just
couldn't figure the man out.  He didn't have to do this.  He could've sat at
the ranch house, comfortable and clean.

"Bet he never got dirty like this back East," she speculated aloud.  The kind
of life he led in New York was a source of irritation and curiosity to her.
It made her feel deeply inadequate, imagining how he probably looked on a
normal day.  dressed in fine clothing, a pretty woman on his arm.  She
gritted her teeth and slapped her gloved hand against her leg in irritation.
Missy wasn't really sure, but she figured all the women in New York were
beauties with pale delicate skin, always fashionably dressed.

"Doubt any of those girls ever did a day's work," she grumbled to herself.

The nagging fear had always been with her that she'd never learn how to be a
proper woman--that she'd never be enough of a lady to attract a man.

As she remembered the smile Brooks had given Becky the other day, it became
almost a certainty to her.  That dazzling smile had left a sort of raw,
hollow feeling in Missy's stomach Mainly because she'd never been on the
receiving end of such a smile and didn't see any change likely in her future.
She sighed wistfully.  Up until now, she hadn't minded so much.  Being
raised by men, she'd never had a woman around to teach her about the
complicated contraptions young ladies were supposed to wear.

Usually, like now, she ended up wearing knee-length union suits, Levi's, and
shirts that barely fit.  They were the cast-offs of some older brother.  The
Mexican women working at the ranch had tried to give her some brief
instruction, but they didn't go in for the more formal attire of fashionable
society.  They wore traditional full skirts with low-cut blouses.  Missy had
tried that kind of clothing on once, but she'd looked scrawny and awkward.
Her body was more slim and willowy, not full-figured, like Lupe's.

Frowning in bewilderment, she continued looking at the confusing Eastern
dude.  Sweat made a dark V down the front and back of his shirt.  His dark
hair hung in sweat-dampened strands.  Her heart leapt when he took off his
hat.

It made her squirm uncomfortably, just looking at him.  She'd noticed the
same thing happening when she closed her eyes at night and thought about him.
What the devil was wrong with her lately?  Maybe she was coming down with
the grippe, or some awful disease.

The bawling of a calf made her jerk around in wide-eyed surprise.  A longhorn
cow stood nervously watching her calf while it struggled to free itself.  The
silly creature was tangled in somebody's discarded lariat.

"Now what feel left a rope layin' around?"  Missy cursed under her breath.

"If I find out, I'll tear the hide right off him."  Disgusted, she walked to
the thrashing animal.  He managed to snare himself up good and proper.  His
terri-fled, soulful eyes were rimmed in white.

She felt sorry for the little feel.

Reaching down, she patted him, trying to give him some reassurance.

He bawled all the louder as Missy started unsnarling the heavy rope, his
struggles increasing with heartfelt intensity.  Missy laughed at the animal.

"Just like a bull or a man, aren't you, fella?"  Bending down on one
leather-clad knee, she tried to heft him up to loosen the rope.

Suddenly her name rang on every cowboy's lips.  She jerked her head up, and
her eyes widened in fear.

Brooks rammed his hat back on his head when he heard all the commotion.  The
calf sounded like someone was skinning him alive.  When he saw Missy bending
near him, he wasn't surprised.  Frankly from what he'd seen, she was capable
of tearing the hide off most any living thing.  She grappled with the large
bull calf.  For some reason, Brooks mo0nted his stallion.  He didn't have any
real reason for doing it, but he did.  For once--in fact, for the first
time--the horse didn't crow-hop for twenty minutes before deciding he'd
already been broke.

Instead, he moved out like a seasoned cow pony who'd been on a dozen drives
or more.  Brooks felt momentary pride for the sudden act of obedience, and he
glanced toward Missy to see if she had witnessed his small victory over the
animal.  That was when he caught sight of the longhorn cow as she started her
charge.

If not for the silly little vanity on his part, he'd never have seen it.

Missy watched the big cow, running hell-bent for leather, right at her.  For
one brief moment, she considered fleeing, but only for a moment.  Missy knew
she'd never regain her feet and outrun the cow.

Nothing, but nothing, could move like a mad longhorn.  And, from the
white-eyed rage in her eyes, this cow was mad as all get, out Missy swallowed
hard.  The morning sun glinted off the animal's horns.

"Nice Texas twist," she mumbled absently admiring the .  graceful shape of
the lethal horns that would soon gore her to death.  '"Never really thought
I'd die before my first real kiss," Missy commented to the squirming
brown-and-white calf.

Brook's mind flashed instructions to his legs and hands so fast he wasn't
even aware of what he was doing.  If his horse could catch up to the cow,
maybe--just maybe--he'd reach Missy at exactly the same time.

A sickening vision of himself and the stallion being gored and trampled into
the dust flahed before his eyes.  Then the image became a slender feminine
body lying in the dirt, bloody and broken: No.  Brook gritted his teeth and
dug in his spurs.  When the rowels touched the stallion's ribs, the mustang
exploded in one huge leap.

His legs pumped with hidden strength, and he gained precious ground.

Brooks leaned low over the right side of the swells of the saddle and crooked
his arm.  He took a deep breath and braced his body for the impact.  When his
forearm connected with her rib cage, it felt like his shoulder was being
ripped from his arm.  A searing pain opened up an eight-inch gash just below
his shoulder at the same moment, but he held on.  With a grip of iron, he
carried her.  They still leaned precariously out over the side of the horse.

The mustang made a full circle with his nostrils flaring as he tried-to
evade the charging cow.  The wicked horns swiped viciously at his flanks.

Missy smelled the grassy breath of the cow while she was being hammered
against a solid, lean hip.  The vibration of the horse's feet on hard-packed
earth jarred her teeth, and she tasted blood.  If she'd been gored, she
wasn't feeling it.  Maybe that kind of wound stays numb for a while, she
thought to herself.

Looking through her tangle of hair, she could just make out the color of the
horse, but little else.  She watched out of the corner of her eye as the
enraged cow's head came up, just missing the heavy muscle in th horse's rump
by inches.

They circled the camp once more and came near the cook wagon.  Cowboys
mounted quickly and tried to head off the enraged creature.  The horse of her
unseen rescuer came to a sliding stop.  Missy felt herself held tightly
against that mysterious body for just a split second, and then she was
deposited safely on the ground.  She looked up, into the face of her
salvation.  The last thing she expected to see was a pair of blue-gray eyes.

Missy didn't say a word.  She just stared at Brooks while the blood trickled
down his arm and ran between his fingers.  It made a little puddle on the
ground by her boot.  She blinked twice, trying to clear her thoughts.  He
just sat there, staring at her with a dumb sort of expression on his face.

"All right.  I'll go with you to the bullfight.  But I ain't wearin' a
dress."  Missy turned and walked away.

Brooks watched her tight little butt framed by the worn chaps as she stalked
away.  What the hell had she said that for?  When had he ever asked her to
wear a dress?  The bullfight was the farthest thing from his mind at this
moment.  Brooks watched the saucy sway of her hips as she disappeared behind
the cook wagon.

"She's the damnedest female I ever met," he said aloud.  "She didn't even
bother to say thank-you, or go to hell, or kiss my ass.  Does somebody save
her from sure death every day?"  he asked his horse as it eyed him warily.
He found himself completely at a loss with her.  He just didn't know how to
reach her, couldn't figure out what she wanted.  If he'd been in New York, he
would've simply bought her some expensive bauble and taken her to the most
expensive restaurant available.  But she didn't seem to want anything from
him.

Maybe that was why she baffled him.  She really didn't want anything from
him--anything at all.  She also didn't need him.  It drove him to
distraction.  There weren't any cabs to hail or doors to open or invitations
to accept out here.  He couldn't get her an audience with a Duke or a
Vanderbilt.  Women here didn't need men in the way they did back East.  The
thought was more than a little sobering.

Well, maybe I just proved she needs me, a little bit, he thought, grinning.
After all, I did manage to keep her from being trampled into the dust.  A
cocky smirk replaced the grin.

Clell was right.  If Missy ever came to him, it would have to be as a
complete equal.  Not for his protection or his wealth or his position or
because he was well connected in society, but simply because she wanted to be
with him.

For some ridiculously mad reason, Brooks found the prospect damned appealing.
He shook his head in amazement.

She's a ban sheet Anybody with a lick of sense would pity the poor man who
got tangled up with Missy O'Bannion, he warned himself.  The blood was
soaking farther up his shirtsleeve, and he really looked at the wound for the
first time.  It didn't hurt, but just sort of stung, like being caned with a
fresh hickory branch.

He looked around the camp, feeling kind of neglected and ignored.

Then he spotted Hugh and Logan approaching him.  The older O'Banni0n carried
what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

"A drink would be greatly appreciated at this particular moment,"

Brooks said to the men with wry satisfaction.  "" Bout time somebody had the
good sense to thank me properly.  " He chuckled.  Hugh never uttered a single
word as he turned the bottle upside down and poured the amber liquid over the
bloody gash.  He wore a taciturn expression while Brooks did a little dahce
in protest against the flames licking at his wound.

The young hero blew on the bloody slash in little short puffs, trying to cool
it off.

"What in hell did you do that for?"  he cried while he rocked and jumped.  He
held his arm and looked at Hugh in disbelief.

The whole damned family was crazy!

"That stuff is supposed togo in me, not on me!"  He fanned at the wound with
his hat.

Hugh pulled a hair out of the mustang's tail, then ran it through the eye of
a needle he drew from his shirt pocket.  A stifled growl erupted from
Brooks's lips when Hugh pushed-the whole thing through the raw edges of his
tender skin.  Hugh never smiled, but his eyes winked with humor.  When he was
done sewing the gash, he gave Brooks a slap on the back and went back to
whatever he'd been doing before all hell broke loose.

