FOREVER IN MY HEART
by
Jo Goodman

KENSINGTON BOOKS KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by Kensington
Publishing Corp.

Ne' 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright C 1994 by Joanne Dobrzanski All rights reserved.  No part of
this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the
prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in
reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg.  U.S. Pat.  & TM Off

ISBN 1-57566-069-5

First Zebra Paperback Printing: July, 1994

First Kensington Hardcover Printing: January, 1996

Printed in the United States of America Injured and lost, Mary Margaret
Dennehy stumbled out into the night.  When she awoke, the New York
heiress remembered nothing of where she'd been - except for a haunting
dream that filled her with hungry longing ...

Colorado rancher Connor Holiday would never forget the passionfilled
night spent in a fancy bordello - or the exquisite lover who'd played
the innocent so well ...

Now, as an arranged marriage brings them together once more, Connor is
stunned to discover that Maggie is the flame-haired beauty of that
passionate encounter - still disceiving him with lies even as she melts
to his touch.  And Maggie finds herself bound to a stranger in a wild
land, torn between cherished dreams of freedom and the sweet, sentuous
love her restless heart craves ..

Jo Goodman is the author of fifteen Zebra historical romances including
her beloved Dennehy sisters series: Wild Sweet Ecstasy (Mary Michael's
story", Rogue's Mistress (Rennie's story), Forever in My Heart
(Maggie's story), Always In My Dreams (Skye's story) and Only In My
Arms (Mary's story - to be published in July 1996).

She is also the author of a short story in Zebra's bestselling
Christmas anthology, A Gift of Joy (which included Fern Michaels,
Virginia Henley and Brenda Joyce).  Jo is currently at work on an
exciting new trilogy, focusing on three brothers.  She lives with her
family in Colliers, West Virginia.

For Joseph Allen Dobrzanski he'll be a good man someday.

Chapter 1 New York City, March 1879

"I don't want a chatterbox."  Lisa Antonia Hall gave the speaker a
sidelong glance, her mouth pursed to one side as she considered the
request.  Patrons of her establishment generally made their preferences
known along physical lines.  It was not unusual for someone to ask for
a brunette with a wasp-like waist and wide hips or a buxom redhead with
a trim ankle.  The request for a quiet partner was a bit out of the
ordinary, yet did not entirely surprise Mrs. Hall.  Of necessity she
was quick to assess the character of her customers and she had learned
to trust her own judgments.  The man standing beside her looked as if
he had little patience for the niceties.

He had already loosened his black silk tie and let the wrinkled tails
drape haphazardly against the snowy whiteness of his shirt.  One of his
large hands rubbed the back of his neck, lean fingers kneading the
corded muscles at his nape.  His swallowtail coat was unbuttoned and
revealed a dove-gray satin vest beneath.  The silver embroidery
shimmered as he took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

It was clear to Lisa that he was attempting to control his
impatience.

She smiled approvingly, raising her eyes from the flat of his belly to
his face.  It was an interesting face, one she was sure she would have
remembered if she had seen it before.  Tension marred his handsome
features, a certain grimness pulled his mouth flat and etched tiny
lines at the corners, lending him an intensity of expression that was
at odds with such male beauty.  A muscle worked in his jaw, momentarily
filling out the hollows just beneath his cheekbones.

Mrs. Hall's gaze narrowed briefly as she studied the cast of his
complexion.  His skin was bronzed, touched by gold and copper tones.

It occurred to her briefly that he might have some Indian heritage, in
which case she would have to ask Samuel to show him the door.  It
didn't come to that.  She decided the bronze had been beaten into him
by the sun and wind and she was relieved by her observation.  She
didn't think Samuel could have ejected him.

Lisa Antonia Hall was unembarrassed as her patron returned her steady
gaze.  His dark eyes, only a shade short of black, were unamused.  The
arch of his brows, raised the merest fraction, hinted at an air of
superiority that might have intimidated someone less brazen.

Undeterred, her gaze shifted to his hair.  It was thick and lustrous,
overlong at the back, and where it brushed his collar it looked like a
spill of ink against a clean sheet of paper.  She almost reached to
brush it back.  Instead she fiddled with her bracelets, lining up the
clasps while she determined what she was going to do.

Her eyes dropped to the black leather bag at his feet.  She wondered
what it held.  A change of clothes?  Medical supplies?

Liquor samples?  She realized she would be sorely disappointed to
discover he was a whiskey drummer.  When she looked at him
questioningly she was glad he merely stared back and offered no
enlightenment.

"I have a girl in mind who will give you a quiet encounter," Mrs. Hall
said finally, smiling engagingly.  "She's upstairs now.  Will you trust
my judgment or would you like me to introduce you down here?

If she's not what you had in mind we'll find someone who is."

In a fluid motion he picked up the leather bag.  "If she's not taken
with the sound of her own voice then she's the one I want," he said
dryly.  He glanced at the wide, carpeted staircase.  "Which way at the
top of the stairs?"

Mrs. Hall hesitated.  The bracelets on her left wrist jangled as she
raised her hand slightly.  "Left," she said.  "Then two doors down on
the right.  Her name is Mmm."  She stopped as a finger was pressed
lightly to her lips.

He shook his head and smiled for the first time.  Had it reached his
eyes it would have transformed his face.  "I don't want to know," he
said.  "It's just not that personal."

The madam thought she was immune to a man's touch yet she felt the
imprint of his finger on her mouth long after he withdrew it.

She watched him mount the stairs and knew a surge of hunger.  Her heart
hammered in her breast.  She barely noticed which way he turned when he
reached the landing.

He turned the brass handle and swung open the door.  Except for an oil
lamp flickering on the bedside table the room was dark.

Light from the gas jets in the hallway behind him made a silhouette of
his imposing figure.  He stood on the threshold a moment and surveyed
the room, letting his eyes adjust.  A movement in the center of the bed
caught his eye as the whore sat up and stared back at him.  She didn't
say a word.

He liked her already.

He stepped inside and dropped his bag on a table just inside the
doorway, nudging the door closed with the heel of his shoe.  Taking off
his evening jacket, he hung it carelessly over the wing of a chair and
surveyed the room, giving little more than a cursory glance to the
whore or the wide spindle bed.

Several braided area rugs covered the hardwood floor.  French doors
opened onto a small balcony with a stone balustrade.  The mantel held a
variety of photographs and figurines, none worthy of a second look.

The grate was cold and ashes were scattered across the apron.  A
scuttle of coals and kindling had been set nearby.

Milk-glass globes covered the unlighted gas jets.  The wallpaper was
nearly as dark as the woodwork, setting a gloomy tone.  On the far side
of the bed was a dressing screen.  He walked over to it and moved one
panel aside, revealing a wardrobe and a hip bath filled with water.  He
dipped his finger in-the water was not hot any longer but a few degrees
better than tepid.

"I've interrupted your bath," he said, turning toward the bed.

She didn't look at him but when she shrugged the wide strap of her
nightshift slipped over her shoulder.  She lifted it immediately only
to have it fall again.  This time she let it be, bowing her head
slightly so her hair fell forward, shielding her.

His smile was small, his eyes cynical.  "Your display of modesty is
duly noted.  Affecting, but quite unnecessary."  He turned away again
and pointed to the bath.  "Don't let me stop you.  I have time."

When he didn't sense her moving behind him he added more firmly, "Go
on.  It won't do you any harm and it may even relax you.

The bed creaked as she crawled across its wide expanse on all fours.

He moved to the other side of the room and sat down in the wing chair,
stretching his long legs.  Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes,
missing her furtive, over-the-shoulder glance but sensing it
nonetheless.

"I'm not going to join you," he said tiredly.  He heard her move
quickly, her bare feet padding lightly on the area rug.  She bumped
into the screen before she moved behind it.  His eyelids raised a
fraction and he watched her shadowed movements through thick, dark
lashes.  Her nightshift was placed over the top of the dressing
screen.

The wardrobe opened and he heard her sifting through the drawers.  He
wondered what she was looking for then he saw her pause and pin up her
hair.  A moment later water lapped gently against the sides of the hip
bath as she stepped inside.  He closed his eyes again and wished that
he had not drunk quite so much.

"I was told you wouldn't talk much," he said, "but I didn't expect
complete silence."  No comment was forthcoming.  "Suits me."  He
unbuttoned his vest and checked his pocket watch.  The realization that
it was a few minutes shy of midnight gave rise to a soft groan.

It was not his usual manner to drink before dinner or during dinner or
to have more than a shot sometime after dinner.  He could only guess
how badly he was going to feel in the morning and yet he acknowledged
that he was not numb enough now.

Behind the screen the water stirred again.  He noticed the towel at the
foot of the bed.  Sighing, he pushed himself out of the wing chair and
scooped it up.  Skirting the screen, he dangled it in front of the
whore.

"Fetching," he drawled.  His bored tone gave lie to the single word.

His eyes were flat, almost uninterested, as they skimmed her.

Splashing had dampened the curling ends of her hair and tendrils clung
flatly against her neck and temples.  Droplets beaded on her naked
shoulders and her fine-boned and fragile features were shiny with
mist.

He was blocking his own light from the oil lamp and he stepped aside,
watching her sink a little lower in the bath.  Only the line of her
collarbones was visible above its dark, mirror-like surface.

"There's no reason to act like a shy maiden in front of me," he said.

"This is professional, not personal."  He paused, watching her
closely.

"Isn't it?"

She blinked, returned his stare, then nodded slowly.

He dropped the towel, which she managed to catch in one hand before it
hit the water.

"Red," he said.

"Hmmm?"  Grimacing, she touched her throat lightly with her
fingertips.

"Pardon?"  she said.  This time she felt the vibration of her voice
against the pads of her fingers.

"Your hair's red.  There's not much light in here.  I wasn't sure."

He wasn't a man given to impulse but it was exactly what moved him
now.

He hunkered down beside the bath.  He thought for a moment that she
might flinch, then wondered why the notion would even cross his mind.

Still, he found himself asking, "May I?"

She looked at his raised hand, the fingertips just inches from her ear,
and nodded.

The back of his fingers touched her cheek and rested there briefly.

He lifted a tendril.  It was soft and silky and slightly damp.  He
frowned as he noticed faint bruises along her throat.  He touched one
lightly.  "You've been treated roughly this evening."

She nodded.

"Good thing I'm here then.  We'll see what we can do about that."

Her skin was flushed.  "You're warm," he said.  "Out of the bath
now."

He stood and turned away.  There was hurried movement behind him, water
splashing, and the sounds of the towel being drawn briskly against her
skin.  He slipped off his vest and laid it next to his evening
jacket.

When she came into his line of vision again she was wearing her white
cotton nightshift.  He looked down at her bare feet and the trim
ankles.  "You'd better get back into bed.  Even on the rug, the floor's
cold.  Do you want me to light a fire?"

Crawling back into bed, she shook her head.

His low laughter was deep and faintly dangerous as she pulled thethick
down comforter around her shoulders.  "Just the same," he said, "I
think I'll do it."  He had already decided he didn't want a quick poke
under the covers.  He fully intended to enjoy himself and that meant
enjoying the whore's body with his eyes as well as his hands.

His decision vaguely surprised him.  Thirty minutes ago a quick poke
was all he had in mind.  He could even admit that he wanted to hear her
voice again.  Her husky timbre was like a shot of good whiskey,
something to be savored.

It took him a few minutes to get a fire started.  Standing, he brushed
his hands on his trousers.  The streaks of gray ash on his black
evening wear made him go to the porcelain basin by the bed and wash his
hands.  "It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints, would it?"

Her smile was tentative.

"I think you could use a drink."

The smile faded as her lips parted in surprise.

"Medicinal purposes only," he said encouragingly.  He saw her immediate
acceptance in the relaxation of her shoulders.  Another quick look
around the room convinced him he hadn't missed a liquor cabinet on his
earlier survey.  He shrugged.  "Good thing I've come prepared."  He
crossed the room to his black bag.  Opening it up, he retrieved a
quarter-full bottle of Scotch nestled among stacks of bound bills.  He
turned, showing her the bottle.  "Glasses?"

She shook her head.

"Then you'll have to tipple right out of the bottle."  He shut the bag,
left it on the table, and carried the bottle to the bed.

Sitting down on the edge, he handed it to her.  When she hesitated he
said, "It will make you feel better, I promise."  He could have added
that it had already done wonders for him.

She uncapped the bottle and raised it slowly to her lips.  When she
didn't drink immediately he put his fingertips under the bottom and
tipped it.  She took a large swallow, paused, and noting the amused
challenge in his eyes, took another.

"That's better," he said.  He found himself grinning as she made a
face.  "Obviously you have no appreciation for good Scotch."

The liquor eased the tightness in her throat but she still spoke in a
husky whisper.  "I don't drink much."

"I don't either much."  He offered her another swallow which she
accepted with hardly any prompting.  He watched her for another
reaction and when none came he raised both brows.  "It seems to agree
with you rather quickly."  He took the bottle, put it on the bedside
table, and touched her face again with the back of his fingers.

His thumb traced the arch of her cheekbone.  "But then that's what it's
supposed to do.  You're not so flushed."  She was still warm to the
touch, almost unnaturally so, but the color in her face was no longer
mottled.  The hint of rose spread evenly over her skin, highlighted by
the light from the oil lamp.  The shape of the face was oval, the eyes
wide, just a fraction too large for the elfin face.  She wasn't a
classic beauty by any means but she was something more than he had
expected to find in any New York brothel, even an expensive one like
Mrs.  Hall's.  He nearly spoke his mind but thought better of it.

It would have been the worst kind of compliment, one she wouldn't have
appreciated.

He let his hand drift over her cheek.  His knuckle touched her mouth.

Her lips were full.  His light touch made them part.  The Scotch had
made them moist.  His darkening eyes were fastened on her mouth.  "Show
me your tongue," he said lowly.

She opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue a full inch and a half.

"Aaaaahhhh."

He was so surprised that he burst out laughing.  His hand dropped away
from her face.  "That wasn't quite what I had in mind but it's a very
pretty tongue.  Very pink.  Nice teeth, too.  And you've kept your
tonsils."  He nudged her jaw.  "You can close now.  I've seen quite
enough.  Another drink is definitely in order."  He took a long pull on
the bottle himself and saw out of the corner of his eye that she had
expected him to give the bottle back to her.  He obliged and let her
finish it.  "For someone who doesn't drink much, you've developed quite
a taste for it."

She offered him a crooked, somewhat sleepy smile.  "I think I like good
Scotch," she said.  "As medicine, of course."

"Of course," he agreed dryly.  He made himself more comfortable,
swinging his legs onto the mattress and leaning back against the walnut
headboard.  He took one of the loose pillows and stuffed it behind the
small of his back.  "Much better," he said, satisfied.

He looked askance at her.  During his adjustments she had edged from
the center to the far side of the bed.  "There was no need for you to
move.  I'm not going to attack you, but I can hardly reach you if you
remain over there."  He saw her hesitate, mulling his words.

Finally she seemed to see the sense of what he was saying and scooted
toward him.  He fluffed a goosedown pillow and slipped it behind her
back.

When she turned on her side toward him her knees bumped his.  The strap
of her nightshift slid over her left shoulder again.

He noticed that when she attempted to pull it up her movements were
slow and awkward, almost disjointed.  The liquor had swiftly taken its
toll.  He hadn't considered that she may have been drinking earlier as
he had.  Watching her now it seemed likely.  Under his breath he said,
"We're a fine pair."

She frowned, looking at him oddly, but made no comment.

He leaned back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and closed his
eyes.  "I can't remember when I've had a longer day," he said,
sighing.

She looked at the gilded clock on the mantel.  "New day."

"I suppose it is.  And it's starting just the same way."  In bed with a
whore.  His mouth curled to one side as he considered this turn of
events in a new light.  At least this whore wasn't a relation.  He
should be thankful for that.  "God, I'm tired."

"Rest," she said softly.

He shook his head but his eyes didn't open.  "It's a nice offer," he
said, "but not the reason I came here.  I should see to you.

You've obviously been waiting."

"I didn't mind," she said with effort.  "Mrs. Hall made me
comfortable."

He heard the faint slur in her words, the singsong cadence that hinted
at the effects of the liquor.  He wondered at her comfort.

The room was relatively spartan compared to others he had seen.  "This
isn't much," he observed.

She paused, then said with quiet conviction.  "My experience says it's
better than the streets."

He opened his eyes and looked at her.  "I suppose it is."

She held his gaze for a long moment before breaking away.

"You're flushed again," he said.  He laid his hand lightly on her bare
shoulder.  His thumb brushed the pulse in her throat.  "Your heart's
racing."

She nodded guilelessly.

"Why don't you drop that cover a little and let me have a look."

She hesitated.

He nudged the blanket a fraction lower with the heel of his hand.

"How am I supposed to examine you if I can't see you?"

She considered this.

He added, "You have some expectations, I assume."

"Not many.

It was said so matter-of-factly, he gave a shout of laughter.  "Oh, you
have been treated poorly!  That doesn't speak well for men like
myself."  Brooking no argument, he pushed the comforter aside.  His
fingers slid along the deeply-cut neckline of her nightshift and rested
lightly on the uppermost button.  He raised his dark brows in a silent
question.

She laid a hand over his and shook her head.  "I'll do it."

The husky catch in her voice intrigued him.  He let the sound of it
wash over him as he watched her fingers fiddle with the top button.

"You're not a chatterbox."

She wasn't looking at him.  Her concentration on the button was
complete.  "No," she said quietly.  "I'm not."

"Another," he said.

She glanced at him, her eyes shaded by thick lashes.

He pointed to her hand.  "Another button, please."

Her fingers were clumsy but she managed to slip the button through its
hole.  The neckline of her nightshift parted as her hands dropped away,
revealing the curves of her breasts.

Her skin looked very smooth, he thought, and soft.  The back of his
fingers touched her breast.  "That flush of yours starts about here,"
he said.

She said nothing, simply watched his hand.

Her heart was thudding against his fingertips.  He smiled.

"There's nothing wrong with your heart."  He cupped the underside of
her breast and her heartbeat, rather than her flesh, seemed to fill the
palm of his hand.  He opened another button.  "Come closer," he said.

When she didn't move immediately his hands slipped around her rib cage
to urge her nearer.  The other strap of her nightshift fell.

No matter where he touched her he could feel her heart thudding.

He laid one hand on her back near her shoulder blade.  Her breathing
was light and shallow.  He leaned forward, his mouth near her ear.

"Take a deep breath," he said.  "That's it.  Hold it."

His hand rubbed her back.  "Let it out slowly."  Her heart steadied;
her breathing slowed.  "Better," he said.  "For a moment there I
thought you might faint."

"So did I," she said gravely.  "I'm a little dizzy."

He released her.  "Why don't you lie down?"

She didn't hesitate.  "All right."  Shifting on the bed, she brought
the pillow under her head.  She started to close her nightdress but he
stopped her.  Except for the exposed outer curves of her breasts she
was still modestly covered.  The glimpse of her skin was tantalizing.

He savored the thought of pushing aside the material and taking her
nipple in his mouth.

"I don't have much success when it comes to patience," he said,
touching her cheek again.  Her dark green eyes were searching his face,
her smile gentle and encouraging.

"I think you're doing fine," she said.

She was possibly the most artlessly provocative woman he had ever
encountered.  He surprised himself again by not merely enjoying it, but
savoring it.  "Why, thank you," he said.  "It's good of you to
encourage me."

Her smile deepened as her eyelashes lowered sleepily.  "I hope to do so
one fine day."

"So you admit you have something to learn?"

Her short, emphatic nod was interrupted by an abrupt yawn.  She
stretched a little, slipping one arm under the pillow as she turned on
her side.

He couldn't help notice her movement had completely uncovered one
breast.  Her nipple was puckered, the coral tip a hard bud.  He was
amazed to find himself swallowing hard, like a schoolboy confronted
with his first naughty French postcard.  "So you're willing to learn a
thing or two from me?"

"I'd like that very much."

Once again her grave sincerity made him chuckle.  "You're something of
a surprise," he said.  "Not what I expected when I walked in here this
evening."

She snuggled deeper into the pillow.  "Hmmm."

One of his brows kicked up.  "Are you going to fall asleep?"  The
languid shake of her head was not encouraging.  He was regretting
sharing his liquor with her.  In a fluid motion he slid out of bed and
began stripping off his clothes.  His pristine white shirt joined the
jacket and vest on the wing chair.  He pushed his shoes near the apron
of the fireplace and tossed his stockings next to them.  His trousers
and drawers were carelessly thrown over the arm of the chair.

In spite of his haste, when he reached the bed he realized he hadn't
been fast enough.

His lady of the evening was as unaroused as he was aroused.  He was
tired enough to be philosophical about it.  He'd remember this the next
time he asked for a whore who didn't talk much.

Apparently she was not prepared to use her mouth for anything else
either.

He raised the comforter and sheet and slipped in beside her, turning
her on her side away from him so her sleek back and bottom was nestled
against his chest and groin.  His hand sought out the opening of her
nightshift and he laid his palm in the valley of her breasts.  His chin
rested close to the crown of her head and the damp fragrance of her
hair teased his senses.

He slept.

When he awoke she was all over him.  The pins in her hair had
disappeared and the long fall of dark red spilled over his shoulder and
chest.  Her mouth was tasting his skin just above his nipple.

The damp edge of her tongue licked at the sweet and salty flesh.  He
drew in a shaky breath as one of her hands slid down his abdomen.

Lower.

Lower still.  And cupped his arousal.

He groaned.  Her hand stilled.  He laid his fingers over hers and
encouraged her exploration, her stroking.  It wasn't long before it
wasn't enough.

Her legs tangled with his as he twisted and rolled her onto her back.

His knee separated her thighs.  He felt the vibration of her whimper
against his skin, then the full outline of her lips on his.

Her mouth was hard and hungry.  The edge of her tongue teased him.

She moved restlessly, searching, stretching.  He could feel the outline
of her breasts, the exquisite, tender abrading of her nipples on his
flesh as she pressed the length of her body to him.

One of her hands slid along the back of his neck.  Her fingers sifted
through the thick, dark strands at his nape.  A shiver tore along his
spine as her nail lightly curved along the outer edge of his ear.

He raised his head and saw the faint outline of her smile, the sleepy
cat-green eyes, and recognized the reflection of his own lust.

She arched, turning her head at the exact moment his mouth would have
fused with hers.  His lips scraped her cheek, her jaw line, then
finally the curve of her neck.  Her hands stroked his back and learned
the ridges of hard, bunched muscle as he moved over her.

His skin retracted in anticipation of her touch.  He wanted her hands
everywhere, doing everything; he told her so, whispering against her
ear in a voice so husky in its need that he hardly knew it as his
own.

The palms of her hands slid along his shoulders, down his arms, passing
over his ribs and around to the small of his back.

She paused at the base of his spine, teasing him with touches that
chased sensation all the way to his toes.  She clutched his buttocks,
pressing his rock-hard need solidly to her.  She ground against him,
delivering the same message with her mouth, her tongue circling his,
pushing, probing.

He didn't know if anyone had ever wanted him the way this woman did.

Then he remembered he was paying her.

She was a whore.

Suddenly, surprisingly, he wished it were different.

He moved himself away from her, adjusting his position, smiling when
she reached for him blindly.  He brushed her hand aside as he knelt
between her legs.  He pushed back her raised knees and raised her
buttocks and when she reached for him again he plunged into her.

She cried out.

The sound of it made him want something else.  He wished it were his
name he heard and not just a wild, animal cry.  He withdrew, thrust
again.  She was tight.  And hot.  She surrounded him, held him.

She reached for his forearms, grasped him, ran her palms over his
muscles.  She arched.  He was deep inside her.  Her nails made
crescents on his skin.  His fingertips pressed whitely against her
flesh.

He felt her accept his rhythm, the force of his thrusts, and knew she
was caught in the same spiral of passion as he.  He watched her head
move from side to side, her mouth parted, her throat exposed.

There was a flush to her breasts and a sheen of perspiration that made
her skin glow in the lamplight.

There was a catch in her voice as she sipped the air.  His own
breathing was harsh.  He felt tension as a hot, licking flame just
beneath the surface of his skin.  His muscles were pulled taut, need
driving him into her again and again.

It was a fierce, selfish pleasure that overtook him in the end.  He
strained against her as he climaxed.  Tension unfolded, dissolved.

He spilled into her, unable to call back his moan as he collapsed
against her.

Almost immediately he was asleep.

* * * Lisa Antonia Hall fingered the string of pearls at her neck like
worry beads.  "I had no idea it would take you this long to get here,"
she told the man in front of her.  "What's the good of keeping you on
retainer if I can't depend on you?"

Morrison James dropped his black leather bag on the carpet and shrugged
out of his coat.  He draped it over the back of a chair in Mrs. Hall's
private apartment and rubbed the back of his neck wearily.

His thick black hair, liberally threaded with silver at the temples,
was ruffled in some places, flat in others.  His broad face still bore
the imprint of a pillow wrinkle on one cheek and his complexion was
ruddy from sleep.  His spectacles were slightly askew on the bridge of
his nose.

"A retainer is what you pay your lawyer, Lisa," he said.  "And
protection money is what you pay the cops.  I can't recall the last
time you paid for my services."

She stopped playing with her pearls and tapped his chest with her index
finger.  Her smile was spun sugar.  "That's because you take it out in
trade."

The doctor gently removed her hand and smoothed the front of his
nightshirt which was haphazardly tucked into his trousers.  He
straightened his suspenders before he thrust his hands in his pockets
and rocked forward on the balls of his feet.  "Be glad I do.  I'd make
you pay me the earth otherwise."

Since he usually kept one of her most expensive girls busy for most of
the night, Mrs.  Hall thought his price was already too high.

But good medical care was hard to come by so she was generally
philosophical about the trade-off."Well, you can have your pick
tonight."

"Slow evening?"

"For most of the girls.  Not for me.  I've had my hands full."

He didn't want to hear the story.  He yawned and readjusted his
glasses.  "Why did you send someone around to my house?"  he asked.

"It's not Beth again?"

She waved her hand impatiently.  Her bracelets jangled.  "No, not
Beth.

Not any of my girls actually, though come to think of it, you could
take a look at Jane while you're here.  I think she's sickening for
something."

"Lisa," he said, drawing out her name in bored accents.  His eyes fell
on the decanter of whiskey on her sideboard.  "May I?"

"Help yourself."

Morrison poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and poured another.

He leaned against the sideboard and rolled the shot glass between his
palms.  "It's long gone midnight, Lisa, and I'd only just climbed into
bed when your man came around."

She frowned.  "I sent him out hours ago."

"I was in surgery at the hospital.  He missed me there."  He sipped his
drink.  "I've had a busy night myself, so what can I do for you?"

Lisa dropped into an overstuffed chair.  "You've heard me speak of
Harlan Porter?"

"The pimp?"

She nodded.  "The very same."

Morrison James was interested in spite of himself.  In the dozen years
he had been coming to Mrs. Hall's he couldn't remember ever finding it
dull.  He sighed.  Obviously it wasn't for an emergency that he had
been summoned this evening.  Whatever her need, she was also hiring his
discretion.  "You'd better tell me the whole of it," he said, resigned
and curious.

She smiled warmly.  "Of course I will.

He felt himself swell and grow hard.  She was curved against his
body.

His arm was around her waist, his palm cupping the underside of her
breast.  He eased himself into her.  She pushed at him and accommodated
his entry.  Her bottom slapped his groin.  He buried his mouth against
her neck, in her hair.  He tasted her skin, let the fragrance of her
flesh fill his nostrils.  Her breasts filled his hands.  Her thighs
were warm.  She turned her head and sought his lips.  Her mouth was
hot.

She was burning from the inside out.

"That's it," he whispered with husky urgency.  "Move with me."