Logan stood there grinning at Brooks with his usual crooked smile, his
eyebrows raised.

"Being a-hero ain't all it's cracked up to be, is it', Brooks?"  he drawled.

Both men looked up to see the wranglers bringing in Trace's cattle.

They ran them in with the rest of the herd.  Without dismounting, they headed
straight to Hugh.  After a moment of wild gesturing and raised voices, he
bellowed to his children.  In a.  move so smooth it looked rehearsed, Shane,
Logan, Missy and Hugh were mounted, Brooks watched them with curiosity as
Hugh reined his mount over to him.  The older man's face held none of the
benevolent humor he customarily displayed.  His look was dark and full of
concern.

"You better mount up, too.  Trouble at Trace's."

Brooks was in the saddle before the patriarch even finished speaking.

"What kind of trouble?"  he asked as they broke into a lope, side by side.

Hugh frowned and settled his hat on his head, preparing for a hard ride,

"Don't know for sure, but the boys saw Trace's gray stallion saddled and
running loose on the range.  They tried to catch him, but never came close.
Damn horse always was fast as lightning.  Still saddled..."  The old man's
voice trailed off ominously.

Brooks knew a loose horse with a saddle was a portent of disaster.  He asked
no more questions, but his mind played out avariety of imagined problems, all
of them including Bellami.

He couldn't picture a blind man on a horse.  That meant Bellami had been
riding.  If something had happened to her again because of his lack of
protection.  This time he would never be able to live, with himself.

The silent group rode hard.  They reached the O'Bannion ranch house in record
time.  Clell rode out to meet them.  "What's wrong?"  He knew this was no
pleasure ride.

"Wranglers saw Ghost on the range, day and a half ago."  Hugh told him.

"I'm afraid it may have been Bellami riding," Brooks told the old cowboy.

CleWs face darkened.  The grizzled man cleared his throat and looked guiltily
at Hugh and Brooks.

"They were both on the horse.  I saw them three days ago.  They were going'
on a picnic."  Clell looked at the ground, his pale eyes troubled.  "Guess I
shoulda told you, but I couldn't see no harm in it."

Logan reached out and gave Clell a pat on the shoulder.  "Trace has been
ridin' that horse every night.  He's as good as he ever was.

They'll be all right.  " Logan met each surprised gaze steadily.  They all
looked at him with the cold glare of accusation.  He stared them down one by
one, showing not one whit of regret.

"Now, don't go lookin' at me like that, he's my brother, too.  It made me
feel better, sort of keepin' an eye on him.

Didn't see no need in tellin' all of you.  He's watched over me for years.
Now it's my turn to return the favor," he snapped.

"It don't much matter now who shoulda done what," Hugh said.

"Let's just find out what's going' on" He leaned low over the saddle horn and
spurred his horse.  The group followed suit.  They topped a little hill, and
a lone rider appeared in the distance.  He sat on a big bay gelding.  Only
one man rode a horse like that.  Flynn.  With easy strides, the horse soon
fell in alongside the other riders.

"What's the trouble?"  He asked, keeping pace with them.  The horses
continued moving in unison.

"Ghost was seen on the range, saddled."  Hugh gave no more explanation, and
Flynn didn't seem to need any.  His face creased into a frown.

Logan studied his older brother.

"Why're you back?  I thought they needed you in Socorro."  Logan said finally.

"Hey, you almost 'sound like you're sorry to see me, little brother."

He gave his sibling a wink.

"It didn't take too long.  The committee only took a couple of days to do the
investigation.  Monroe's been found innocent on three of the charges," Flynn
said, then paused for a moment.

"On the gamblin' charge, they couldn't prove he'd been gamblin' for money,
but they did make it clear they didn appreciate that kind of activity from
their sheriff."  Flynn smiled wryly.

"Actually, I think some of those upstandin' men are findin' those laws almost
as hypocritical as I do."

Logan snorted in agreement at Flynn's answer.  He gave his older brother one
last hard look, then concentrated on the distant horizon.

No one else spoke.  The steady pounding of hooves on hard-packed earth was
the only sound in the early morning.

rear tess Hearts 249 Trace woke up with a start.  He knew it was morning
without needing to see the dawn.  Remembrance of last night flooded his
brain.  He touched the warm woman lying at his side, and a victorious,
jubilant smile covered his face.  Bellami James was the hottest, most
passionate woman on God's earth.  She'd met his burning desire head-on, and
matched it with her own.  All night long they touched, tasted and buried
themselves in each other's bodies.  Trace couldn't be sure, of course, since
he lived in constant darkness, but he thought they'd finally fallen into
exhausted slumber just before the sun came up.

He felt a sort of power and strength, a male energy' he been lacking since he
was shot.  It seemed like the more he,d taken from Bellami in the heat of
passion, the more manly and whole he'd felt.  The more he received from her,
the more he had to give back in return.  Turning his face toward her, he
nuzzled into the heavy blanket of her hair and smelled the mingling scents of
lavender, her and himself.  He sighed and rested his chin in the hollow of
her shoulder.  In moments, he drifted contentedly to sleep again Bellami
stretched and found she was sore all over.  By squirming a bit, she managed
to move bei' shoulder out from under Trace's head.

Slowly she raised herself to one elbow.  She couldn't help looking down at
him, sleeping so peacefully, In the soft morning light, she allowed her eyes
to scan every inch of his male form--a luxury she'd been denied in the
darkness.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips when she saw how much of his poor body was
bruised.  He looked much worse than she did, and she was no pretty picture.
How on earth could he have carried her all that way in the shape he was in?
Her eyes traveled lower, past his ribs, to the dark patch of curly hair and
what lay nestled there.  A hot, slightly embarrassed, satisfied quiver ran
through her.  Bellami was floored.

If this was what men and women did together.  If this was what it was like,
how on earth did anybody who knew ever get anything done?

She'd gladly stay in bed around the clock if Trace would do that to her
again.  With a womanly smile, she eased herself out of bed.

Returning to her own room briefly, she slipped on her worn brown work dress.
Easing downstairs, out the kitchen door, she turned toward the outhouse.

It was a little surprising to see the stain of blood on her thighs and bally.
She hadn't noticed it upstairs.  With a smile, she realized she'd been too
busy exploring Trace while he slept: She'd need another bath now.  It dawned
on her then.  She had yet to take him to task about that bathtub.  There were
many things she intended to tell that man this morning, things she'd never
expected to say' to any man.  Words she'd thought would be denied her forever.

She hummed a tune while she walked back toward the house.  When she reached
for the kitchen door, she heard pounding hooves and several voices.  Ghost
screamed in greeting to the horses.

Bellami o0uld only make out the silhouette of riders coming toward the house.
Holding up her hand to Shade her eyes from the bright sun, she tried to see
who they were.  Her long, unbound dark hair kept blowing across her face, and
she impatiently swiped at it.  When they rode through the gate, she instantly
recognized one of the men.

"A

happy smile broke across her face.

Trace woke to find Bellami gone.  She was probably downstairs making coffee
and breakfast.  For a wonderful mo menthe lay there savoring the feeling of
his bed and the memories of the woman who had shared it with him.
Languorously he got up and found his Levi's.

"Where are you?"  he called cheerfully.  He had to speak to her, had to tell
her of his feelings.  There could be no question about it now.

Whether she laughed at him or not, he had to tell her how he felt.  He was on
his knees, feeling 251 along the floor for his boots, when he heard Ghost.  A
shiver of apprehension ran up his spine.

"Bellami?"  There was no answer.  Concern gripped his chest.

"To hell with the boots," he growled as he straightened up.  He buttoned the
two lowest buttons on his Levi's and headed for the stairs.  A cold
premonition of doom gripped him.  The floor felt cold against his bare feet.
He didn't care about it, or about the blinding headache that was starting to
throb in his temple.  Nothing mattered but his love for Bellami.  He
descended the stairs, trying to identify the voices he could hear outside.
When he heard Bellami's voice, relief flooded through him Softly and
sweetly, she was chattering happily to someone.  The sound of her words made
him smile again.  He stopped to listen enjoying the sound of her voice, the
feeling of having her near and knowing how mu~h he loved her.

Slowly the smile faded from his face.  Jealously, terror, anger, all swept
through him like a raging river.  How could she say such things?

The riders were staring at Bellami, looking at her scar, but she didn't care.
Trace had shown her that hiding was no longer necessary: She was who she
was--she looked the Way she looked.

In his presence, she'd found a wondrous thing--acceptance: In his arms, she,
d found love.  For the first time in her life, she accepted who she was.

"Brooks, I'm so happy to see you!"  she shouted at the top of her lungs, and
ran toward her brother.

"Oh, Brooks, come here and let me kiss you.  Get off that horse and squeeze
me."

Brooks stared down at his sister, and he hardly knew her.  Her long hair
whipped free around her shoulders, and she smiled, happily.  What could have
wrought such a change?  He scanned her quickly from head to toe.  A 'smile
twitched at the corner of his mouth as he listened to her happy greeting.

' Her voice sounded like a silver waterfall.  She just kept telling him over
and over how much she missed him and how much she loved him.

He saw the heavy dark hair, her soulful azure eyes sparkling in the morning
sun.  The thick raised scar running down her alabaster cheek was the only
thing marring her exquisite beauty.  But most of all he saw that Bellami
James was in love.  He felt a weight being lifted from his broad shoulders.
He'd prayed and asked God to give Bellami a change, something to hold on to.
What better gift?

Trace opened the door, stumbling out into the warm, sunlit morning.

Flynn knew immediately that Trace was in pain.  It was etched at the corners
of his eyes.  His mouth contorted and twisted grotesquely with each faltering
step.

Trace heard Bellami's excited greeting to Brooks and his heart plummeted.
She continued to chatter, about how much she loved him.

The words echoed over and over in his head.  He just didn't believe it.  Not
after last night.  Bellami had been a virgin.  That discovery had both
surprised and thrilled him.  He had naively begun to beYs eve she couldn't
have cared for Brooks as he first supposed--not if she was still pure.  But
now she was telling the man she loved him, she'd missed him, she was happy to
see him.

His blood ran cold.  He was enraged.  He was devastated.  He'd tell her what
he thought of her.  She was just like Becky.  He felt used, Why had she used
him?  WhY would she?  Why would any woman give herself like that, and then,
the next morning, speak affectionately to an old beau9.  His greatest fear
was now a cold, grim reality.  She'd rejected him, totally, in the most final
way a woman could toss a man aside.

She'd slept with him and obviously found him lacking.  His heart was broken
and' his pride shattered.  What a fool he'd been!  He believed her passion
stemmed from love.  Love.  t Trace cursed himself for nine kinds of a fool.
Only the biggest fool in the world would believe a woman like her could love
a blind man.

~.  eurtess Hearts 253 He'd thought Becky had broken his heart, but that
feeling had been nothing compared to the devastation he felt now.  With a
gut-wrenching realization, Trace knew just how much he loved Bellami James.
He knew that if he lived to be a hundred he'd never love another woman like
he loved her.  Knowing that made the pain in his heart and soul a hundred
times worse.  He'd never he free of her memory.

Bellami heard the door and turned expectantly toward Trace.  At last she
could introduce him to her twin.  The two most important men in her life
would finally meet.

Shock gripped her.  Instead of a look of affection, she saw a dark face full
of rage, disgust and hatred.  She sucked in her breath.  The realization of
what his expression meant hit her.  She had touched him out of love--he had
felt only lust.  His need for a woman had finally overcome his dislike for
her.  Foolishly she'd allowed herself to hope that maybe he cared just a
little.  Obviously she'd been wrong.  It had meant nothing to him.

From the look on his face, it was plain to see he regretted what they'd done,
what they'd shared.  Maybe regret was too mild a word.

From his expression, he loathed her.  His dark scowl suddenly became deathly
pale.  Trace staggered, losing control of his muscles.  She watched in
fascinated horror, unable to move or to speak.

Trace felt the spell coming on.  He gritted his teeth, cursing silently,
knowing Bellami would see his weakness.  His knees buckled.

He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips.  He stumbled forward one
more agonizing step closer to the woman he cherished more than life.  He was
going to tell her--had to tell her--before he died.

He recognized the metallic taste of his own blood.  He knew he was biting his
tongue but he was powerless to stop, just as he was powerless to make Bellami
love him.

His body crumpled, falling heavily to the ground.  This man, who had carried
Be!  lami like a precious treasure across the prairie, fell to his knees at
her feet.

"Trace!"

Digging his fingers into the dirt, he tried to drag his body forward, toward
the sweet sound of her voice.  The light in his head exploded.

There was a blinding white flash of light, and a hundred pinpoints of fire.
He was dying.  He welcomed the blessed darkness.  Without Bellami he had no
life, anyway.  Death promised relief from the pain in his head and the agony
in his heart.

Hugh reached him at the same time Bellami did.  The older man looked helpless
as he held his son in his arms.  Trace had gone limp, and blood trickled from
his mouth.

"Flynn, ride to Magdalena, bring back the new doctor ... the surgeon.

Ruin your horse if you have to.  " Hugh's eyes were misty, and his face
looked ashen.

"Let me go.  My horse's faster," Shane said with anticipation.  Hugh nodded
and, in a puff of dust, Shane and his dun disappeared over the rise, out of
sight.

Chapter Eighteen.

"How long will he sleep, Doctor?"  Bellami couldn't hide
the concern in her voice.  Her face showed the signs of strain and lack of
sleep.  Dark, sooty smudges ringed her blue e es.  She'd been sitting at
Trace's bedside for twenty-eight h~Yuers without taking a break.  She refused
to leave his side until she knew.

The thin man with a mustache at her side seemed not to hear her.

Then, abruptly, he answered,

"Hard to say.  The fragment of skull I removed should take care of his
blindness, his loss of control, but people sometimes fall into an odd sleep
after this-kind of operation."  His brows furrowed together as he continued
to cheek Trace's pulse, touching him lightly here and there, as a concerned
parent might touch a child.

"Will he live, Doctor?"  Her voice was so soft, almost inaudible even in the
deafening silence of the room.  It was as if she feared that saying the words
too loud might make it happen.  She shuddered as she waited for the doctor to
answer her.

He finally looked in her direction with eyes that had seen too much pain and
death.

"I can't really say--just yet.  Maybe in five or six more days I'll be able
to give you a better idea."  He looked at her sympathetically.

Clell quietly shifted his weight and stayed in the shadows, out of sight.
He listened as the doctor and Bellami talked softly.  The physician had done
everything he could.  Now it was up to the good Lord.

Bellami never took her eyes from Trace's face, not even while she spoke to
the doctor.  Occasionally she touched Trace's bandaged head lightly.

Clell smiled at her gentleness.  She was some kind of woman.  He hadn't ever
seen her like.  While Shane rode for the doctor, she'd kept them all from
falling apart.  She'd forced them all into action--directing them like a
drill sergeant.  After they carried Trace's limp body inside, she'd given
each one a task.  The little lady knew how to make a plain kitchen into a
proper operating room.  She knew how to boil every piece of cloth, every last
scrap of iron or steel that might touch Trace.  That fact alone might be the
one thing to save his life, Clell mused.  He obediently followed her every
direction.  Not one of them had ever even seen the inside of a true hospital.
No telling what they would've done without her.

When the surgeon arrived, she'd had everything set up and ready.  He'd sized
up the situation quickly and appointed Bellami as his nurse.

She'd paled slightly but taken a deep breath and followed his instructions
without hesitation.

There'd been a moment there, when she had to shave the side of Trace's head,
when Clell had thought she might faint, but she hadn't.

Even when the blood splattered her dress.  She'd taken several shallow
breaths and kept doing whatever was expected of her.  Whatever Trace needed,
Bellami did it.  She was some kind of woman, this Bellami James.  The kind of
woman a man like Trace had always needed.

Her hair hung in limp, dirty strands.  The brown dress she'd had on for days
was rumpled and creased and stained with Trace's blood.  A lost soul, if ever
them was one.  Her l~arless Hearts 257 obvious love for Trace tore at Clell's
heart.  If Trace didn't make it, what would this little gal do?

Clell knew that if Bellami continued like this for five more days they'd be
burying her for sure.  Pushing himself off the wall, he started downstairs.
When he passed Bellami's open bedroom door, he caught a flash of
cream-and-gray fur.  He paused on the landing to watch the animal disappear
like a phantom, out the open window to the balcony.

"Sneaky 1obo, think I don't know you keep an eye on Trace and the girl?
Silly o1' wolf," he muttered as he walked quietly downstairs.

His boots whispered on the stairs as he said a silent prayer.  Hope the wolf
is the talisman the Indians 'round here believe him to be.

We need a powerful spirit right now.

Clell wasn't surprised to find the O'Bannions pretty much as he had left
them.  Flynn stood on the porch, smoking, his face drawn with worry.  Clell
knew how much Flynn loved his brother and how guilt had been gnawing on him
for months.  That was the kind of man he'd been raised to he, and Clell was
mighty proud to have been a part of that raising.

Hugh, alone with his grief and his prayers, sat in the high-backed chair
staring out the window.  Shane and Logan were playing some card game, trying
to focus on something else for a few hours.  Clell saw Logan bottom-deaY~ng,
again.  He made a mental note to have a talk with that boy, real soon.  What
a caution he was.  He had a sort of quiet resolve about him the others
lacked.  Once the boy made up.  his mind about something, he was absolutely
unshakable.

Clell narrowed his eyes and rubbed his hand across his chin.  Maybe he
shouldn't have agreed to Doc Malone's scheme, but it made sense at the time.
Doc had written Hugh at just the right time.  So far, it had worked out, and
nobody was the wiser.  Now guilt chewed on Clell.  What if Trace died?
Bellami James would never be the same, and they would all share in that
responsibility.

"Damn my hide for meddlin'," Clell muttered aloud.

"Got to do something' for that gal up there."  The two card players lifted
their eyes briefly to look at him as he stepped into the kitchen.

Missy was cleaning up.  Clell smiled at the picture she made, leather chaps
underneath a makeshift apron.

"Missy, honey, you done a right fine job of keepin' us all in coffee," he
said, and patted her shoulder affectionately.

"It wasn't much.  Lupe brought over some more hot soup today.  It's on the
stove."  Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears.  Clell coughed behind his
hand to hide his own tears and opened the kitchen door.

The kitchen was getting too warm already.  Soon the summer sun would heat the
front of the house, driving them all into the shade of the cool porch.

"What is it, Clell?"  Missy asked.  He sniffed and turned to face her.

"We've got' to do something about that gal up there," he said simply.

Missy swiped at a tiny thread of sweat running down the side of her face.
Grief and despair showed in every curve of her face.  '7I know,"

she said.

"The last time I was up there, she nearly passed out.  I guess when a lady
does it, you say 'fainted."

" " You're a lady, Missy.   You just don't know it, honey," he muttered as
he dragged the back of his hand under his nose.   Clell knew it bothered
her--there'd just been things men couldn't teach a girl.   A glimmer of humor
crossed his :, face, and his pale eyes lit up.