When she did he felt as if he owned the fire.  "God, you're sweet ...

so sweet."  She was taking all of him and the sensation was almost
unbearably intense, pleasure running the border with pain.

His hand slipped between her thighs and his fingers probed.  He
stroked, teased.  He heard the sleepy cadence of her breathing give way
to something more rapid, more frenzied.  Hardly knowing the words he
was saying he encouraged her, holding himself back until he felt the
rise of pleasure in her.

"Please," she said.  Only that, just please.  But she said it again.

And again.

When she shuddered and melted against him there was no longer a reason
to keep any part of himself from her.  He gave her back the heat and
fire and shared the strength of his passion.  This time when they were
spent she turned in his arms and promptly fell asleep.

The oil lamp was a mere thread of light now.  It edged her profile.

He studied her face, the delicate features that were not strictly
beautiful but commanded attention nonetheless, the strands of red hair
gilded with copper and gold, the smooth complexion that absorbed the
wash of lamplight.  He wondered that he bothered looking at all,
wondered that he seemed intent on making a memory when he had first
thought of using her only to forget.

He should go, he thought.  He hadn't planned on spending the night in
the brothel.  But she was fastened to him like a burr on a blanket and
detaching her didn't appeal to him at the moment.  He'd leave something
generous for her and slip away before morning.  At thirty years of age
he didn't relish sneaking into his father's home in the middle of the
night.  This way he could join everyone at the breakfast table.

He fell asleep, a cynic's smile curving his mouth as he thought what
they would think of him carrying in the morning paper in his evening
clothes.

"So what happened to Harlan?"  Dr. James asked as Lisa drew her story
to a close.

"Beth chased him off, waving a broom."

"Good for Beth," he said approvingly.  "And the girl?"

"She's upstairs.  I put her in a room across the hall from Beth.

She could barely talk, of course, though whether from fright, illness,
or some harm Harlan did to her I can't say.  That's why I sent Huggins
around for you.  She was warm to the touch and I didn't think some
laudanum would come amiss.

"How much?"

She shrugged.  "The usual amount, I suppose.  You know I don't measure
the stuff."

"I know you tend to use a heavy hand spooning it out."

"At least I had the sense to remove the liquor from the room."  She
chuckled.  "Remember how wild-eyed Beth was from mixing the two?"

"I remember she complained about a sore head for three days."

He set down his drink.  "I think I better see your orphan in the storm
now," he said.  "Is she someone you might want for the house?"

"I'd want her, but I don't think she's interested.  She could have done
herself well enough by staying with Harlan and she made it clear she
wanted no part of him."  Lisa shook her head, fingering her pearls
again.  "I'm more than a little afraid she's wandered into these
streets by mistake."

"So," he said slowly, "you've finally come to the point of my visit.

You're concerned that taking her in could have repercussions."

"Exactly so.  But credit my conscience a little.  I was more concerned
about not taking her in."

He nodded.  "You know you don't have to worry that I'll say anything
about tonight.  . . to anyone."  He patted Lisa's shoulder.

"She may not be anybody anyway."

Lisa looked up at him and smiled uneasily.  "You don't know how much I
hope that's true."

Morrison James picked up his leather bag.  "You said you put her in
Beth's room?"

"No.  Across the hall."  She paused, watching him frown as he tried to
place the bedchamber.  "Up the stairs.  Turn .  . ."  She stopped,
looked at the bracelets on her left wrist.  "Turn left."  The madam 's
grin was self-depreciating.  "Honestly, one would think at my age I'd
know right from left.  Left at the landing," she repeated.  "Then the
second door on your right."  Her grin faded slowly.  Her eyes were
thoughtful a moment, then worried, then frantic.  She stood suddenly
and clutched her necklace in lieu of clutching her heart.

"What is it?"  the doctor asked.  "Lisa?  What's wrong?  You look
nearly apoplectic."

"I think I may have told him the wrong room!"

"Who?"

"I meant for him to have Megan."  Her eyes darted around the room as
she considered the implications of her mistake.  "Oh God, what if"
"Who?"  Morrison James asked again.  "Lisa, you really must explain
yourself if I'm to be of any help."

Mrs.  Hall headed toward the door, certain she would be followed.

She twisted the handle and stepped into the hallway, turning
immediately for the private back stairs leading to the second floor.

"I don't know his name, not that it really matters," she said as she
hurried along.  "I think he's been here before but I didn't deal with
him.

He was a cold son of a bitch.  I wondered if we should even accommodate
him."  She raised her skirts and quickly took the steps, pausing just a
moment at the top to catch her breath before she charged down the
hall.

"I should have shown him to the room," she said, fretting.

"What if he found the girl and..."  She couldn't finish her sentence.

She looked helplessly at her long-time friend.  "What if there's
trouble?"

Morrison James set his hand on the madam's shoulder, stopping her in
her tracks.  "Listen to me, Lisa, you're working yourself up for no
good reason.  You may not have given the wrong directions.  He may have
found Megan.  And if the worst has happened, how bad is it really?

It's quite possible that the girl has no one to come to her defense
should the incident become public.  You've weathered greater storms
than this."

Mrs. Hall ducked away from the doctor's shoulder and hammered on
Megan's door.  "I just have a feeling," she said.  "And it's the kind
of feeling I've learned to trust."  She stepped back as the door was
opened by a young woman with rumpled, honey-blond hair and a sleepy,
disgruntled smile.

"Is he in there with you?"  Lisa asked.  She had to know the worst
before she went into the other room.  She had to be prepared.

Megan blinked in surprise.  "No one's with me."  Her round face screwed
up comically as she tried to stifle a yawn.  When she gave in to it her
jaw cracked.  "Excuse me, but I've been sleeping hard.

My last customer put me through the paces.

"A tall man?"  asked Lisa.  "Dark hair?  Black eyes?"

Megan shook her head, leaning against the doorjamb.  "Don't you
remember?  You set me up with Billy Davis."

Morrison James put his hand to his forehead and rubbed his temple.

"You had the mayor's right-hand man in here this evening?"  he asked.

"The same Billy Davis who is threatening to close down every brothel in
the city?"

Mrs. Hall and Megan both looked at him as if they couldn't understand
his amazement.  "A man with his particular needs has to go somewhere,"
said Lisa philosophically.  To Megan she added, "He was in here hours
ago.  Well before midnight.  You haven't had anyone else?"

The madam's heart sank.  Still, she had the presence of mind to show
concern for one of her favorite girls.  "Billy didn't hurt you, did
he?"

She shrugged.  "No more than usual.  Nothing I can't handle."

Mrs. Hall frowned.  "Morrison will see you as soon as he's finished
with our unexpected guest."

"You mean Harlan's victim?"

The madam nodded.  "Come on, Morrison, we may as well go in there
now.

I think my worst fears have been realized."

"Now, Lisa," he said trying to calm her.  "You don't know."  He stopped
when she shot him a warning glance.  They hurried down the hall.  This
time when they reached the door Mrs. Hall didn't bother knocking.  She
turned the handle and stepped into the room.

Morrison followed while Megan hovered on the threshold.

The room was too dark to see much of anything at first glance.

The gaslight from the hallway helped a little.  It was the only reason
Lisa didn't shut Megan out.

The madam marched over to the bed and began plucking at the rumpled
mound of blankets, tossing them on the floor until she uncovered a
tousled head of black hair.  "Where is she?"  she demanded by way of a
wake-up call.

He opened one eye and groaned.  His head throbbed.  He shut the eye,
hoping it would help.  It didn't.  A strident voice was repeating:
"Where is she?  where is she?  where is she?

Morrison James pointed to the empty bottle of Scotch lying on its side
on the floor.  "I thought you removed the liquor."

"I did," Lisa said.  She followed the line of his pointing finger.

"I did," she repeated, picking up the bottle.  "He must have had
this."

She held it over the man in the bed, shaking it threateningly.

"Did you give her any of this?"

Any of this?  Any of this?  He could no longer determine if the
questions were being repeated or if he was hearing echoes.  He opened a
single eye again and managed to grab the sheet that was about to be
torn from his naked back.  "Do you mind?"  he asked coldly.

Lisa dropped the sheet.  She also put the bottle back.  "What happened
to her?"

He supposed the question was being put to him.  It was difficult to
tell, what with the madam's eyes darting nervously around the room and
the fact that there was an audience.  He sat up slowly, pulling the
sheet over his lap, and leaned against the headboard.  He cast a bleary
eye in the direction of the clock on the mantel.  It looked to be
nearly three-thirty.  He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger.

"What is it you want to know?"  he asked tiredly.

"The girl who was in here, what's become of her?"

He stopped rubbing and greeted the madam with a caustic glance.

"How would I know?"  He lifted one corner of the sheet and made a
pretense of searching under it.  "No, not there.  Have you checked the
privy?  The kitchen?  What about another room?  Surely I'm not the only
man she's entertained tonight."

Lisa reached in the drawer on the bedside table and found a match.  She
struck it and lighted the oil lamp, turning up the wick for a fuller
flame.  Replacing the glass globe, she held up the lamp and pointed to
the dark stain he had uncovered when he rearranged the top sheet.  "The
young lady you were with this evening isn't entertaining anyone else,"
she said in icy tones that were every bit a match for his.  "More to
the point, she's never entertained anyone else.

And it's unlikely she found much in the way of entertainment with
you!"

The words were as effective as a cold shower or a pot of black
coffee.

He was wide awake.  He stared at the dried blood spotting the bottom
sheet and felt himself paling.  "What the hell's going on here?"  he
asked, pushing himself out of bed.  He dragged the sheet with him,
hitched it around his waist, and cinched it.  He glared at the madam,
then at the man at the foot of the bed, then finally at the woman in
the doorway.  "I didn't ask for a damned virgin!"

"Oh, I believe you, honey," Megan said.  "And if you'd come to the
right room, you wouldn't have gotten one.

"Right room?  What do you mean?"  His brows drew together as he
glowered at Lisa Hall.  "What does she mean?  You told me this was the
room.  Left at the top of the stairs.  Second door on the right."

Lisa's fingers were working nervously on her pearls.  She sat down
heavily on the bed.  "This is awful!  Horrible!  Do you have any idea
what you've done?"

His dark brows rose.  "Any idea what I've done?"  He paused, his upper
lip curling cynically.  His black eyes were cold.  "If this is a scam,
then you've picked the wrong john.  I didn't ask to initiate one of
your angels and I'm not going to pay just because she's fallen hard."

Morrison set his bag on the bed and spoke up in Lisa's defense.

"No one is trying to take your money.  There's been a mistake, that's
all.  Megan, check the wardrobe.  Perhaps she hasn't left."  As Megan
went to do his bidding, Morrison's eyes alighted on the bottle of
Scotch.  "I'm Dr. James.  Mrs. Hall asked me to come by to see the
girl you were with.  She... umm, she wasn't well.  You didn't answer
Lisa's question.  Did the girl drink some of that?"

"Most of it."

Lisa's soft groan was smothered by Megan's announcement that the
wardrobe was empty.

"What's going on here?"  he demanded, taking the offensive.  His eyes
fell on the doctor's bag and he remembered his own black leather
satchel.  He looked around for it, first on the table just inside the
door, and when it wasn't there, he scanned other parts of the room.

"Where is it?"  he demanded.  When the others merely looked at him
blankly, he repeated the question more harshly.  "I had a bag with
me.

Almost exactly like the doctor's.  What the hell have you done with
it?"

"I haven't touched it," Mrs.  Hall said.  "None of us has."

"What did you tell the girl to do with it?"

"You're mistaken," Morrison said.  "If the bag's gone, Lisa didn't have
anything to do with it.  This is a respectable house."

"It's a brothel."

"It's an honest one," Megan said, offended by the stranger's
arrogance.

"Find my bag and I'll apologize," he said with dry sarcasm.

Unconcerned with modesty, he dropped the sheet and pulled on his
drawers and trousers.

Megan sighed.  "I wish you had found the right room."

He merely grunted, unmoved by the flattery.  He slipped on his evening
shirt and tucked in the tails, snapping his suspenders in place.

Sitting in the wing chair he put on his stockings and shoes.

Morrison James was eyeing the cut and style of the clothes.

Expensive.

Perhaps he could be reasoned with.  "Look, it's not what you think it
is.  Even so, you don't want your name in the papers, do you?

Be reasonable and let us handle it."

He stopped in the middle of fastening his cufflinks and gave the doctor
the edge of his hard, penetrating stare.  "That's how it works, doesn't
it?  The whores steal from their customers and you count on us being
too scared or embarrassed to report it."  He finished with the cufflink
and smoothed the pristine sleeve over his forearm, then adjusted it at
the wrist.  "Do I appear to be frightened?"  he asked.

"Embarrassed?"  Neither of his questions garnered a reply.  He noted
his audience was looking distinctly uncomfortable.  "Your whore and
you'll understand if I doubt she was the innocent she's being made out
to be She was unexpectedly good, but she was not worth twelve thousand
dollars."

Mrs.  Hall's necklace snapped and pearls skittered across the floor.

Morrison James dropped onto the bed in surprise.

Megan's lower jaw simply fell open.

"You shouldn't be working here," he told them.  "There's a play at
Wallack's Theatre right now that would benefit from your talents."  He
slipped on his jacket, ran a hand through his hair, and turned on his
heel.  At the door he stopped.  "I don't care if you find the girl, but
you damn well better find my bag."

Mrs.  Hall gathered her wits as he was stepping into the hallway.

"Wait!  I don't know where to reach you.

"I know how to find you."  ..But your name .  . . it would .  .

~ that is .  .

His narrow smile was dangerous.  Holiday.  Connor Holiday."  He was
satisfied to see it had an impact.  As he was closing the door he heard
the doctor sigh, "You've stepped into it this time, Lisa."  chapter 2

The same evening, a different view She was lost.  If someone had told
her to accomplish just that task she would have said it was
impossible.

She had grown up in the city and considered herself more than passingly
acquainted with Manhattan's particular maze of avenues and alleys,
boulevards and backyards.

It was true that she didn't walk everywhere but she believed herself to
be observant, and she had often noted buildings and businesses as
landmarks when she traveled in a hansom cab or in the family
carriage.

It was her nature to pay attention to things and she took some pride in
it.

Which was why it was so difficult to accept that she was lost.

Nothing was familiar.  The houses were clapboarded, built nearly on top
of one another, leaning in, without any yard or greenery or fence to
distinguish them.  Any single row, she noticed, seemed to sag in the
middle.  At night it was difficult to know their state of repair but
she suspected there were roofs in need of shingles and windows in need
of glazing.  A number of houses had signs at the front door announcing
rooms for rent; others were actually saloons or dance halls.

Several, she saw, had red glass globes covering their window lamps.

She was not so naive that she didn't know what they signified.

It was a source of some amazement to her that an evening that had begun
innocently at the library was coming to a close in Manhattan's seediest
red light district.

Looking around, trying to gauge the distance of the waterfront and get
her bearings, she acknowledged that she wasn't prepared to take full
responsibility for her predicament.  She had been cajoled, harassed,
and finally dared to take part in a scavenger hunt and then abandoned
when her partner found favor with another.  Her sister had a lot to
answer for.

She stepped back into the shadows as a door to one of the dance halls
was flung open and a boisterous group of sailors staggered arm in arm
into the street.  Their ribald humor brought a blush to her cheeks.

She was pressed flatly against the darkened porch alcove of a rooming
house with no retreat available.  She closed her eyes and prayed they
would pass without noticing her, or if they noticed, without accosting
her.

She dared to peek as their voices faded .  . . and found herself
staring into a pair of lightly colored, curious eyes.  The lopsided
smile spread and widened and then he called to his friends, "Come see
what I've found!"

She tried to duck out of the way but the sailor's reflexes were not as
slowed by drink as she hoped they might be.  He thrust out his arms,
one on either side of her shoulders, and braced himself comfortably
against the alcove.

He glanced over his shoulder, looking for his friends, then back at his
captive, a simple grin still plastered on his face.  "It appears they
didn't hear or they're not interested," he said.  He blinked widely,
paused, then looked her over from head to toe.  "Must be they didn't
hear.  They couldn't not be interested.  You're something to look at.

Not the usual sort for Canal Street."

She sighed.  At least she knew where she was now, but it was not as
promising a sign as she hoped.  She was not likely to be mistaken for a
woman of gentle upbringing on Canal Street, not with all those red
lights winking at her from the porch stoops and windows.  She realized
she should not be so accepting of her circumstances, certainly not with
the drunken sailor leering stupidly in her direction, but her options
were strictly limited.  She wasn't strong enough to fight him off and
only just on the mend after three miserable days in bed with a sore
throat and laryngitis, she could hardly raise a whisper, let alone a
scream.  That left brazening it out.

She, a young woman of twenty-three years, well known for not having a
brazen bone in her body, stared boldly back at the sailor.

"You have a place near here?"  asked the sailor, raising his eyebrows
hopefully.

She shook her head.

The brows lowered as he frowned.  "Can't take you back to the ship."

She was relieved.  It seemed they were without alternatives.  He would
have to let her go.  She started to push his restraining arm aside.

"Not so fast."  He was still frowning, thinking furiously.

"There's the alley."

That was a horrifying thought.  "No," she said.  Her voice was not much
above a whisper, husky with the last remnants of her cold, and more
invitation than refusal.  "Not the alley."

"Then right here."

Equally horrifying.  Her eyes widened as the sailor's calloused hands
dropped inside her coat to grab her waist.  Before she could move he
was taking a step toward her and lifting her against the wall of the
alcove.  She pushed at his shoulders but it was a futile gesture.

Her feet were no longer touching the stoop.  "It's not free, you know,"
she said.

She was gratified to see that gave the sailor pause.  He dropped her.

The moment he thrust his hands into his pockets to find his money she
tore past him.  Raising her skirts, she ran down the sidewalk and into
the street, dodging two draft horses and a beer wagon that had just
turned the corner.  Running blindly, her sense of direction deserting
her again, she darted in a narrow passageway between two houses to
catch her breath.

Her chest hurt as she gulped air.  She remembered her mother's voice
just that morning telling her she should spend another day indoors,
that even a trip to the library was not advisable.  But she had to
study.  She may not have been particularly brazen, but she, like every
other member of her family, was headstrong.  Her mother's words went
unheeded at the breakfast table only to echo mockingly now.

Her heart was pounding so loudly that she didn't hear the sailor's
approach until the second before she was caught in his embrace.

"Why'd you run?"  he asked.

She recoiled from the sour beer smell of her assailant.  She turned her
head aside and her stomach turned over as she felt his mouth on her
neck.  Having no real faith that it would work now any better than it
had earlier, she pushed hard at the sailor's shoulders.

She imagined the surprise on his face mirrored hers as he was flung
aside.

She only had eyes for her rescuer while the sailor dropped to his
knees, groaned, then scrambled awkwardly away.

The stranger doffed his hat and made a sweeping bow.  "Your servant,"
he said.

The gesture was grand, unnecessary but appreciated.  She wondered where
he had come from.  "Thank you," she said softly.

"May I?"  he asked, offering his elbow and an escort out of the
alley.

She hesitated, watching him warily.

Her rescuer understood.  "It's natural that your experience has made
you cautious, but I assure you, we're not all as loutish as your
sailor."

"He wasn't my sailor," she said.  She swallowed with difficulty; the
back of her throat felt raw.

"You're not feeling well."

She was pleasantly surprised by his observation.  Really, she thought,
there was nothing particularly threatening about her rescuer's
countenance or demeanor.  He was a tall man with a narrow face and easy
smile.  His manner demonstrated concern as he bent solicitously toward
her.  His dark eyes watched her closely, a certain appeal for her trust
in them.  "I have a sore throat," she said.

He nodded.  "I thought it must be something like that.  When you didn't
scream "I couldn't."

"Then what we need to do is get you somewhere warm and safe."

She made her decision; she gave him her arm.

They stepped out of the alley and onto the street.  Gaslight laid a
muted yellow circle around them.  When a trio of men spilled out of a
nearby saloon she edged closer to her rescuer.

Her action did not go unnoticed.  "Harlan Porter," he said, introducing
himself.

"Thank you, Mr.  Porter."  She did not return the introduction.

Sometimes it seemed that scandal was synonymous with her last name, but
thus far she had managed not to be at the center of it.

There was no desire on her part to have that change now.

She would not have herself or her family embarrassed if any of this
night's adventures came to light.  "Will you hail me a cab?"

"I'd be happy to, but we'll have to walk a bit from here.

Hansoms don't generally come this way.  Perhaps it's obvious to you
now, but this is not the most savory section of the city."

She fell into step beside Harlan Porter, grateful for his protection.

The thoroughfare did not seem quite so sinister in the presence of her
companion; the music and laughter from the dance halls was less
raucous.  They walked for several blocks and she noticed a gradual
improvement in the area.  Structurally the houses went from clapboard
to brownstone, the street was less rutted, the signs indicating
businesses were in good repair, and the pedestrians were no longer
staggering.  Red lights still dotted the occasional window but the
establishments appeared to cater to the uptown crowd.

"Cabs frequent the street just beyond here," Harlan Porter told her.

"If you want to wait, I can go ahead and get one to come here."

Not wanting to be left alone, she shook her head furiously.

"Very well, but you're tiring.  May I suggest a shortcut through
here?"

He pointed to a passage between two homes similar to the one where she
had been accosted by the sailor.

Her first instinct was to run.  When rational thought asserted itself
she realized it was better to face her fear.  After all, she couldn't
avoid dark, narrow passages the rest of her life.  That described most
of the aisles in the library that she loved to frequent.

Besides, she reasoned, it had been the sailor who had posed the threat,
not the space, and it was small of her to generalize his behavior to
all men.  Harlan Porter had extended himself to her generously.

"Or perhaps you'd rather walk around," he suggested.

She shook her head, touching her throat to indicate the ache.  "I'm
tired," she said.

"Don't try talking.  I understand.  We'll take the shortcut."

She smiled, thankful for her guardian angel.  Linking arms again, she
allowed Harlan Porter to lead her into the darkest shadows between the
buildings.

"As far as I can tell," he said casually as they walked, "the only
thing wrong with you is that you're a tad too trusting."

With no more warning than that he pushed her hard against the brick
wall of one of the houses and pressed his forearm equally hard against
her throat.  She slumped almost immediately.

Consciousness seemed to come slowly.  First there was the sweet
sensation of breathing, then the sting of something cold and wet on her
face.  She heard voices next, and moments later light began to sift
through the veil of her heavy, dark lashes.  It was as if her senses
were coming alive in layers.  She groaned softly and brushed
ineffectually at the wetness on her face.

Harlan Porter wiped her cheeks and brows once more with the damp
handkerchief.  He considered her efforts to push him away as a good
sign.  She was of no value to him if she was out cold.

They were no longer in the passageway.  It was the first thing that
registered when she opened her eyes.  Neither were they alone.

Harlan Porter was holding her steady with one arm and using the other
to gesture wildly as he spoke to the man who had joined them.  They
were standing at the servants' entrance at the rear of a large
brownstone and it appeared to her that the stranger had come outside
because he didn't want Harlan Porter in the home.

"I'm telling you, Wicken," Harlan said again, "he's going to want to
see what I've got here.  She's a near perfect match to what he
described to me."

She saw Mr. Wicken's square jaw harden and his eyes narrow as he
assessed her skeptically from head to toe.  She doubted her efforts to
return the stare were nearly as threatening.

"It may be as you say, Porter, but you have to get past me first, don't
you?"

Harlan frowned.  "You want to use her first, is that it?"  When his
question was met with stony silence he finally shrugged.  "It's your
neck," he said.  "As for myself, I don't care, and it makes no
difference to her, but if he ever finds out that you're sampling his
goods, he'll put you out in the street."

"Is that a threat?"  Wicken asked.

"He won't find out from me," Harlan said.  "I can't speak for the
lady."

Wicken's eyes returned to her.  Without warning his hand shot out and
encircled her neck.  His fingers squeezed hard enough to bruise her
skin while his eyes slid insolently over her face.  "Well?"  he
asked.

"Will you be saying anything?"

The pressure and pain in her throat was so great that she thought she
would simply faint with it.  She clawed at Wicken's forearm but he
didn't remove his hand.  She closed her eyes and only Harlan Porter's
arm at her waist kept her upright.

"Let her go, Wicken," Porter said.

Wicken released his hand slowly, smiling as she sucked in air.  "I
think I can count on her keeping quiet."

Porter propped her against the wall and put out his hand, palm up, to
Wicken.  "I'll take my finder's fee now, thank you."

"Not until I've had my sample.  She may not be worth anything; then Mr.
Beale won't pay.

"He's always paid because I've always found him what he's wanted."

She seized her opportunity as Porter and Wicken argued.  She pushed
away from the wall and hurtled herself over the porch rail, sprinting
across the backyard and into the alley behind the house.

Ignoring Wicken's shout and Porter's demand that she stop, she skirted
the edge of a picket fence until she found the gate.  She fumbled with
the closure, forced it open, and ran into the yard of another
brownstone.  Heading straight for the back porch, she took both steps
in a single leap and threw herself against the screen door, pounding on
the frame with the last of her strength.

Harlan caught up to her just as the door was flung open.  She was
pushed into the dark corner of the porch where she doubled over,
catching her breath.

The proprietress of the house stepped outside.  Lisa Antonia Hall's
voice was strident and her tone no-nonsense.  "What's going on out
here?"  she demanded.  She peered into the darkness.  "Harlan?  Is that
you?"

For a moment Porter hovered on the lip of the first step before he
backed down onto the flagstone walk.

"It is you," Mrs. Hall said, disgust rife in her tone.  "I can't say I
like you skulking around my tulip bed."  She glanced over her shoulder
and called to one of the women standing in the kitchen.

"Beth, bring a broom.  We've got vermin."

Harlan held up his hands.  "Now, Mrs. Hall, there's no need for name
calling."

The madam came to the edge of the porch and looked down on Harlan.

"I'm not name calling," she said, hands on her hips.  She smiled
sweetly.  "If I recall my Shakespeare .  . . a rat by any other name.

The sound of choked laughter in the corner of the porch drew Mrs.
Hall's attention.  She looked over the cowering figure of the young
woman and shook her finger at Harlan.

"I suppose you have an explanation?"

"She's part of my stable," he said.

Mrs. Hall snorted, revolted by his comment.  "That's the problem with
you, Harlan, you keep confusing horses and women."

Harlan looked past Mrs. Hall's shoulder to where Beth stood militantly
holding her broom.  "Both of you need to stay out of this.

It's between me and the girl."

"It doesn't seem to me that she wants any part of you," Mrs. Hall
said.  "Is that right, honey?"  Her question received a quick, emphatic
nod.  "That's enough for me, Harlan.  Now get off my property or I'll
send Samuel for the police."

Harlan didn't move as he weighed his choices.  "That's going to take a
while."

"About two minutes," she snapped.  "Our local cop is taking his leisure
upstairs and he's not going to feel kindly toward you for disturbing
his rest."  Her smile hardened as she saw the impact her statement had
on Harlan.  "Remove yourself now."

He took another step backward but it was too tentative for Beth.

She came rushing past Mrs. Hall, broom raised, and went tearing after
Harlan, poking and flailing until he was through the gate and on the
other side of the picket fence.

In short order Mrs. Hall hustled her guest into the house and seated
her at the kitchen table.  Beth came in shortly and put down the broom
and began boiling water for tea.

"What has she got to say for herself?"  Beth asked, reaching for mugs
out of the cupboard.  Her short stature prevented her from getting them
the first time.  She gave a little hop and nudged two mugs toward the
edge of the shelf.  When she turned around she saw the young woman was
smiling weakly at her antics.  Beth's plain, round face was animated by
her own encouraging smile.  "Well, at least you haven't lost your sense
of humor."