"Missy, I have an idea, but ?  you'll have to be the one to do it, or it
won't work" Clelli~; gave her a hard stare.

Shane and Logan entered the kitchen.  They sat down at the table and listened
quietly.  Occasionally they would nod in agreement, glancing at Missy.

Clell narrowed his eyes as the plan took shape.

"You'll ask her for help getting' fixed up.  But while she's supposed to be
helpin' YoU, we'll really be helpin' her," he said simply.

rear tess Hearts 259 A deep frown and a look of alarm crossed Missy's face
when she realized what she'd be fixin' up for.  She raised her hand.

"Oh, now, wait a minute, Clell."  She backed up a step.  She held both slim
hands in front of her, as if she could push his words away.

"Brooks isn't going' to want to go now, anyway, and I can't leave Trace!"

Shane and Logan watched Clell as he prepared to present his case to the
distraught girl.

"First of all, Trace's getting' the best care possible, what with the doctor
and Bellam/ here," Clell said, and raised his eyebrows expressively, "Brooks
will go if you tell him you want to."

She lowered her face, and dark lashes covered her eyes.

"I don't think Brooks will care very much about my feelings, do you?"

Clell realized Missy was unsure of herself around Brooks.  He saw fear in her
eyes, for the first time he could ever member.  It was a mighty big shock to
him.  He couldn recount how many times she had bettered seasoned cowboys.
She always seemed so sure of everything.  Now, suddenly, he understood her
need to shame and taunt Brooks at every opportunity; Missy didn't know any
other way to be sociable with the man.  He chuckled to himself, realizing his
plan would rope two steers with one loop, so to speak.  Maybe he could meddle
just one more time.

"Well, Missy, the only way that little gal is going' to leave Trace's bedside
is if you trick her into it.  If you go to her and ask her to help you dress
real nice, ask' to borrow some of her clothes, she'll do it.  She's a
kindhearted lady, you know."  Clell didn't explain he knew that because he'd
snuck a wolf cub here, one she accepted without pause.  It had never occurred
to the old reprobate that she had no idea what a wolf cub looked like.  He
simply thought it was because she possessed a large and generous heart.

He turned suddenly to face Shane and Logan, who seemed to be having a little
trouble following the conversation all of a sudden.  CleWs plans could be a
bit complicated at times.  He seemed to set great store by being able to
engineer little deceptions, little mysteries, for the people around him.
They squirmedabit when they saw that look in Clell's eyes.

"Go round up the buckets, boys.  We're going' to prepare a bath," Clell said,
with the gruff voice they all knew well.

A blush began creeping up both their faces, as bright as any sunrise in the
territory, but they obediently moved.

Shane poked Logan in the ribs as they stepped through the door.  His cheeks
reddened.

"If word of this gits out..."  He grimaced.

Logan nodded.

"Yep, there'll be hell to pay with the rest of the hands, if they ever found
out we played the part of ladies' maids,"

he whispered, going pale.  The brothers shivered in unison at the thought.

Bellami lifted her exhausted eyes to the window.  Was it day or night?

She'd been having trouble keeping her thoughts straight.  Whenever she closed
her eyes, she visualized the doctor showing her the area of Trace's head to
shave, and then the image would blur and change.  She would see his face
lathered, his eyes closed contentedly, while she shaved his beard.  It was
getting harder and harder to distinguish between fantasy and reality.

Over and over she saw her trembling hand shaving a section of his head.
Blue-black hair falling to the floor, blood dripping onto it.

Bellami was transfixed and horrified as the surgeon gently lifted a thin
silver of bone from Trace's skull.

"His sight should return now," he said flatly.  He might as well have been
discussing the weather or the price of cattle.  The conversation was so
stupid, the-'~ords were so meaningless.  Her heart was breaking.

She still recoiled from the knowledge that Trace hated her.  Bellami didn't
know what hurt her the most, though, the look of disgust on Trace's face the
morning after they'd s-runess hearts 261 made love, or the thought of him
being ble to see her true ugliness.

If it turned his stomach to touch her when he was blind and didn't know what
her face looked like, how would he feel when he finally saw her?  She had
convinced herself that he truly loved and accepted her for who she was.  How
wrong she'd been.  A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

And after I finally decided not to run and hide from the world anymore.  She
closed her eyes and sighed.  None of it mattered now, not with the only part
of her world she really cared about rejecting her.

Running her hand over her tangled hair, she tried to dispel the terrible,
hurtful thoughts.

It just didn't matter anymore--nothing mattered except Trace's opinion, and
he had already shown her how he felt about her, the morning after they had
made love.

She blinked her eyes.  The room got kind of blurry, and she felt so tired, so
very tired.  A dizziness swirled around her, but she fought to remain sitting
at Trace's bedside.

"I'll stay until I know he's going to be all right," she whispered to herself.

While Shane and Logan poured the last bucket of steaming hot water into the
tub, Missy went through one of Bellami's trunks and found some soft
embroidered undergarments.  As she prepared to close the lid, her eyes fell
on a small glass bottle.  Pulling the cork she sniffed the sweet-smelling
liquid.  It was lavender.

Missy grabbed a heavy flannel robe from Bellami's room.  Tipping the bottle
of lavender, she dropped a,little into the hot water and turned toward
Trace's bedroom.  She had no idea how long it would take her to convince
Bellami to leave Trace; it might be a while.  It was obvious Bellami James
was deeply in love with her older brother.

Missy was pleased.  She had liked Bellami the minute she laid eyes on her.
Then, during the operation, her admiration had grown.  Especially when
Bellami had gone pale as the blood spattered her dress.

For just a moment, Missy's thoughts had focused on Brooks.  An image of him
risking his life to save her flashed by, but she didn't know why thinking
about one thing should lead to the other.

It bothered her some, this habit she'd developed of seeing Brook's face
throughout the day.  She'd be busy doing some little chore, and blue-gray
eyes would materialize before her.  Missy hadn't ever really had feelings
about a man before.  It all seemed a little confusing and a bit scary.  When
she reached Trace's bedroom, she opened the door and looked inside.  Bellami
was still sitting in the chair beside his bed, holding his hand.

Bellami looked up in surprise.  Her eyes were the most extraordinary color,
almost purple.  Missy'd seen that exact color stain the sky at sundown.
Bellami James was the most beautiful woman she'd ever seen.

Her eyes and hair reminded Missy of Brooks.  It made her uncomfortable, in a
shy kind of way.  She felt so awkward, so ugly.

Missy stood in the doorway, her velvet-black hair hanging past her waist in a
single heavy braid.  Bellami thought she looked so healthy and alive.  There
was a rosy glow about her skin that made her radiant.  Dark eyelashes, thick
and curly, emphasized the slight almond shape of her eyes.  She was
exotic-looking and breathtaking.

Bellami grimaced at how lovely the young woman was.  She moved with a grace
and confidence Bellami never saw on any woman in New York.  She was just a
little bit envious of any woman who could be so confident and so
self-assured.  Lord knew she'd never felt that way--except for that brief
time with Trace.  She continued watching as Missy smiled, shyly.

"How is he?"  the girl whispered, looking down at his motionless pale face.

"No change," Bellami said with a weary dry voice.

As Missy walked quietly up to the bedside, Bellami saw the look of adoration
the girl gave her older brother.

"I

came to ask you a favor, Miss James," Missy said, looking at her with those
bottomless black eyes.

"Please, call me Bellami."

"All right, Bellami.  Brooks asked me to the bullfights with him.  I need
your help," Missy said flatly, never taking her eyes from Bellami's face.
She didn't know if she could lie well enough to pull this 6if.

It surprised Bellam/ to hear someone as confident as Missy say she needed
help with anything.  A thousand assumptions about how self-confident Missy
was flew out the window.

"If I can do something for you, of course."  Bellami whispered softly.

"Well, it's probably no secret to you I don't know the first thing about
lookin' or actin' like a lady," Missy said, gesturing with her hands at her
chaps and boots.  The words tumbled out in a rush.  A beet-red blush crept up
her face.

Bellami blinked in surprise.

"Missy, I think you're lovely.  But what do you want me to do?"  Bellami was
astounded.  Maybe this was the curse of being female, the unsureness, the
constaat doubt.

Missy looked at Bellami and swallowed hard.  This was it; there wouldn't be
any turning back now.

"I was hopin' maybe you'd have something' I could borrow to wear, and maybe
you'd show me about, well, about ladies' undergarments."  Heat rushed' to her
face again.

If she ruined this by being too honest about her own feelings, Clell would'
skin her alive.

Bellami smiled, and the dark smudges beneath her eyes deepened.

"Of course, Missy.  You're shorter than I an but I have a beautiful dress
that will look wonderful on you.  In fact, it would give me great pleasure if
you'll allow me to give it to you Bellami felt truly repentant that she ever
envied this sweet girl.  What a brave, dear heart this girl possessed--just
like her brother.

Missy allowed a relieved sigh to escape her trembling lips.  She didn't know
if she was happy because Ciell's plan was working or because she would
finally begin unraveling the mystery of being a lady, but she felt deeply
grateful to Bellami for not laughing at her silliness.

"Thank you, Bellami," Missy said.

"I have another favor to ask.  We'll wash your hair, and then would you show
me how to wear--that is, how to put on--those things."  Missy wrinkled her
nose.

Bellami couldn't believe it.  Of all the subjects to be so shy about.

Missy was a charming set of contradictions.  Just like her older brother.
Bellami eyes snapped back to Trace's face.  She couldn't leave him, not to
take a bath.  He might wake up.  Then she realized that if he did she was the
last person he'd want to see.  It hurt a lot, but Bellami took a deep breath
and forced herself to stand.  For just a second, she felt quite light-headed.
It had been a while since she'd eaten but she had no appetite, Missy helped
Bellami catch her balance.  She was very near to collapsing.