Mrs. Hall rubbed her temple with one hand, wondering what she had come
upon this time.  "I believe, Beth, that our guest has lost her voice.

"Really?"  Beth looked at her, her brows raised questioningly.

She touched her throat self-consciously and nodded.

Mrs.  Hall pointed to her neck above the collar of her gown and coat.

"She has bruises."

Beth looked more closely.  "So she does.  I should have used a gun on
him, not a broom."  She sighed.  "I suppose there's no way of knowing
how she got mixed up with the likes of him."

"Not now," Mrs. Hall said dispiritedly.  It seemed her role in
tonight's disturbance would not be ended quickly.  "I can't let her
just leave, not in her condition, and not with Harlan likely to be
lurking around the corner.  I think I better send for Morrison."  She
turned to her guest.  "That's a doctor friend of mine.  I think it
would be best for him to see you.

She protested by shaking her head violently.  The motion made her dizzy
and undermined her purpose.

Mrs. Hall rapped out her orders briskly.  "Beth, tell Samuel I want
him to find Dr. James and bring him here, then finish making the tea
and bring it to the room across from Megan's.  I'll put this young lady
in there and find her some dry clothes.  I don't think a hot bath would
be amiss.  Get Jane to help you make one ready."  Feeling like
something less than the Good Samaritan, she helped her guest to her
feet.

"I think there's some laudanum in the medicine cupboard in my
apartment.  Bring the bottle when you bring the tea."

Beth saluted smartly which brought a glimmer of a smile from the
madam.

Mrs.  Hall linked arms with her patient, supporting her.

"This way, dear heart, we're going to take care of you."

She was given no choice but to follow and was actually very relieved
that decisions were completely taken out of her hands.

She could barely put one foot in front of the other.  Clear thinking
was quite simply beyond her.

Mrs. Hall chatted the entire time she hovered, helping her out of her
damp clothes and into a clean nightshift, turning down the bed, then
brushing out her hair.  She commented on her appearance, the quality of
her clothes, the fine stitching of her gown, and the tailored cut of
her coat.  She remarked on the oddity of her being in the company of
Harlan Porter.  She called him a procurer of young women in deference
to what she thought were her guest's finer sensibilities; then
chastised her roundly for being where she had no business being in the
first place.

There was neither denial nor confirmation of any of Mrs. Hall's
suspicions, leaving the madam to wonder if she had correctly surmised
anything about her guest.  When Mrs. Hall held up the laudanum to be
taken it was accepted without demur.  Lassitude was like a comfortably
warm blanket and it was accepted, even reveled in.

She understood the nature of Mrs. Hall's business, understood the
position of Mrs.  Hall within the house, but none of it mattered.

The coddling was reassuring.  It was only a matter of time before she
would be strong enough to go home.  She would rest for a few hours and
then leave, and think of a way to reward Mrs.  Hall for her kindness.

It was her last thought before she drifted off to sleep.

Mrs. Hall ordered Beth and Jane to leave the bath they had drawn.  She
tucked the covers around her patient and tiptoed out of the room.  As
an afterthought she returned long enough to remove all the liquor from
the sideboard cabinet, then went to see to her other guests while she
waited for Morrison.

* * * She woke suddenly, frightened and disoriented.  The single lamp
on the bedside table didn't afford much light.  She squinted at the
clock on the mantel and made it out to be just past midnight.  Her
heartbeat slowed as she recalled the events of the evening and
recognized the strange surroundings as a safe haven.  She pulled the
comforter around her shoulders and snuggled more deeply into the soft
mattress.

The door handle turned.  She sat up suddenly and stared at the imposing
figure silhouetted in the doorway.  Her immediate thought was to run as
he stepped inside, then she saw him drop a leather bag on the table
just inside the door and her breathing came easier.

The doctor!  It was all she could do not to laugh hysterically with
relief.

She watched him look around the room and finally walk over to the
dressing screen.  He moved a panel aside and dipped his finger in the
bath Beth and Jane had prepared.  As soon as he turned his attention
toward her she looked away.

"I've interrupted your bath," he said.

She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, that the sleep had done her as
well, but the aching tightness in her throat was still there.

She shrugged instead.  The wide strap of her nightshift slipped over
her shoulder and she hurriedly put it back in place.  To her
embarrassment it fell again.  This time she let it go.  Feeling
unaccountably shy in front of the physician, she lowered her head so
her hair fell forward, shielding her.

"Your display of modesty is duly noted," he said.  "Affecting, but
quite unnecessary."

She wanted to crawl under the covers at his dry, cynical observation.

He must be aware of his own good looks, she thought, and probably just
as aware of his female patients assuming, or hoping, his interest in
them might be personal, not professional.  She vowed to do better.

"Don't let me stop you," he said, pointing to the bath.  "I have
time.

In spite of her vow, she hesitated.  If he had been on the wrong side
of fifty with kind eyes and a gentle smile, she knew her response would
have been different.  It would have helped if he had a slight paunch or
spindle legs.  He had none of those things.

The man who had walked into her room was straight and tall,
slender-hipped with a way of moving that reminded her of a sleek black
cat staking out its territory.  His eyes were very nearly black,
reserved and watchful as they took in everything about his
surroundings.  Though it seemed he had paid her scant attention, she
felt as if it were otherwise.

He was still in his evening clothes which supported her first
impression that anger was simmering just below the surface of his bored
and weary look.  There was a tightness to his mouth that did not invite
a smile and the hollows just beneath his cheekbones were pronounced.

Obviously, she thought, he had been called away from some social
function to tend her and was taking little trouble to hide how he felt
about the inconvenience.

There was nothing about this man that made her comfortable.

"Go on," he said more firmly, indicating the bath.  "It won't do you
any harm and it may even relax you."

He was the doctor.  She crawled across the bed while he sat down in the
wing chair on the opposite side of the room.  Apparently she wasn't
moving quickly enough for his purposes because he added in a weary
tone, "I'm not going to join you."  She moved so quickly then that she
bumped the dressing screen as she slipped behind it.

She was miserably disappointed in herself.  It was not like her to be
skittish.  She blamed it on the laudanum that Mrs. Hall had given her,
the lateness of the hour, and the doctor's less-than-encouraging
bedside manner.  She got rid of her nightshift and found pins in a
drawer in the wardrobe.  Once she pinned her hair so it wouldn't get
wet, she eased herself into the tub.  She had just closed her eyes,
enjoying the warmth, when she heard him call to her.

"I was told you wouldn't talk much," he said, "but I didn't expect
complete silence."

She swallowed and tried to say something, but nothing came out.

"Suits me."

She thought it was an odd thing for him to say.  She hoped he had
something in that black bag of his that would give her back her
voice.

She had a few things she wanted to tell him about how he dealt with his
patients.  She slipped lower in the tub and let the mist touch her face
and throat.  She remained that way for several minutes, liking the
experience too much to rush it.

"Fetching," he drawled.

She was so astonished by his intrusion that she sank even lower.

He was holding a towel above her, an indication, she supposed, that it
was time to get out.

"There's no reason to act like a shy maiden in front of me," he said.

"This is professional, not personal."  He paused, watching her
closely.

"Isn't it?"

She blinked, returned his stare, then nodded shortly.  She was
thoroughly humiliated that he may have sensed some personal interest on
her part.  It was probably the very reason he affected such
remoteness.

Caught in her thoughts, she barely managed to catch the towel when he
dropped it.

"Red," he said.

She couldn't imagine that she had heard him correctly.

"Hmmm?"  Grimacing, she touched her throat lightly with her
fingertips.

She forced herself to speak no matter the pain.

"Pardon?"

"Your hair's red.  There's not much light in here.  I wasn't sure.

He paused.  "May I?"

She looked at his raised hand, the fingertips just inches from her ear,
and nodded.  His hand brushed her cheek and she knew he must be getting
a sense of her temperature.  He did not miss the bruises on her neck
either.  He touched one of them lightly and said, "You've been treated
roughly this evening."

She nodded, wondering how much Mrs.  Hall had been able to tell him.

"Good thing I'm here then.  We'll see what we can do about that.

You're warm.  Out of the bath now."

She was happy to see that he stood and turned away.  She got out of the
tub quickly, dried off and put on the nightshift.  When she came around
the screen she noted he had removed his vest and tossed it next to his
evening jacket.  He was looking at her bare feet.

"You'd better get back in bed.  Even on the rug, the floor's cold.

Do you want me to light a fire?"

She did, but she didn't want to put him to the trouble.  He seemed to
sense that because he laughed softly as she crawled back into bed and
pulled the comforter around her shoulders.

"Just the same," he said.  "I think I'll do it."

She watched him work silently and efficiently.  When he was done his
hands were gray with ash.  He went to the porcelain basin and washed
them.

"It wouldn't do to leave fingerprints, would it?"

Her smile was tentative.  She appreciated his small attempt at humor to
set her at ease.

"I think you could use a drink."

She felt her smile fading, her lips parting in surprise.

"Medicinal purposes only."

She relaxed.  She knew a number of physicians who swore by the efficacy
of warm whiskey and lemon for a sore throat, though it was not
something she had ever tried.  She saw him look around, then shrug.

"Good thing I've come prepared."  He crossed the room to where he had
placed his black bag and retrieved a quarter-full bottle of Scotch.  He
turned, showing her the bottle.  "Glasses?"

She had no idea where they might be.  She shook her head.

"Then you'll have to tipple it right out of the bottle."  He brought
the bottle to the bed, sat down on the edge, and handed it to her.

"It will make you feel better, I promise."

It wasn't warm, it didn't have lemon in it, but she trusted him
nonetheless.  She uncapped the bottle and raised it slowly to her
lips.

He gave it a nudge and she took a large swallow.  He urged her again,
this time challenging her with an amused look.

"That's better," he said, grinning when she made a face.

"Obviously you have no appreciation for good Scotch."

The liquor eased the tightness in her throat.  "I don't drink much."

That was very close to the truth.  A glass of sherry made her woozy.

Two glasses and she could barely recall drinking the first.  Since she
prided herself on having control she had never tested what damage could
be done at three glasses.

"I don't either much."

Without much prompting, she took another swallow.  Perhaps Scotch had a
different effect than sherry.  At least it didn't taste nearly so bad
this time.

"It seems to agree with you rather quickly," he said, taking the bottle
from her.  He touched her cheek again with the back of his fingers.

"But then that's what it's supposed to do.  You're not so flushed."

His hand slipped over her face.  His knuckle touched her lips.  "Show
me your tongue."

She opened her mouth wide and stuck out her tongue.

"Aaaaahhh."  She was surprised when he laughed.

"That wasn't quite what I had in mind but it's a very pretty tongue.

Very pink.  Nice teeth, too.  And you've kept your tonsils."  He nudged
her jaw.  "You can close now.  I've seen quite enough.

Another drink is definitely in order."

Expecting him to pass her the bottle, she gave a little start when he
took a long pull on it himself.

He handed it to her and let her finish.  "For someone who doesn't drink
much, you've developed quite a taste for it."

She offered him a crooked, somewhat sleepy smile.  "I think I like good
Scotch," she said.  She certainly would never scoff at its value for
easing a sore throat.  "As medicine, of course."

"Of course," he agreed dryly.  He put the bottle over the side of the
bed and made himself more comfortable.  He leaned back against the
walnut headboard and stuffed a loose pillow behind the small of his
back.  "Much better."

A little wary of his efforts to stretch out beside her, she moved to
the far side of the bed.  Her action did not go unnoticed and brought
his derision.  ]

"There was no need for you to move.  I'm not going to attack you, but I
can hardly reach you if you remain over there."

There was sense in what he was saying, she reminded herself.  He had
already helped ease some of her pain.  He could hardly conduct an
examination if he couldn't touch her.  She scooted toward him.

He fluffed a pillow and put it behind her.  Her knees bumped his and
the strap of her nightshift slid over her left shoulder again.  She
tried to push it up but her movements were awkward.  The liquor and
laudanum were having an effect on more than just her throat.

"We're a fine pair," he said.

She frowned, looking at him oddly, not understanding.

He leaned his head back, exposing the strong line of his throat, and
closed his eyes.  "I can't remember when I've had a longer day," he
said, sighing.

Looking at the gilded clock on the mantel, she saw it was past
midnight.  "New day."

"I suppose it is.  And it's starting just the same way.  God, I'm
tired."

She had a tender heart and it went out to him.  "Rest," she said
softly.

"It's a nice offer, but not the reason I came here.  I should see to
you.  You've obviously been waiting."

"I didn't mind."  It was an effort to talk, but not precisely for the
same reasons it had been earlier.  Even to her own ears her words
sounded slurred.  "Mrs.  Hall made me comfortable."

"This isn't much," he said.

She was as aware of the spartan conditions of the room as he, yet she
said with quiet conviction, "My experience says it's better than the
streets."

He opened his eyes and looked at her now.  "I suppose it is."

She held his gaze for a long time before breaking away.  Her own
forthrightness embarrassed her.

"You're flushed again."

She realized that she was, though not for the reasons he thought, at
least she hoped he would assume it was because of her illness.

She let him take the pulse in her throat.

"Your heart's racing."

She nodded.

"Why don't you drop that cover and let me have a look."

She called herself all manner of fool for hesitating when he was being
nothing but matter-of-fact.  She felt him nudge the blanket with the
heel of his hand.  She was being so stupid, she thought.

"How am I supposed to examine you if I can't see you?"

Of course he was right, yet she couldn't seem to move.  Those dark eyes
of his were searching hers.

He added, "You have some expectations, I assume."

She was no longer certain what she expected from him.  "Not many."  As
if to prove her point he gave a shout of laughter.

"Oh, you have been treated poorly!  That doesn't speak well for men
like myself."

She supposed he was referring to physicians in general but she didn't
ask for clarification.  He was pushing aside the comforter.

His fingers slid along the neckline of her shift and rested lightly on
the uppermost button.  She put a hand over his and shook her head.

"I'll do it."  It was easier to talk now but the husky quality of her
voice had not improved.  Again she hoped it was not mistaken for
anything but a symptom of her illness.