"Here let me help you.  The bath is ready, and I found some lavender water,"
Missy said pleasantly while Bellami leaned gratefully against her.  Together
they walked slowly down the hall to the bathroom.

Bellami wasn't aware of several sets of eyes following her.  One set old and
wise.  One pair wild amber gold.

She had had no idea she was so tired or dirty.  Missy soaped her long hair
and talked pleasantly of the weather.

"Really, Missy, this isn't necessary.  I can show you the underthings without
all this fuss," Bellami protested.

Missy ignored her.

"You'll be able to show me much better if you are clean and fresh."  She
scrubbed Bellami from head to toe and never commented on the bruises on her
body.

Later, as Bellami stepped from the soothing water and pulled on a thick robe,
Missy disappeared from the room.  Alone, near exhaustion, Bellami crept to
her room.

J'~ut u~' me arts 265 A tray of food sat on the table by the bed.  She
touched the bowl and found the soup still warm.  A wedge of corn bread
dripping with butter sat by a cup of cool, fresh milk.

Trace's little sister was treating her like a member of her own family, and
Bellami felt the pain of loss cut deeper.  If only things were different, if
only she looked different, this wonderful girl and she would be like sisters'.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"  Missy stood in the doorway, with her
arms crossed across her full bosom.

Bellami nearly choked.  Of course, she'd finally been forced to admit it to
herself, but hearing someone else give life to the words was like having the
wind knocked out of her.

"No-- I..."  Bellami let her denial trail off.  Impossible, foolish
dreamer/Bellami braced herself, expecting Missy to' tell her what a fool she
was.  The criticism didn't come however.  She turned to look at Missy.  All
she saw in her eyes was deep pain and understanding.  No ridicule or scorn
for her ugliness, just pity.  It ripped the last bit of her heart to shreds.

"It doesn't matter how I feel about him," Bellami said with sad determination.

"Mr.  O'Bannion doesn't have any feelings for me, except as his instructor.
As soon as the doctor tells me, well, that he's better, I'll be returning to
New York."  She gave Missy a wistful smile and finished her soup in silence.

Bellami lifted the dome-shaped lid of one of the trunks.  She started pulling
yards of ivory-colored fabric from inside.  Missy giggled, making out the
details of a heavily embroidered dress of ecru lawn.

Beilami bent nearly double, almost disappearing as she dug deep inside.  When
she stood erect, she produced several pieces of embroidered white lawn.  As
she turned toward Missy, she nearly fell to her knees.

"That's enough for now, Bellami.  We can look at clothes after you take a
little nap."  Missy took her arm.  Gently, but forcefully, she propelled the
tired woman to the bed.

Bellami tried to resist, but the gentle pressure was too much for her.  She
had some vague idea that she would just get back up and return to Trace's
room.  It was the last thing she remembered that day.

Missy took one last look at the fragile woman on the bed.  "Trace, you damned
well better live, and you better not let this woman get away,"

she whispered to herself as she turned to go downstairs to tell Clell the
plan was a success.

Bellami woke confused and disoriented.  The events of the past several days
were foggy.  A familiar wet nose was pressed tightly into her palm.  Serious
gold eyes watched intently, bidding her to rise, "Hello, Tip," she mumbled,
rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

She dressed quickly and entered Trace's bedroom on tiptoe.  Clell raised his
head and grinned as she stepped inside.

"Howdy.  I'm Clell.  We never got properly introduced," he extended a rough,
sinewy hand.

Bellami smiled and grasped it warmly.

"Pleased to meet you.  How is he?"  Her eyes lingered on Trace's motionless
form.

Clell frowned and got up from the chair.

"No change.  Here, you sit down a spell.  Brooks gave me a message for you,"
he said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled.

"He's helpin' with the cattle, and said to tell you he'd be back soon, not to
worry."

l~earless Hearts 267 Bellami smiled at his words.  Brooks would assume his
instructions were all she needed not to worry.

"Thank you, Mr. Clell."

"Not Mr.--just Clell.  That's quite a brother you have, miss."

"Yes, I've always thought so."  She sighed, stroking Trace's forehead.

Chapter Nineteen.

Missy twirled around again.  The skirt billowed out as she
pivoted in front of the mirror.

"Be!lami, I've lived in this skin for nearly eighteen years, and I wouldn't
know myself," she said as she gazed at her reflection.

Bellami held a medium-size looking glass so tlmt Missy could see herself.  As
she turned, the full double skirt billowed out again.

Missy giggled like a happy little girl, and Bellami found the sound
infectious.  She couldn't resist.  She laughed along with Missy.

"Oh, Missy, you were lovely before, but now..."  Bellami said in awe of the
vision before her.  She reached out to stop the spinning girl and pull her
into a chair.

"You'll fall if you keep that up."  She gently pulled Missy's thick black
hair up and caught it with a comb that held a length of ivory ribbon and lace.

"This is the prettiest thing I've ever seen."  Missy plucked at the rows of
lace and embroidery thread.

"It was a gift from Claire, an inducement, really.  She tried to get me to
attend some social affair.  I don't remember what," Bellami explained
absently as she finished dressing Missy's hair.  None of the dances and
parties in New York had ever meant anything to Bellami, but Claire never
understood that.  She seemed to think that if Bellami would 269 go and
pretend to be happy, she would somehow actually make herself happy.

Bellami had never worn' the dress, because she'd never gone to the dance.
Seeing it now on Missy, she was very glad.  It fit the young woman like a
second skin.  The high collar was thickly embroidered with heavy brocade and
lace.  The sleeves were full at the top, fitting tightly on her slim arms.  A
wide diamond-shaped inset of brocade and lace nipped in her petite waist.  It
gave her the illusion of being even smaller, as the full bell-shaped skirt
flared out.

An overskirt of light, delicate material softly drifted around her like a
misty cloud.  When she moved, it was impossible to say whether she floated or
walked.  The effect was wondrous!

She turned to Bellami, her dark, sooty lashes spiked with tears.  She opened
her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.  Suddenly she came rushing forward
and reached out to hug Bellami so tight she squeezed the breath out of her.
"Thank you .... " Missy whispered.

"It's nothing.  You're what makes it look so heavenly."  Bellami held her
away and looked deep into her bottomless eyes.  She felt a strong pull on her
heart as she saw her flawed reflection in those dark eyes.

"Don't tell Brooks, let it be a surprise, for me," Bellami said softly.

Missy nodded and blinked away her tears.  There was a faraway look in
Bellami's eyes.  Since waking from her badly needed rest, she seemed even
sadder and more distant, as if her thoughts were somewhere far away.  But
today she had plunged into the "great adventure of clothes," as she called
it.  Maybe this was the sign of a new beginning.

"Where is Brooks taking you?  I seem to have forgotten."  Bellami rubbed her
temples with her fingertips.

"Brooks wants me to go to the bullfights, for the Fourth of July."

Missy had turned back to the small mirror, where Bellami had it propped up on
one of the trunks.  Bellami was grateful she didn't see the color leave her
face, or the hand pressing against her mouth to stifle the gasp.

Bellami had no idea what the date was.  How long had it been since the flood?
Two weeks, closer to three?  She couldn't think--her head was spinning like
a top.

"Excuse me," Bellami said quietly.  Surprisingly, her voice sounded fairly
normal as she left the bedroom.  She was having trouble breathing, and a cold
sweat had broken out on her brow.  For some inexplicable reason, she went
stumbling toward Trace's room.  Even now, knowing how he felt about her, he
promised security and safety.

It was a deep/elief to find him alone.  She didn't question why no one was
with him as she stumbled toward the chair beside his bed.  She picked up his
strong, lean hand and hung her head in misery.  No matter how hard she
concentrated, Bellami couldn't stop the kaleidoscope of memories this time.
They came unbidden, unwelcome, swirling and spinning in her head like
confetti.

Fighting to regain controI, gasping for breath, she squeezed Trace's callused
hand, holding it like a lifeline while the ocean flood of memories took
shape.  It was the Fourth of July, 1871.  The Stars and Stripes' blew in the
breeze from every second-story window on the stately tree-lined street where
her family lived.

Grand Central Station was nearly completed, being touted as the largest
terminal in the world.  In celebration of Independence Day and the position
New York held in the world, special fireworks were being scheduled.

Commodore Vanderbilt paid for crate after crate of exploding missiles out of
his own pocket.  He strutted like a peacock, bragging about the display.
Handbills littered the streets, and the event was on every lip.

Brooks and Bellami were unmanageable.  Donoran and Patricia had indulged
nearly their children's every whim all their pampered lives.

The twins were growing up to be rebellious hellions.  They expected to get
everything they asked 271 for, and with two of them doing the asking, they
requested a lot.

With a little effort, they persuaded their parents to take them to see the
stunning event.

Bellami felt the first anguished tear spill over.  She thought about how
foolish they'd been, how foolish she'd been.  Such stupid children.  Now she
had grown to be an equally silly, foolish woman, she thought with an ironic
twist of her lips.

Some of the neighbor children had been teasing Brooks, calling him a sissy,
because he had to wait and accompany his parents and his sister instead of
going along with the group, like the other boys.

"I should're let him go alone, but I didn't want to be left behind.  I told
him,

"I'1} tell Father.  You'll get punished."

" Bellami spoke softly, sniffling from time to time as hot, salty tears
continued sliding down her scarred cheek.   They fell unnoticed on Trace's
pale face.   They wet his forehead and trickled down his jaw.   Some dropped
near his closed eyes.

"We Shuck down the back stairs, out the servants' entrance.  It was nearly
dark.  I remember how exciting it was, disobeying my parents.

Dangerous, wicked.  I loved it.  " She squeezed Trace's hand tighter.

Even if she'd wanted it, this time the memory would not be denied.  She
couldn't keep it bottled up any longer.  It spilled forth.  All the guilt and
pain of thirteen years of denial came along with her tears.

"Brooks tried to send me home!  I wouldn't go--so stubborn."  A racking sob
escaped her, and she wiped impatiently at her face.  When she laid her free
hand back in her lap, a broad, furry head was there.  Bellami found comfort
while she absently stroked the rough cream-and-black pattern around the
yellow eyes.

She continued to speak 'softly.

"We found the place where all the crates were stored.  Several men from the
docks were there.  Then they left--to have their supper.  One of the boys
said it would be a lark opening the crates, taking some of the missiles,
just for fun.  Brooks told me not to.  He told me it was dangerous, but I
wouldn't listen.  I'm oldest, I knew best--told him so, too."  Her shoulders
were heaving with each word, while the tears fell steadily.

"Somebody struck a match, and I was holding a missile.

Brooks told me not to hold it.  He tried to take it from me.  "

She was moaning softly, sobbing, and a moment passed before she could
continue.

"Brooks tried his hardest to stop me.  I held it.  Then the explosion.  My
eyes... my face I woke up, a long time later.  Weeks.  I know Brooks has felt
responsible, all these years.  But it wasn't his fault, really, he tried.  I
wanted to tell him.  I didn't blame him, never blamed him.

My fault.  Couldn't speak of it.  "

She let her head fall forward, resting on Trace's broad chest, crying her
heart out.  Crying until the tears wouldn't come anymore.

Tip never left her side, not even when the tall, slim man with blue-gray eyes
and sable-colored hair left the balcony, through Bellami's bedroom.

It was long past dark when she finally rose, leaving the man and the wolf.

Trace had been dreaming again.  He'd been having the strangest dreams lately.
Confusing, disjointed things.  White lights and deep voices, terrible pains
in his head.  He even thought he'd dreamed of Missy and his father, He kept
trying to wake up, but for some reason he just couldn't seem to shake off the
deep sleep.  A part of him wanted never to wake up.

Pain was wait' rag if he woke.  Some part of him knew that.  Not physical
pain, but something else, something he couldn't quite remember, but he knew
it was a horrible black pit of despair.

Something about Bellami--his little general.  His reason for living.

Bellami.

She drifted before him like a bright, shining promise of happiness and love.
He'd been dreaming of her now, sitting at his bedside.

She'd been weeping.  It was crazy, but he could almost feel the tears on his
face.  He could almost taste the salty brine of her tears.

rear tess Hearts 273 Opening his eyes just a crack, he tried to see her.  He
wanted to see her face before he died; even if it was only in a dream.  After
all, blind men couldn't really see--it had to be a dream.  He didn't care
what she looked like.  She had told him once she was ugly.  The creature he
dreamed of now was beautiful beyond description.  Heavy dark hair, violet
eyes, spilling heartbroken tears.  She sat weeping at his bedside, this
beautiful woman in his dreams, with a giant wolf at her side.  What a silly
dream for a man to have before he died.

Pieces of the dream floated by again, Salty tears, and words full of pain.
Fourth of July.  Twins.  Nothing solid, nothing making sense, just sleep,
safe sleep.  Never wake, just drift off in your sleep.  No more pain, no more
hurt.  No more regrets.

As long as h9 slept, Trace was safe.  From pain, from loneliness.

From.  what?

"It will be a long recovery, but I have seen signs of consciousness.

Keep him quiet, I'll be back later in the week," the doctor told Hugh, right
outside her half-open door.  Trace was going to live!

Bellami felt such happiness.  Tears were forming again, and she sniffed and
forced herself not to cry.  This silly crying was getting to be monotonous.
She had things to do.  Brooks and Missy were leaving for Socorro today.  What
was the date?  Missy had patiently told her at least twice--July 2, 1885,
that was it.  Two days until the bullfight.  Turning, she took a long look at
her trunks.

Impossible to take them.  Not if she was going to keep her plans secret.

She packed only a single change of clothes.  Then, on impulse, she found the
things she'd worn on the picnic with Trace.  They were dirty, ripped, really
little more than rags, but she shoved them into a carpet bag with her brush
and mirror.

Bellami was dressed in a plain gray dress when she stepped out onto the
stairs.  Her heart beckoned to her to see Trace, but she was afraid that if
he woke and found her in his room it might upset him.

No.  That wasn't the truth.  The real reason she couldn't go see him was that
she knew she wouldn't be able to stand his rejection.

Bellami James was taking the coward's way out.

"You have no courage," she told herself.  She felt ashamed that she wasn't
more like the rest of the James clan.

Clell, Hugh, Brooks, and the whole O'Bannion brood were sitting in the
kitchen with the doctor when she walked in.  For a moment, she felt
uncomfortable--they were staring at her again--but then she smiled and
squared her shoulders.

That one night of love had meant nothing to Trace, but for Bellami it had
unlocked the door she'd been hiding behind.  She might not ever be able to
face Trace, but she could now face the rest of the world.

She was still scarred, still ugly, but it didn't matter so much anymore.  Her
feelings would always be with Trace, anyway.  Feelings that he had brought to
life and would keep with him until the day she died.  Bellami could take
comfort in that.

Now, when she imagined herself walking the cold halls of St Michael's alone
and lonely, she knew she'd be thinking back.

Remembering one night of perfect love.  It would be enough.

Setting her chin, just the way Rod would, she entered the kitchen.

"Good morning," she said softly.

Brooks wanted to hold her, to tell her that he hadn't meant to eavesdrop.
While Bellami was telling Trace and that huge yellow-eyed dog about the
accident, he'd been standing on the balcony, weeping right along with her.
Imagine, a grown man, crying like a baby while his sister talked about
something that happened half a lifetime ago.

All the years he'd spent thinking she blamed him, thinking 275 that was why
she wouldh't talk about it.  What a fool he'd been not to understand her
better.

She was beautiful, his twin, and now there seemed to he a certain radiance
about her, too.  There'd been a change in Bellami since she'd left New York.
Brooks didn't know what it was, but he sen sgd in her a sort of
tranquillity, a wisdom she'd never had before.  She seemed to he at peace
with herself, even if her eyes held a slightly melancholy look today.  "Good
morning," he said to her.

Bellami poured herself a cup of coffee.  Missy turned to her and winked
conspiratorially, "Did you sleep well?"  Brooks asked as he gave her a kiss
on the top of the head, "Yes.  Did you?"  She hesitated a moment, looking
deep into his eyes, but then she gave him one of her rare, dazzling smiles.
While she smiled, he felt a warmth, like sunshine.  Maybe at last things
would be good for his sister.

Hugh watched the pair; He hadn't really seen them together before now.
Brooks had stayed busy helping with the roundup, and Bellami had spent every
minute these past weeks with Trace, so they'd had little time together.  They
were alike as two peas~in a pod.  It was sort of eerie.  When they gave him a
full gfize, it was kind of electrifying.

"Are you and Missy leavin' for Socorro today?"  Hugh asked Brooks as he
pulled out a chair for his twin.

"Pa?  What do you mean, me and Brooks?  Aren't you comin'?"  Missy wore a
hurt look.

"I thought I'd stay here."  Hugh could see the disappointment in his only
daughter's face.

"Oh.  I thought since we'd gotten good news from Dr, Sedgewood, that maybe,
well, since tomorrow is my birthday..."  Her words trailed off.

"Hugh, go," Clell said sharply.

"Clell's right, Pa, we'll all be here.  Missy deserves a nice birthday."
Flynn spoke to Hugh, but he was watching Bel-lami.  She had something up her
sleeve, he'd have bet his reputation on it.  He had seen a lot of men,
desperate men.  He knew that look--the look Bellami wore now.  It spoke
volumes to him; it told him of desperation and something else.  It told him
Bellami was getting ready to run from something.  The fewer people around for
a few days, the better.

Hugh searched all their faces, letting his glance linger on Missy's.

He relented.

"I'll go.  Get ready."  What choice did he have, with his children and Clell
pushing and shoving?  "But if there is any change, send Shane right away," he
said as the loading began.  A mysterious trunk was loaded under Missy's
careful supervision.  Then Brooks and Missy climbed into the wagon along with
Hugh.  Amid waves and shouted goodbyes they left for Socorro.

Dr.  Sedgewood instructed the group on how he'd been trickling broth into
Trace's mouth, He planned on leaving the ranch around sundown.

He seemed to think Trace would regain consciousness in several days, if not
sooner.  The surgeon was confident Trace would just continue to sleep until
that time.

Bellami stood on Trace's porch, watching her brother until he was far out of
sight.  Whispering a little prayer that he'd forgive her for being such a
coward, she turned and dashed upstairs.  She saw Clell and Flynn in the
kitchen from the corner of her eye as she shuck past.

"Please, take care of Trace," she whispered as she tiptoed up the stairs to
her room.

Flynn wore a dark scowl and a far-off look in his eye.  He'd been chewing on
something all morning long.  All through lunch he had continued to be
preoccupied.

"All right, boy, spit it out," Clel] said in disgust.

"I can't even enjoy my corn bread and buttermilk with that hangdog look on
your face.  What's botherin' you, anyway?"

"What?"  Flynn raised his eyebrows, feigning ignorance.

"I damned near raised you, boy.  What's got under your skin?  Don't try
foolin' an o1' fool--it don't work on me."

Flynn looked at Clell.  He might just as well try to deceive himself as to
keep something from Clell.