"You're not a chatterbox."

His observation was one that had been made before.  It was her
experience that it bothered most people.  "No," she said quietly.

"I'm not."  She finished undoing the top button.

"Another," he said.

She glanced at him, not understanding.

He pointed to her hand.  "Another button, please."

She undid it with fingers made clumsy by the liquor and laudanum.

She stared down at his hand as it hovered near her heart.

"That flush of yours starts about here," he said.  His fingertips
touched her skin just above her heartbeat.  "There's nothing wrong with
your heart."  He opened another button of her gown.  "Come closer," he
said.  When she didn't move immediately his hands slipped around her
rib cage to urge her nearer.  He laid one hand on her back near her
shoulder blade.

His confident, impersonal touch relieved her but her heart was
hammering and her head was muzzy.

"Take a deep breath," he said.  "That's it.  Hold it."  His hand rubbed
her back.  "Let it out slowly."

She did.  Her heart steadied and her breathing slowed.

"Better," he said.  "There for a moment I thought you might faint."

"So did I," she said with grave honesty.  "I'm a little dizzy."

He released her.  "Why don't you lie down?"

It was his best suggestion, she thought.  "All right."  She stretched
out on her side, bringing the pillow under her head.

"I don't have much success with patients," he said, touching her cheek
again.

She wondered at his admission until she remembered his comment on the
kind of day it had been.  Perhaps he was not so arrogant after all;
perhaps he had been humbled by an earlier failure.  She felt as if
their positions were suddenly reversed and she was being called upon to
be the healer.  Her smile was gentle.  "I think you're doing fine," she
said.

He blinked, his eyes darkening.  "Why, thank you," he said.  "It's good
of you to encourage me."

Her smile deepened as her eyelashes lowered sleepily.  It was her most
heartfelt desire to be part of his profession.  She decided to tell
him.  "I hope to do so one fine day."

"So you admit you have something to learn?"

She nodded emphatically.  How could he think otherwise?  She yawned
widely and stretched, slipping one arm under the pillow as she turned
on her side.

"So you're willing to learn a thing or two from me?"

"I'd like that very much."  And she meant it.  His manner not
withstanding, she was impressed with his dedication.  He may not have
appreciated the interruption of his social evening, but he had come
nonetheless.

"You're something of a surprise," he said.  "Not what I expected when I
walked in here this evening."

It seemed everyone, except Harlan Porter perhaps, realized she didn't
belong in a brothel.  Too tired to think why that might be, or if it
were a good or bad thing, she snuggled deeper into the pillow.

"Hmmm."

"Are you going to fall asleep?"

She shook her head slowly, feeling the frayed edges of sleep curl
around her thoughts.  She felt him move off the bed.  She slept.

* * * The heat of his body woke her.  She was astonished to discover
she was touching him everywhere .  . . then more astonished that she
wasn't drawing back.  He was pressed against her, his hands in her
hair, his mouth at the curve of her ear.  His breath was hot and
sweet.

He was whispering and the vibration of it against her skin sent a
shiver down her spine.  Delicious sensation rocked her body.  Her hands
slid over his rib cage.  Her hair spilled over her shoulders and across
his chest, anchoring her against him.  She laid her head in the curve
of his shoulder.  Her mouth brushed his skin.

His warmth enveloped her.  She snuggled against him, liking the
strength and heat of him.  His fingers brushed the soft underside of
her elbow.  It was the most natural thing in the world to press a smile
against his skin.  She felt his nipple harden as her mouth grazed
him.

Her breasts swelled and she drew a shaky breath.  He drew out
unfamiliar responses when he touched her, whereever he touched her.

At first it wasn't enough, then it was too much.  Almost, she amended
as she curled against him, almost too much.

He was moving against her, groaning.  His hands slid between their
bodies and over hers.

She wondered how to touch him, then he showed her, moving her hand for
her, moving it over him.  Her legs tangled with his as he twisted and
rolled her onto her back.  His knee separated her thighs.

She whimpered, partly in wanting, partly in surprise.  He covered her
mouth with his.  It was hard and hungry across hers.  She could feel
the edge of his tongue.  She moved restlessly, pushing, arching, but
the weight of him secured her.  His chest was a wall against her tender
breasts.  His legs were pressed against the length of hers.

For a moment she was frightened by what she felt and what he was making
her feel.  She meant to grab his hair but her fingers curled in the
dark strands at his nape.  She tried to scratch him and caught the
outer edge of his ear instead.  When he reared back she smiled
uncertainly.

His gaze darkened and he lowered his head.  Mesmerized by those eyes,
it was only then that she arched, turning her head at the exact moment
his mouth would have fused with hers.  His lips scraped her cheek, her
jaw line, then finally the curve of her neck.  She pushed at his back,
pressing the heels of her hands against the bunched muscles as he moved
over her.  I

He whispered in her ear.  She heard the words and barely comprehended
their meaning.  His hands were massaging her, teasing her with
sensation that flitted over her skin.  She couldn't think.

His mouth was on hers, his tongue circling hers, pushing, probing,
doing all things that his hips were doing at the cradle of her
thighs.

Suddenly he pulled away from her.  The loss of him took her breath,
made her shake.  She reached out to steady herself and he smiled as if
he understood her need.  He brushed aside her hand as he knelt between
her thighs.  He pushed back her raised knees and raised her buttocks
and plunged into her.

She cried out.  The pain was unexpected.  Before she could catch her
breath he withdrew and thrust again.  This time she grasped his
forearms and held on.  She arched and felt him deep inside her.

Pleasure stirred again at the urging of his body.  She was filled by
him and a certain empty aching was gone.

She accepted the force of his thrusts, the rhythm of the joining.

Her head moved from side to side and no sound emerged from her parted
lips.  He left her nothing to do but feel.  As the sweep of sensation
demanded her surrender, her struggle ceased.  His breathing was
harsh.

She could only take in air in small sips.

She felt his taut muscles as need drove him into her again and again.

Her pleasure shattered as he cried out.

He collapsed against her and slept almost immediately.  In spite of her
desire to do otherwise, she followed him, nesting in the curve of his
body.

There was no pain the second time.

It was much later that she eased out of bed, wobbly on her feet at
first.  She steadied herself by holding onto the post at the end of the
bed, studiously avoiding looking at the bed itself or the man lying
across it.  When she could trust herself to move without stumbling she
went to the dressing screen.  The water in the bath was cool but she
used it to tend to the ache between her thighs.  She went through the
motions, unable to think clearly about what she was doing or why she
was doing it.  Her movements were clumsy and awkward and that fact
registered with more clarity than any other.

She found her clothes in the wardrobe.  Stripping out of her shift, she
tossed it over the screen and dressed slowly, making certain she did
nothing to attract any unwanted attention from the bed.  When she was
finished she sat at the vanity and brushed out her hair.

Her strokes were deliberate, long, and almost punishing.  She did not
watch herself in the mirror.  Instead her eyes were fixed on the
nightshift she had worn and the stain of blood near its hem.

It had ridden up near her thighs when he.

She blinked and pulled herself back to the present.  Moving by rote,
with barely any conscious thought of her intent, she picked up the
nightshift and rolled it into a ball.  She wanted no trace of herself
left in the room.  Once she was gone it would be as if nothing had
happened.  Nothing.

She did not want to carry the nightgown where anyone could see it.  She
slipped on her coat and tried hiding it there.  It was too lumpy.

That was when her eyes alighted on the black leather bag just inside
the door.  Hesitating only a moment she picked it up, opened it a
crack, and stuffed her nightshift inside.

She glanced around the room to make certain she hadn't forgotten
anything.  Odd, she thought, how that expression came to mind when what
she wanted to do was forget everything.

She opened the door carefully and listened for sounds in the hallway.

It was quiet abovestairs.  Music drifted up from below.

Without a backward glance she stepped into the hall and headed for the
back stairs.  Her flight was uneventful.  No one met her on the
stairs.

The kitchen was empty.

She paused again at the back door.  Thoughts of what she might face
outside were as frightening as what she would face upstairs.

Her hand trembled on the handle.  She gripped it tightly.

Sucking in her breath, she twisted the handle and pushed open the
door.

Then she ran, knowing everything about who she was and what she wanted
to be depended upon never looking back.

A hansom cab took her the entire way up Broadway to 48th Street.

Even at night the thoroughfare was busy.  Peddlers were setting out
their wares for the early-morning crowd and the last of the late-night
revelers.  Milk wagons were making deliveries to the boardinghouses
while restaurants were ejecting their most stubborn customers.  Not
interested in the noise or the activity, she curled in one corner of
the cab, her head turned away from the window.  She paid the driver
quickly, her head bowed so she would not be recognized, and walked the
last two blocks alone once the cab was out of sight.

The house at the intersection of Broadway and 50th Street was only
slightly smaller than the palatial French country home on which it was
modeled.  Rose bushes edged the foundation of smooth gray stone and
morning glories climbed a trellis on the southern side.

She entered the yard at the front, pushing aside the iron rail gate,
then went around back to the delivery entrance.  There was a key above
the door jamb.  She stood on tiptoe to get it.

The house was quiet.  It surprised her.  She had expected that someone
would be waiting up for her but apparently no one had lost any sleep
worrying.  That could only mean her sister had fabricated a story that
credibly explained her absence.

She took off her shoes and carried them.  It wasn't necessary to light
a lamp, she knew the way to her room in the dark.  She slipped inside
her bedchamber and put down the shoes and the black leather bag.  She
started a fire in the grate and stripped off her clothes and threw them
on the fire, stoking it so it wouldn't be smothered by the material.

She added the nightshift, then shoved the doctor's bag under her bed.

After scrubbing at the basin she crawled into her bed.

It was astonishingly easy to fall asleep.

A rough hand on her shoulder nudged her awake.  At the windows the
curtains had been pulled back and morning spilled into the room.  Even
with her eyes closed she could feel the press of light and heat from
the sunshine.  She opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring
into the strained and worried face of her younger sister.

"Do you have any idea how frightened I've been since you disappeared?" 
she demanded in a harsh whisper.  "What time did you get in?  I was in
and out of the house most of the night looking for you!

And it was no easy feat with Mother and Jay Mac playing cards in the
parlor until midnight.  I know it wasn't fair of me to leave with
Daniel but it was a poorer trick you played me."  She frowned, tears
gathering in her eyes.  "It was a trick, wasn't it?  Oh, Maggie, I'm so
sorry, but I've got to know that you're all right.  Please tell me
where you've been all this time."

Mary Margaret Dennehy blinked once.  She sat up slowly and felt her
sister's hand drop away.  "Do you know, Skye," she said carefully.

"I haven't the faintest idea."  chapter 3

Six weeks later The door opened softly.  Connor didn't look up because
he knew who it was and because it would irritate his uninvited and
unwanted guest; he continued to fiddle with his cufflink.  "What is it,
Beryl?"  he asked indifferently.

She had hardly made a sound.  She closed the door behind her and leaned
against it, watching him deliberately ignore her.  It annoyed her but
it also gave her an opportunity to simply stare at him.

Knowing it would irritate him in turn, Beryl took her fill.  "Is it my
perfume?"  she asked quietly.

Connor turned suddenly.  He caught her off guard.  Beryl's pale blue
eyes, a startling contrast to the dark chestnut color of her hair, were
fastened on the breadth of his shoulders.  Since she had recommended
the tailor, she was probably congratulating herself on the fit of his
evening coat, he thought cynically.  Making no effort to conceal his
impatience he asked, "Is what your perfume?"

"The reason you noticed me before I said anything."

Beryl Walker Holiday was easily the most beautiful woman he had ever
known.  "It was any number of things," he said.  "Your step in the
hallway.  That breathy little sigh.  The rustle of your gown.

And your perfume.  Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Her smile transformed a beautiful face into a radiant one.  She pushed
away from the door and took a step into the room.

Connor went on.  "Men always notice you before you say anything," he
told her.  "It's when you open your mouth that they turn away."

Suiting his actions to his words, Connor turned and began adjusting the
gold stud on his left sleeve.

Beryl rocked slightly on her heels as if feeling the blow physically.

"I think you take a certain amount of delight in being cruel to me,"
she said.  "Have I hurt you so badly that you must punish me at every
turn?"

"Save it, Beryl.  I've heard this speech before."

She was thoughtful, touching the tip of her index finger to her lips.

She could not make him look at her so the calculated innocence of the
gesture was wasted.  Beryl dropped her hand to her side.

Changing tactics, she said, "You're looking quite handsome this
evening.

The cut of that jacket suits you."

He gave no indication that he had even heard her.

Beryl approached him, walking behind Connor to critically assess the
man while pretending interest in his evening wear.  "You should always
dress that way," she said.  "It becomes you."  He was quite
magnificent, she thought, with his lean strength contained in tailored
trappings.  True, his dark hair brushed his collar unfashionably and
the fingers that fiddled with the cufflinks were calloused, but Beryl
found even these things appealing.  The idea that Connor's restless
energy could be leashed in a black swallowtail coat and trousers was an
intriguing one.  The idea of unleashing that energy was exciting,
almost as exciting as the prospect of being caught in it.  When Beryl
looked past Connor's shoulder into her reflection in the mirror she saw
her eyes had darkened.

Connor caught the sultry cast of Beryl's glance and his own eyes
narrowed.  Barely able to conceal his impatience, he asked, "Was there
something specific you wanted or have you only come to gloat?"

She patted his shoulder lightly and stepped the rest of the way around
him.  Although she pretended not to understand, one corner of her mouth
rose in a sly, knowing smile.  "Gloat?  Aren't you being absurd?  Why
would I be gloating?"

He shrugged away from her touch and straightened the tails of his
jacket.  "Enough, Beryl.  I'm not answering your questions.  If you
have something to say, say it."