"Damned nosy o1' coot," he admonished.

"It's Miss James.  She's up to something'."  Flynn set his jaw.

"Now, what in tarnation do you mean, she's up to some-thin'?  What do you
think she's going' to do, hold us up?"  Clell laughed heartily at Flynn and
shook his head at such foolishness.

Flynn crossed his arms over his chest, letting Clell have his fun.

Finally Clell shut up and really looked at Flynn, who was sitting there with
a scowl on his face.

"You're serious, aren't you?  Well, let's go take a look."  He muttered about
having to climb the stairs again as Flynn led the way.  When they reached the
landing, they turned to Bellami's door and knocked.

After about a dozen of CleWs knuckle-bruising raps, they opened it and went
inside.  It was empty.  The curtain billowed into the room from the open
window.  Flynn marched out onto the balcony, A rope of sheets hung all the
way to the ground.

"Shit!"  Flynn said as he spun around and bounded down the stairs.

The doctor's buggy was gone, too.  She'd simply left.

"Now what do you think we should do?"  Clell asked, his blue eyes scanning
the horizon.

"We better find her and bring her back.  Trace is so blamed in love with that
gal, it'll kill him if she's not here when he wakes up."

Flynn paced back and forth on the porch like a chained-up cougar.

Clell found Logan and Shane.  He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his chin
in distress when they said they hadn't seen or heard anything.

However she'd managed it, she'd done it quietly.

"She must're Shuck around like an Injun'," Clell said with admiration in his
voice.

Peartess 11earls "Wonder how long she's been gone?"  Shane asked.  Clell and
Flynn looked at each other, frowning.

"Last time I saw her was around noon, when Brooks left.  It's nearly six
now."  Flynn said, shoving a battered timepiece back in his pants pocket.

"Bet she headed for the train," Logan supplied.  The four men looked at each
other for a moment.

"We've only got a few hours of daylight left," Shane pointed out.

Flynn raised his eyes heavenward, hoping for some sort of a sign.  His
brother wasn't going to like this one bit.

Trace felt the vise on his wrist.  Trying to jerk it free, he winced when the
pressure only tightened.  He'd been dreaming of trapping wolves.  Only he was
the one in the trap.  now.

The thing on his wrist violently jerked at him.  He pulled hard against it
and was rewarded with a sharp pinch "Damn!"  As he spit out the curse, his
green eyes flew open.

The first thing he felt was a woeful pain behind his eyes.  Then he slowly
turned his head and looked down at the unrelenting p.  r~sure on his wrist.
The biggest damned wolf he'd ever seen was proceeding to eat him.  Evidently
it had decided to start with one hand and work its way up from there.

"Help!"  Trace bellowed as his eyes widened in surprise.  He tried to rise,
but found the wolf to be considerably stronger than he was at the moment.
Misery overtook him when he was unable to remove the carnivore from the end
of his arm.  He slumped back, disgusted at his continuing weakness.

"Bellami!"  he shouted at the top of lungs.  The animal never even flinched
at the sound of his voice.  Instead, the hungry beast just continued tugging
on his wrist.  Trace rear tess Hearts 279 grimaced again.  Soon the sharp
teeth would remove his hand and continue up his arm.  What a way to go.

Trace heard the pounding of boots up the stairs, and then his door opened
wide, slamming back against the wall with a resounding thud.

"Holy Mother of God!"  Flynn shouted.  His right hand moved toward his pistol.

"Flynn!"  Clell shouted as he slapped Flynn's hand away from the holster.

Shane and Logan were straining to see over the heads of the two men in the
doorway of the bedroom.

"Don't be trying to shoot o1' Tip!"  Clell looked at Flynn like he had cussed
in church or something.

"Tip?  This monster is Tip?"  Trace moaned as he warily watched the
yellow-eyed vision from hell mouth his wrist some more.  It looked to him
like Tip was just getting a good taste before he really settled down to the
business of dinner.

"You can see again.

"Bout damned time," Clell said.  He sniffed and rubbed a gnarled hand across
his watery eyes, and then a mischievous grin blazed across his weathered face.

"Now, you boys don't go thinkin' badly of poor oi' Tip.  He's Miss Bellami's
favorite pet."  He smiled at the enormous animal.

Trace s!  ghed and closed his eyes.

"I should've known.  There's always been something' damned strange about
this, dog.  Bring me Bellami.  I've got to talk to her."  Trace finally
managed to pull himself into a sitting position, but the wolf refused to let
him go.  It kept tugging persistently on his wrist.  He was dizzy, but felt
strong enough to sit up.

"Trace, your eyes ... your sight..."  Flynn sputtered, not sure if he should
shoot the animal, hug his brother, or break the news to Trace about Bellami's
disappearance.

Trace looked at his family.  The four men simply stood with their mouths
agape, looking at Trace with lost expressions.  He knew something was
horribly wrong.

"What is it?  Has something' happened to Bellami?"  Then he had avague
memory of Brooks's arrival.  The words of love she'd spoken echoed through
his throbbing head.  "Where is she?"  He tried to rise, but found it nearly
impossible, wearing an eighty-pound animal on his wrist like a living,
breathing bracelet.

"She's gone, Trace," Clell said sadly.

"She can't be.  I have to tell her..."  he felt like death warmed over, but
he took a deep breath and started barking orders.

"Get me some pants--and would somebody please get this damned wolf off my
arm?"

Trace struggled to his feet as Dr. Sedgewood entered the room.

"You can't go anywhere, Mr. O'Bannion.  It might kill you."  The surgeon took
a step before the snarling 1obo positioned his bristling body in front of
Trace.  Amber eyes were narrowed, and the white fangs looked lethal.  The
startled surgeon froze.

"I have to go, and don't call me Mr. O'Bannion.  Only one person calls me Mr.
O'Bannion," Trace snarled as he struggled to rise.  He could see and he could
walk--that was all that was necessary.  He had to find Bellami.

"You have to stay in bed," the physician said, and took one more halting step
as his eyes focused on the bristling, growling animal.

"Well, I'll be.  Looks like Tip don't agree with you, Doc.  No disrespect
intended, of course."  Clell grinned like a possum.  He looked about as sorry
as Tip did at that particular moment.  Trace thought the old codger actually
enjoyed watching the half-tame wolf tree the startled houseguests.

Trace looked at the animal and understood perfectly.  He knew immediately
what Tip wanted.  Hadn't the wolf done the same thing after the flood?

"He wants me to get out of this bed and find Bellami.  And if it kills me,
that is what I intend to do."  Amber eyes looked at him for a moment, and
then Tip calmly sat down at Trace's side, allowing the docl~earless Hearts
281 tor the opportunity to move a bit closer.

"Well, this is the first time I've had to face a wolf in order to cheek on a
patient.  I suppose it's safe to assume, Mr. O'Bannion, you can see?"  The
surgeon sounded completely fed up.

"This climate might be recommended for health reasons, but the people are all
quite mad," he muttered as he turned on his heel and stalked away.

Trace looked a little dumbfounded.  He blinked twice.  "Yes, I can see you
all."  A silly collective grin appeared on five faces.  He sniffed and
coughed.  Several sets of dimples flashed in lean, weathered jaws.

Shane finally spoke, standing on tiptoe, so that he could peek over Flynn's
head.

"This is all mighty touchin', but what about Miss James?"

"Hitch up the wagon," Clell said, using that military tone of absolute
authority they'd all learned to hate as shirt-tailed boys.

"I'll ride to San Marcial ahead of you.  And Trace, unless she's already
gone, I promise you she won't be leavin' till you get there.

After that, it's up to you big brother.  " Logan tossed an unmistakable
challenge at Trace with his words.  He knew Trace would kill himself to meet
it.

Shane interrupted.

"Wait a minute.  My horse's faster.  I'll go."

"You want to put a little wager on who'll get there first?"  Logan looked
like Lucifer himself, grinning at his older brother.

"Sure," Shane said, completely confident.  After all, nobody'd beaten the dun
yet.

Logan turned to Trace with the look of a slightly tarnished fallen angel.

"Can I borrow your stud, Trace?"

"You sneaky son of a buck!"  Shane yelled as the two bolted down the stairs,
shoulder to shoulder.  As the front door slammed shut, Trace wondered if
there was still a glass left in it.

The ride was pure torture.  Every bump sent ripples of agony through Trace's
head.  Even the makeshift bed did little to cushion the ride.

He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned a chalky white.

"You better stop this madness and turn around," Doc Sedgewood advised
solemnly.

"If you don't sit down and be quiet, I swear I'm going' to gag you,"

Clell threatened from the back of his horse, in step beside the wagon.

The surgeon went to the back of the wagon, opposite Trace's bed, grumbling
under his breath.  Trace wondered if it would do any good to tell the
physician he might as well be dead without Bellami James.

The thought made him feel slightly sick to his stomach.

Flynn knew Trace was really suffering.  It was easy to see that some of his
pain wasn't just the physical kind.

"You really love that gal, don't you?"  Flynn said over his shoulder.

"Guess I do."  Unlikely as it seemed to Trace, the tiny flame of hope still
burned in his chest.  He must be some kind of an idiot.  If she'd gone with
Brooks, what could he possibly do or say to get her to stay?

"Well, then, hang on, 'cause I don't want you to miss her."  Flynn gave the
reins a flick, and the horse picked up speed.  He glanced at his brother and
received a look full of meaning.  He knew it would hurt like the devil but he
encouraged a bit more speed from the horses.

Trace gritted his teeth against the pain.

"I may not even get the chance to ask her to stay, Flynn.  She probably left
with that son of a bitch Brooks."  The wagon hit another rut, and Trace
moaned.

"What?"  Flynn wasn't following the conversation all of a sudden.  He spoke
loud so Trace could hear him over the noise of the horse's hooves.

"Why are you callin' Brooks a son of a bitch?  What makes you think she left
when he did?"  Didn't Trace realize the woman traveling with Brooks reurtess
~earts 283 was Missy, not Bellami.  Flynn wondered if Trace's vision had
really been restored.  At that very moment, Clell cleared his throat loudly.

When Flynn turned to look at him, riding beside the wagon, he saw him shake
his head from side to side.  Flynn got the message loud and clear.  Clell
didn't want Flynn telling Trace anything--about Brooks.  "

Trace never even glanced up.  He kept on talking ina low strained voice.

"She's in love with the bastard.  She knew him in New York.  1 heard her
tellin' him that mornin' how happy she was to see him."

Trace's face was bleak.

Flynn didn't know if he should laugh or not.  Trace was lying in the wagon,
pale as a ghost, being eaten alive by jealousy over Bellami's brother.  It
was a confusing muddle.  And, evidently, Clell wanted Trace to keep right on
thinking that way.  At least for the time being.  This was promising to be
some reunion!

Tip kept pace with the wagon.  Occasionally he would look up to give Trace a
meaningful glance.  Then the lanky animal loped ahead a few feet, as if to
encourage the man to keep following him.  None too soon from the looks of
Trace's gray, pain-racked face--they saw San Marcial in the distance.  The
train station sat at the far end of town, looking about a hundred miles away
to Flynn at this moment.

The sun drenched the sleepy little town in a russet aura of i(ight.

Clell mumbled something about few of the population being on the streets this
time of evening.  Just in case, though, he moved up closer.  to Tip He
didn't want to see the poor o1' critter shot after all the trouble he had
gone to saving his mangy hide.

Trace felt a mixture of fear, excitement and dread, all at once.

He had to tell Bellami.  If she still wanted to leave him after that, there
was nothing he could do, short of kidnapping her.  That wasn't a completely
unappealing notion, he thought with a cockeyed grin.

Keeping her, however he had to do it, was the main objective, after all, and
he would do just about anything to have the woman he loved.

They neared the train station, where a crowd of people milled around.

As they got closer, Trace recognized his brother's voice.

"I don't care what your company policy is, this train ain't leavin' till I
say so.  Now sit down and shut up."  Logan sounded like he really enjoyed
ordering the conductor around.  Trace wondered if that boy didn't have a
streak of outlaw in him.

With Clell and Flynn's help, Trace climbed down out of the wagon.

When his boots touched the earth, he stumbled and nearly went to his knees.
Then he felt the broad, furry head come up under his hand, giving him
support.  As he looked into the wild eyes, there was an unspoken
understanding.

"All right, boy, I'll follow you.  Find her, Tip.  Find Bellami," Trace said.
Clell and Flynn supported most of his weight, and he willed his feet to move
forward.

The big wolf started moving forward through the crowd of people amid gasps of
shock and horror.

"It's a damned 1obo," a startled voice said.  The sound of a gun being cocked
made the hair on Trace's neck bristle.  His blood went cold, but Flynn's
voice boomed beside him.

"The first man who thkes a shot at that wolf is dead."  His booming voice was
chilling.  Trace knew why most men threw down their weapons before they dared
to draw against Flynn O'Bannion.

Slowly they continued forward through the crowd, to ward the station.  Every
footfall rang like a bell clapper through Trace's pounding head.  A muscle in
his jaw worked as he steeled himself against the pain.  His vision was a bit
blurry, but he finally made out a female form in the distance.

A dark-haired woman sat alone outside the train station.  She seemed unaware
of the confusion and turmoil going on around her.  She stared straight ahead
into the.  dusky evening of the New Mexico Territory.

"Bellami?"  he said softly.  Was this her?  Tip moved steadily in the woman's
direction, but she didn't answer.  She gave no indication that the softly
spoken name meant anything to her.  Still the animal walked on.

Trace's heart plummeted.  This wasn't Bellami, it couldn't be.  This
sad-looking woman was stunning, beautiful.  Very much like the female in his
delirious dreams.

He was buffeted by a deep sorrow.  It wasn't Bellami.  She'd already gone.
He was too late.  A lump formed in his throat.

Tip continued toward the motionless form of the lovely, sad woman.  A tiny
glimmer of hope flared in Trace's chest.

"Bellami?"  he said louder as Tip moved away from his outstretched hand.  The
wolf walked to the woman and laid his head in her lap.  He stared up at her
with golden eyes.  The lady began to stroke his fur, lovingly.

"Bellami James!"  Trace practically yelled.  The effort made him sway weakly
against his brother and Clell.  She finally turned toward him.

He could see tears glistening in her eyes.

It was her!  Violet eyes, in the loveliest face he'd ever seen, looked at
him, and his heart melted.

"Damn it, woman."  His temper flared along with his feeling of overwhelming
relief.

"Damn it, Bellami James.  You left me before I even got out of bed.  The
least you could do is give me a fightin' chance."  His loud, angry voice
silenced the milling crowd.  Clell averted his gaze and cleared his throat.

"Look, if you don't want to saddle yourself with a rough hombre like me, I
understand, but you'ge got to hear me out."

When she blinked, salty tears ran down her cheeks.  Taking a deep breath,
Trace prepared himself to say the toughest words of his life.

13ell ami I love you.  I need you.  Please, don't leave me.  I don't care
about' Brooks You just can't go like this.  Give me a chance.  Stay for a
while, just a while, let me show you.  " His voice trailed off.  He didn't
know what else to say.  He'd played his trump card and bared his soul.  What
else could he do?  Be!lami couldn't know what it cost Trace to say he needed
her.  But he paid the price gladly--and would do it again if he had to.

Through her tears, she really looked at him.  Everyone around them, including
Clell and Flynn, just seemed to disappear.  She brushed at her eyes with the
back of her hand and realized for the first time that she'd forgotten her
gloves.  The bandage on his head was too big and bulky for him to wear his
hat.  Wild black hair stuck out at odd angles from between the strips of
white cloth.  His shirt was buttoned only halfway, exposing the hard muscles
and nearly healed bruises on his chest.

He needed a shave.

The setting sun added gold flecks to his emerald eyes.  Pain pierced her
heart like an arrow when she caught herself thinking that just maybe he did
need her.

"But my face..."  she whispered softly.

He frowned, watching her blue eyes catch the sunlight.  Blue as the deepest
lake, with tiny gold flecks.  He searched her face, looking for some clue,
some hint.

"I know you can have your pick of men, many a lot easier on the eyes than me,
but, Bellami, I love you."  Trace rubbed his hand across his eyes.

"But doesn't my face bother you?"  she whispered softly.  "Honey, there isn't
much about you that doesn't bother me.  Your face, your body, the way you
smell.  The way you feel in my arms."  Trace grinned and felt his jaw redden.

Bellami frowned and sniffed back the irritating tears in her eyes.

"Trace, what about my scar?"

"What scar?"  he said.  Concentrating on her words was mighty hard with her
this close to him.  He wanted to reach out and pull her against him.  The
smell of her sweet body filled his nostrils with every hopeful breath.  He
wished they were alone so he could show her how he felt.

Bellami watched his expression closely.  He wore a somewhat befuddled look.
He could see, that was obvious, but could he see clearly?  Trace O'Bannion
said he loved her, needed her, but what exactly did he need from her?  Now
that he could see, he didn't need someone like her.  She was only good for
taking care of the blind.  She stroked Tip's head while Trace's words kept
ringing in her ears, What scar, what scar?

The light wasn't that bad.  She wasn't in the shadows, after all.  -He could
see, but had his sight been fully restored?  Maybe he'd need her for just a
while longer.  Wasn't that what he'd said?  Stay for a while, just a little
while?

Questions and doubts swirled in her head, and she finally just gave up trying
to figure any of it out.  Bellami gave in to her heart as she'd wanted to do
from the moment he first called her name.

"Trace O'Bannion, look at my face, look at this scar."  She turned her cheek
toward him and pulled the hair back from her face.  She swallowed hard,
baring her face and her soul.

He frowned and blinked, leaning in toward her.  One eyebrow rose under the
white bandage.

"That little thing?"  he asked, touching the scar lightly with his fingertips.

She went to him then, to lay her cheek against his chest.  The crisp hair
tickled her scarred cheek.  He folded her in his arms as she leaned against
his warm chest.  The bone-crushing embrace felt so good, so safe.  She felt
his weight on her heavily when Clell and Flynn stepped back.

Trace nuzzled her hair, breathing deeply.  Lavender.  She still smelled like
lavender.  No other person in the world smelled exactly like Bellami James.
The tiny flame of hope grew a little larger, and he felt its warmth surging
through him.

"There's just one thing I have to know, little general."  His eyes narrowed.

"What about Brooks?"  He dared not breathe, so much depended on this answer.

Bellami lifted her head from his chest and gazed into his eyes.

"I

think my brother will be as happy as I am--if Missy has anything to do with
it," she said, and dropped her head back to the hard, loving warmth of his
chest.

"Brother?"  He said the word softly.  Then he cast a chilling glance at Clell
and Flynn.  Both men shuffled their feet and looked out at the prairie, guilt
written all over their faces.  Trace understood, and he didn't give a good
damn.

He grinned at them both and lifted her chin up so that he could gaze into her
lovely face.

"Bellami, would you do something for me tonight?"  he asked as he looked deep
int?  her moist violet eyes.

"Anything," she sighed.

"I really could use a shave," he said with a grin.

"Oh, Trace, I'll shave you tonight and every night, for the rest of my life.
I love you."  Her words were lost in the warmth of' his mouth.