Her smile faded.  Her hand dropped slowly to her side.  "All right,
then," she said.  "I find it quite interesting that you've decided to
put yourself up for sale."  Her eyes followed him in the mirror as he
left her side.  She watched him go to the wardrobe and root through one
of the drawers until he came away with a silver flask.  He unscrewed
the cap and raised it to his lips.  "You may want to go easy with
that," she said.  "You're not at your best when you've been
drinking."

Ignoring her, Connor took a long swallow.  He capped the flask and
slipped it inside his vest pocket.

Beryl's taffeta gown rustled and the iridescent shades of purple
shimmered as she moved toward him.  She put one hand on his forearm in
an imploring gesture, but there was no hiding the edge of anger in her
tone.  "You're being ridiculous, Connor.  You don't seriously mean to
go through with this.  That land can't be so damned important that
you'd sell yourself for it."

"I think I'm proving that it is," he said quietly.  He removed her hand
from his forearm.

"But so cheaply?"

His short laugh held no humor.  "We all have our price, Beryl.

Just because you held out for more .  . ."  He shrugged.

She slapped him hard.

Connor didn't retaliate.  He pinned her with his stare, letting the
heat and color of the imprint fade from his cheek before he spoke.

"I trust you have that out of your system," he said calmly.  "The next
time you even think about hitting me I'll lay you out."

Beryl had held her ground.  At his icy, controlled words she took a
step backward.  "You good as called me a whore," she said.

"So?"

Beryl's beautiful features contorted with fury.  "You bastard!"

Knowing that his calm was all the more infuriating to her, one of
Connor's dark brows kicked up.  "Bastard?  I don't think so.  God
knows, though, had I been one I probably wouldn't have these
problems.

That land would have been mine free and clear when my mother died,
instead of ending up in my father's hands."

"If she had wanted you to have it she should have made a will," Beryl
snapped.  "Perhaps she meant for Rushton to have it.  It forced you
back to New York, didn't it?  It forced you to acknowledge that you
have a father.  Perhaps Edie knew exactly what she was doing all
along."

The fact that Beryl could be right did nothing for Connor's
temperament.  He had dwelled on the same idea himself, but it was
another thing entirely to hear it from her.  He had never thought of
himself as unreasonable yet he was being forced to reconsider that
opinion.  "Leave it alone, Beryl.  My mother's wishes had nothing
whatsoever to do with you."

The strain of anger dissolved in Beryl's features.  High color receded
from her complexion, leaving it milk-white and smooth.  Her full mouth
settled in serene composition.  The pale blue of her eyes was
emphasized by the dark centers and the glistening wash of unshed
tears.

"Do you really hate me so much, Connor, that you can't even contemplate
that I might be right?  Is it so intolerable to give me my due?"

Yes, he thought, it was intolerable.  He said nothing and turned
away.

Did he hate her?  he wondered.  Or did he hate himself?  It wasn't easy
to admit that, against all reason, he could still find himself
attracted to her.  That was the power she held over him, that in spite
of everything he could not quite manage to feel the indifference he
feigned.  To feel nothing at all would be liberating; hatred bound
him.

It didn't matter that it was unfair.  He resented her all the more for
that.  He found some small comfort in the fact that he didn't love her,
had probably never loved her.  That would have been unendurable.

"We should be going," he said.  "That is, if you're still planning to
accompany Father and me.  I assure you it isn't necessary."

"I'm well aware of that, but the invitation included me."  She walked
to the full-length mirror again and smoothed the crown of her deep
chestnut hair.  She curled a tendril at her ear with her index
finger.

"And I'm insatiably curious," she said.  "I want to meet the man who
thinks he can buy you for his daughter."  Her smile was wickedly
beautiful.  "And I want to meet the daughter."

A muscle worked in Connor's jaw.  He had to force himself to relax.

"Don't ruin this for me, Beryl."

"What if she turns out to be mud-fence ugly?  Or worse, a shrew?

What do you really know about that family except that scandal touches
almost everything they do.  I've heard stories since I came to New
York.  John MacKenzie Worth's money quiets rumor but doesn't silence
it.  Have you thought of that, Connor?"

"Shut up, Beryl," he said with menace.

"Are ten thousand acres of Colorado so damned critical that you have to
marry a bastard to keep it?"

Connor let a moment tick by.  Into the expectant silence he said
quietly, "I'd still marry you if I thought it would help me keep that
land, and God knows how much I despise you.  So you see, Beryl, it
doesn't matter who or what she is or isn't.  My mind's made up."

He started walking toward the door.

"You must regret losing that twelve thousand dollars," she said as he
opened the door to leave.

He glanced at her over his shoulder.  "You can't imagine how much."

Connor had no time to dwell on the stolen money and opportunities
lost.

He met his father in the hallway.

"Have you seen Beryl?"  Rushton Holiday asked.

People often remarked on the striking resemblance between father and
son.  Separated by only twenty years, they had finally reached that age
where it was not unreasonable or surprising for strangers to mistake
them for brothers.  It could have been a flattering observation to both
men but neither Connor nor Rushton saw it that way.  Of course, there
were the obvious similarities that they could accept:

thick, ink-black hair that was only just graying at the temples in
Rushton; shoulders that were set at an equal breadth; height that
favored Connor by a mere half-inch; and a jaw line squared off
aggressively.  It ended there.  Connor thought his father had a cold,
intolerant manner.  Rushton saw cynicism in his son's expression.

The patrician features of the father appeared aloof to the son, and the
same handsomely molded lines on the face of the son appeared arrogant
to the father.  Their dark eyes were mirrors, yielding little of any
thought or emotion they did not intend to be known.

They were so much alike they could barely be civil.

"She's in my bedchamber," Connor said.  "I just left her."

Rushton searched his son's face with a hard, penetrating stare.

"She has no business being in your room."

"Have this conversation with Beryl, Father.  I didn't invite her in.

My conscience is clear."

"Damn you, Connor," he said under his breath.  "I want you to stay away
from her."

"That's awkward, don't you think?  We're both living under your roof.

Granted, it's an enormous roof, but there are limits to what I can
do."

He looked at his father expectantly, a half-smile playing on his mouth,
his eyebrows raised slightly.

Rushton sucked in his breath.  It was Edie staring back at him.

The impression came and went with startling speed and equal clarity and
then Rushton was left staring into a face that was a younger reflection
of his own.  In spite of the resemblance Rushton thought of Connor as
Edie's son, not his own.  "I'll get Beryl," he said tightly.

"And then we'll leave.  Hickes is out front with the carriage."

Connor wondered what had given his father that briefly haunted
expression.  "Very well," he said.  "I'll be waiting."

The atmosphere inside the carriage was tense.  Connor had one of the
upholstered bench seats to himself while Rushton and Beryl sat opposite
him.  Gaslight from the street filtered in the window at regular
intervals as the carriage skirted the edge of Central Park.

Rushton's countenance was brooding, Connor's resigned, and Beryl's
anxious.

She drew her cape more securely about her shoulders, warding off the
chill seeping under the door and under her skin.  "Rushton, can't you
talk some sense into him?"

It was Connor who responded.  "Be serious, Beryl.  It was his idea.

Anyway, do you think I would be in this position if he didn't need the
money?  You should be delighted I'm willing to do this.  Money in his
coffers means money in yours, or hadn't you thought that far ahead?"

"But your father can have the money by selling the land."

"Save your breath, Beryl," Rushton said.  "Connor knows that.  It's
only because he is stubbornly insisting on buying the land that there's
a problem."

Connor couldn't help himself.  "It's my home," he shouted.  The echo of
his words seemed to slam against the walls of the carriage.

Beryl recoiled in response.  Rushton's mouth thinned and his jaw
tightened.  Swearing under his breath, Connor drew back the
communicating panel and rapped out an order for Hickes.  The carriage
stopped almost immediately and Connor opened the door.  "I'll walk the
rest of the way."

Beryl leaned forward to try to stop him but Rushton put out his arm,
blocking her.  "Leave him," he said.

"But we'll arrive before he does.  What will we say?"

"We'll circle the block until he gets there."

Unhappy but mollified, Beryl leaned back in her seat as the carriage
began to roll again.  "Must you sell the land, Rush?"

"Yes.  The fall in the market makes it absolutely necessary.  No matter
what Connor thinks, I'm not doing this to spite him."  He looked
sideways at Beryl.  "And I'm not doing it to satisfy your social
aspirations or to keep you in a style to which you've only recently
become accustomed."

Beryl's arm looped inside Rushton's and she snuggled closer to him.

"Do you think I care a fig for social aspirations or indecent
wealth?"

Rushton looked down at her upturned face.  A banner of light briefly
illuminated her pained expression as she made no attempt to hide her
hurt.  He patted her arm gently, his smile and tone only faintly
mocking.  "I think you care very much, my dear, else why would you have
married the father when you could have had the son?"

The brisk pace that Connor set only partially curbed his anger.  He
wanted to hit something or, better yet, someone.  He had never been one
to spoil for a fight but tonight he found himself hoping there would be
one.  He didn't even care if he was the one laid out on the sidewalk as
long as he got a few licks in first.

Perhaps it was the aura of anger that kept others at bay, but no fellow
pedestrians along Seventh Avenue or Broadway came within three feet of
him.  A stray dog followed briefly but stayed well outside of kicking
range.  A trio of children mimicked his glowering expression as he
passed them but thought twice about asking him for money.  Connor
noticed none of it.

In his mind's eye he was seeing the fine-boned and fragile features of
a scheming harlot, the red hair of a temptress, and the wide, clear,
green eyes of jade.  She was the one he wanted to meet, the one he
wanted to hurt.  With the money she had stolen he had intended to buy
the Colorado ranch from his father.  Never again would he have had to
worry that the land could be taken away.  His father was selling his
heritage out from under him and Connor, as hurt and frustrated as he
was by this further evidence of betrayal, still reserved the largest
fraction of his anger for the whore who had beguiled him rather than
the father who had birthed him.

Connor halted in front of the spiked iron gate at the corner of
Broadway and 50th.  He leaned against the rails, catching his breath
and clearing his head.  Behind him the mansion beckoned invitingly with
lighted lamps in each of the front windows.  On the upper story a drape
that had been drawn back was abruptly dropped in place.

His attention on the approaching carriage, Connor didn't sense he had
been observed.  He straightened, ran his fingers through his hair in an
absent, nervous gesture, and waited for his father and Beryl to
alight.

By the time he reached the front door of the palatial gray stone house
his breathing had calmed and his uncertainty was hidden behind the cool
and distant reflection of his darkly mirrored eyes.

From inside the receiving parlor John MacKenzie Worth heard the
housekeeper open the front door and greet his guests.  His normally
impassive features were anything but as he alternately stared at his
wife and youngest daughter.  His mouth gaped in his broad face and his
dark blond hair seemed to grow a little grayer as his authority was
called into question.  "What do you mean she's not joining us for
dinner?"  he demanded.  "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

Moira Dennehy Worth merely shook her head, a genuine smile on her
sweetly bowed mouth.  "I suspect, dearest, it's because we knew you'd
take it badly.  And you are, so there you have it."

Jay Mac speared his daughter with a glance that had been known to make
a business colleague's brow bead with sweat.  Mary Schyler was not only
not cowed, she stared back and gave as good as she got.

"That's your story, I suppose," he said, at once admiring and
aggravated.

Skye nodded, dimpling as she gave her father a placating smile.

"The very same," she said.  "Did you really think Maggie wouldn't see
through your machinations?"

He frowned and straightened the stems of his spectacles.

"Your sister rarely sees past the pages of a book, how was I to know
she'd ... wait a minute here, ....... what machinations are you
referring to?  Moira?  What is your daughter talking about?"

"I think it's too late to play the innocent, darling," Moira said.  She
glanced in the mirror above the mantelpiece and smoothed her dark red
hair.  "Our guests will be upon us any moment."  She stopped fiddling
with her hair and came to stand in front of Jay Mac.  She smoothed the
shoulders of his evening jacket while her loving expression revealed
how much she adored him.  "Over dinner I hope you will refrain from
referring to Skye only as my daughter or Mary Margaret as her sister.

You have a terrible habit of disclaiming fatherhood when you're
aggrieved."

Skye giggled.  "Poor Jay Mac.  He's been so poorly abused by his five
daughters that it's a wonder he claimed us at all."

Jay Mac shot Skye another withering glance but he spoke to Moira.  "Do
you see what I have to put up with in return?

I'm only called Papa or Father when it suits them.  I'd like to know
which one of them started calling me Jay Mac and why you allowed it all
these years.

Moira's eyes were dancing as the parlor door was opened.

"I'm A certain it was Mary," she said in a low voice.

"I'm not amused," he replied sternly.  As the father of five girls, now
women, all with the first name of Mary, it was not a very satisfactory
answer.  He supposed he deserved it, though.

Even he could admit that he was being a trifle pompous and
overbearing.

There had been so many years that he had only been able to claim his
daughters with his heart and not his name that it wasn't entirely
surprising that one of them had hit upon calling him Jay Mac and it had
stuck.  To all the world he was Jay Mac Worth, he thought, so why
should it be different in his own home?

A casual acquaintance might mistake the unusual familiarity and
strong-willed conflicts between Jay Mac and his daughters as showing a
lack of respect, but no observation could have been farther from the
mark.  Nor did Jay Mac always deal good-humoredly with his five Marys,
though there had been demonstration recently of a lightertouch.  John
MacKenzie Worth could be scheming, ruthless, and tyrannical when it
came to business, and securing the futures of his daughters was his
most important business.

Tonight was no exception as he set his sights on Mary Margaret's
happiness.

Moira moved from Jay Mac's side to greet her guests.  Introductions
were accomplished smoothly and there was no mention made of Maggie's
absence.  Indeed, none of the Holidays knew that another daughter had
been expected to join them.  The extra place setting was whisked aside
before they entered the dining room.  Connor was seated beside Skye and
opposite Beryl and Rushton.  Moira andJay Mac presided at the head and
foot of the table.

She was too young, Connor thought, listening to Skye chatter about some
skating party she had recently attended with her friends.

She was silly and empty-headed, and perhaps, as he watched her toss her
flame-red curls over her shoulder yet again, even more vain about her
appearance than Beryl.  How could he live with that for the rest of his
life?  Then he wondered if he'd have to.  If she were willing to stay
in New York, he would be quite willing to stay in Colorado.

It would be the reverse of the arrangement his own parents had made
years ago; it might even be satisfactory.  Then she grinned at him
disarmingly, a strand of spinach from the soup lodged between her front
teeth, and he knew he couldn't marry anyone so childish that she
thought spinach teeth was a good joke.

Jay Mac's eyes narrowed on Mary Schyler, indicating that she had done
quite enough to dissuade Connor Holiday from showing her any flattering
attention.  Moira managed to muffle her laughter with a cough behind
her napkin.  Beryl hoped the young woman would keep smiling her great
green grin.  It was a certainty that Connor was no longer contemplating
marriage as a way of securing the land not that anyone had expected him
to make a proposal this very evening.  Beryl relaxed as she realized
that even courting the Dennehy bastard was going to be out of the
question.

Rushton was disappointed though he was as careful as his son not to
show it.  He had hoped for something better.  Now there was no choice
but to sell.  It wasn't a subject to be discussed now, with the women
present.  The business was better settled after dinner over whiskey and
cigars.

Jay Mac speared a tender bit of roast and held it up a moment, hoping
to salvage something from the evening.  "Is your beef this good,
Connor?  I understand you have several hundred head of cattle on your
ranch.

"At the risk of offending your cook, my beef is better."

"Is that so?"

"You can't ship it this far east without it losing some of its texture
and flavor.  My beef goes to market at St. Louis but I think it tastes
different at Denver.  If you want a good steak then you should spend
time at the Double H."

"Double H?"  asked Moira.  "Your ranch has a name?"

"It comes from the brand we use," Connor explained.  "H for Hart, my
mother's maiden name, and H for Holiday.  We brand the cattle to
discourage rustling.  Markets know my brand.  If my cattle shows up
without me or my men attached in some way they know the animals have
been stolen."

"Does it happen often?"  Skye asked, interested in spite of herself.

She took a moment to remove the spinach she had strategically placed
between her front teeth.

"More often than I'd like."

"Do you catch them?"

"Sometimes."

Skye's eyes widened slightly.  "And then what?"

Rushton cleared his throat.  "I don't think you really want to know, at
least not here, not now.

"Oh, but my constitution's quite strong," she said.  "I can talk about
most anything and still manage to eat."

"I'm sure," Beryl said with quiet sarcasm.

"Well, I'm certain I don't want to hear," said Moira, "though I find it
very interesting that your ranch is in Colorado.  Is it possible you've
met either of my daughters who live there?"

Jay Mac smiled indulgently and said quickly, "Colorado is rather larger
than you think, Moira.  It's unlikely that Connor knows either Michael
or Rennie."

"Michael?"  Beryl asked.  "I thought you only had daughters."

"Mary Michael," Moira said.

"And Mary Renee," Schyler added.  "We're all Marys.  Mary Francis.

Mary Margaret."  She dimpled, pointing to herself.  "Mary Schyler.  I
suppose you might think of it as our brand."

"How charming," Beryl said, her tone conveying just the opposite.

Skye pretended to be oblivious to the undercurrent of ridicule in

Beryl's remark.  "Oh, it's very Catholic," she said blithely, smoothing
her napkin in her lap.  "Mother is, you know.  Irish Catholic.

Though I imagine you heard that in her accent.  The Irish part, I
mean.

I don't think being Catholic gives one a particular accent."  She
smiled guilelessly at Connor.  "Do you?"

"No," he said, careful not to choke.

"I didn't think so," she went on.  "Father, on the other hand, is quite
the Protestant.  Presbyterian, specifically.  But then you probably
knew that.  Catholics do not get nearly so far in business as my father
has, though why religion should play such a role has never been
satisfactorily explained to me.  I think it also helps that his family
was here before the revolution."

Jay Mac's complexion had taken on a mottled cast that could not be
completely hidden by either his ample side whiskers or his thick
mustache.  "That's quite enough, Mary Schyler."

When Skye heard the particular tone and inflection in her father's
voice, coupled with her full name, she bent her head, suitably
chastened.

"Oh, it sounds terribly fascinating," Beryl said, deliberating
provoking Skye to further conversational indiscretions.  She ignored
her husband's warning glance and Connor's angry one, smiling serenely
and continuing to eat without missing a beat.  Jay Mac, she thought
happily, would never find a husband for his daughter unless he gagged
her.

"Mary Michael lives in Denver," Moira said with a touch of urgency,
eager to have something else to discuss.

Connor rescued her immediately.  "Denver's a booming town.

Have you visited her there?"

"Only once, and I confess to having enjoyed myself immensely.  It was
lovely to be with Michael and Ethan, of course, and my granddaughter,
but the town had a charm I found very exciting."

Connor grinned.  "I've never heard anyone from the east refer to Denver
as charming."

Moira blinked, stunned momentarily by her guest's rare and roguish
smile.  It didn't matter that she was in love with her husband or that
she had five daughters or that she was Connor Holiday,s senior by a
quarter of a century; she felt the full force of his boyish grin all
the way to her toes.  She was quite afraid she was blushing.

"Well," she said somewhat defiantly, "I found it charming.  It's loud
and boisterous and colorful."

"So's the Bowery," Jay Mac said, "and you don't have to leave New York
to get there."

Moira dismissed her husband's comment out of hand.  "You love Denver,
so it's no good pretending you don't."  She turned back to

Connor.  "Michael's husband is a federal marshal assigned to the Denver
area."

"You said Ethan," Connor said.  "Do you mean Ethan Stone?"

"Why, yes," she said, pleased.  "So you see, Jay Mac, Connor knows
Ethan.  It wasn't so silly to suppose that he might."

Connor shook his head before his hostess got carried away.  "I know
Marshal Stone by reputation.  I've never had cause to seek him out."

Skye broke a dinner roll in half and began buttering it.  "Not even
about the cattle thieves?"

"Most especially not about them."  He turned to Moira.  "And your other
daughter who lives in Colorado?"

"That would be Rennie.  It's Rennie Sullivan now.  She and Jarret, he's
her husband, move around quite a bit.  Rennie and Jarret work for Jay
Mac's company, Northeast Rail.  Our daughter is an engineer; she
designs trestles and bridges and rail right of ways.  Jarret builds
them."

The last traces of Connor's smile vanished.  His expression had become
remote again, polite but cold.  "I didn't realize that Mr. and Mrs.
Sullivan were more than employees with Northeast."

"My," Beryl said, "Colorado does seem to be shrinking.  Do you know
everybody, Connor?"

"It's beginning to appear that way, isn't it?"  And with his cool,
distant tone he managed to convey that further mention of Rennie and
Jarret Sullivan would be unwelcome.

Jay Mac picked at his dessert.  Normally Mrs. Cavanaugh's cherry pie
would have brought a request for seconds, but tonight his appetite had
abandoned him somewhere between the soup and salad.

Nothing he had planned for this evening was unfolding in quite the way
he had envisioned.

Mary Margaret had led the mutiny by refusing to attend.  Skye charged
in where her sister feared to tread.  Rushton seemed eager to have the
business put behind him while Connor appeared not to want to discuss it
at all.  Moira's graciousness had been taxed by Beryl's thinly
disguised contempt for Skye and her outrageous behavior.  Had Jay Mac
been forced to choose the person who was finding the dinner party the
most entertaining, he would have picked Mrs. Cavanaugh.  If her facial
expressions were any indication, then she found most of what she heard
while serving and removing courses to be vastly amusing.

Moira motioned to Beryl and Skye.  "Why don't we leave the gentlemen to
their after-dinner drinks?"  she said.  "We'll have coffee in the
parlor."

In her eagerness to quit the room, Skye nearly toppled her chair as she
leapt to her feet.  She apologized clumsily, flushing to the roots of
her flame-red hair, and left the table quickly.  Moira and Beryl
followed at a more sedate pace.

Connor waited until the door to the dining room closed before he
rounded on Jay Mac and his father.  "You've both blind-sided me," he
said.

John MacKenzie Worth rose from the table and went to the sideboard.  He
was not as tall as either Holiday but he wore power and authority like
a mantle.  His carriage was straight with his shoulders set as firmly
as his mouth.  He began pouring drinks.

"How is that?"  he asked.  "Since you and I have never met before today
I fail to understand how I was able to... how did you put it?...

blind-side you.

"Oh, you didn't do it alone."  His gaze fell hard on his father.

"You were helped immensely."

Jay Mac set a tumbler of whiskey in front of Connor.  "Would you like a
cigar?"

"I don't smoke," he said tersely.

"Neither do I," Jay Mac said.  "At least not any longer.  Gave it up
when Michael was brought back to me alive and well."  He offered
Rushton the cigars and was pleased when one was taken.  He might not
smoke himself but enjoyed the peculiar pungent fragrance.  "But I don't
suppose you want to hear about that now," he said, lighting Rushton's
cigar.

"No," Connor said dryly, "at the risk of being impolite, I can't say
that I do."  He knocked back his drink and without waiting to be
offered more he went to the sideboard and poured his own refill.

Watching Connor,Jay Mac returned to his seat.  "You don't drink to
excess, do you?"  he asked.  "Your father never mentioned that might be
a problem."

"My father doesn't know me well enough to say one way or the other,"
Connor said.  It was difficult to keep bitterness out of his voice.

"But it's never been a problem, at least not until I arrived in New
York two months ago."  He leaned back against the sideboard and crossed
his long legs at the ankles.  "I didn't know that Mrs. Sullivan was
your daughter."

"I can't think how that matters."

"It matters.  It's the reason you tried to stop your wife from talking
about your family in Colorado.  You knew very well that I had more than
a passing acquaintance with both your daughter and son-in-law."

"Rennie and Jarret are both valued employees of Northeast Rail.

It's incidental that they're related to me."

Connor doubted that Jay Mac really thought that way.  John MacKenzie
Worth was one of the richest and most powerful men in the country.

Nothing about his influence was incidental.  Connor directed his next
question to his father.  "You knew about Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan,
didn't you?"

Rushton nodded.  "Of course.  But I agree with Jay Mac.  It hardly
matters.  If they hadn't come across the land and seen its value
someone else would have."

"It's enough that I know the value of that land.  I don't need railroad
surveyors and engineers to tell me what I have."

"You could hardly expect to keep your valley a secret forever."

The tips of Connor's fingers pressed whitely against the tumbler.

"But it isn't my valley, is it?"

"That's true," Rushton said.  "It's mine."

Jay Mac rolled his tumbler between his hands thoughtfully.

"When my daughter telegraphed that she had found an excellent location
for the line from Cannon Mills to Denver I was interested.

Cannon Mills has untapped resources in silver and gold because until
now there's been no way to ship out the ore.  Northeast Rail has made a
name for itself in the territory by giving rail access to miners and
mining consortiums at fair cost.  We did it first at queen's Point and
later in Madison.  The people in Cannon Mills want the rail line."

"I told your daughter when she and the others came to do the survey
that no part of the land was for sale.  She asked to complete her
survey anyway and I let her."

"Rennie's very persuasive.

Connor recalled the heated discussion that had swayed his judgment.

"A gross understatement."  He took a short swallow of his drink.  "When
she left with her team from Northeast I thought that was the end of
it.

Mrs. Sullivan, it seems, is not only persuasive, but persistent as
well.  She went to the land office in Denver and discovered that I
didn't hold the deed.  I suppose that changed everything in her mind.

She recognized my father's name and had you call on him.  I don't know
when the conversation turned from land to heirs, or even who first
broached the idea, but somewhere along the way the two of you stopped
talking about railroad accesses and started talking dynasties."

Connor put down his drink.  "Frankly, gentlemen, I'm just not
interested."  Not waiting for any response, he left the room.

Rushton and Jay Mac both listened for the sound of the front door being
opened and closed.  It never came.

"Where would he go?"  Rushton asked.

"He's probably cooling his heels in the library.  It's just down the
hallway and I remember seeing the door was open earlier."

A cloud of blue-gray smoke circled Rushton's head as he exhaled
slowly.

"That didn't go well at all."

"No, it didn't," Jay Mac conceded.  "I like your son though.  He's not
easily intimidated."

"He was insolent and insulting."

Jay Mac shrugged.  "His back's to the wall and he knows it.  I admire
him for wanting to hold onto the land."  He sipped his drink.

"I apologize for my daughter's behavior this evening.  I had hoped
things would proceed along a different course."

"I confess that I thought your daughter would be older.  I'm not
certain that she and Connor would suit at all."

"Older?"  Jay Mac frowned.  "She's twenty-three.  Surely that's old
enough.  Your son's what?  .  . . thirty?  They're of an age where they
would suit admirably."

"Twenty-three?"  mused Rushton.  "I wouldn't have guessed more than
sixteen."

"How would you have guessed at all?  She wasn't even here this
evening."

Rushton looked at Jay Mac in some confusion.  "Not here?  But "Oh, you
thought Schyler was .  . . heavens no .  . . of course she wouldn't
suit."  He chuckled with genuine amusement.  "Skye's nineteen though,
not sixteen.  I'm afraid she put on quite a show for your son
tonight.

It was really meant as a warning to me.

"A warning?"

"Yes, indeed," Jay Mac said.  "She was telling me to .  .

"Stay out of my life, thank you very much," Skye said, plopping down on
the overstuffed chair in her sister's bedchamber.

"Did you actually say that?"  Maggie asked, suspicious of her sister's
bravado.

"I may as well have.  Oh, Mag, you should have seen me!  You would have
been so proud!"

Maggie was also proud that she had had the courage to defy her father
and not show up at all.  Now, next to her younger sister's
resourcefulness, it didn't seem so very much.  "Proud or embarrassed?" 
she asked.

"Oh, both, I'm sure," Skye went on happily.  Complaining that she
didn't feel well, she had asked to be excused from the after-dinner
conversation and her mother had barely been able to contain her
relief.

"No one knew quite what to do with me.  I almost felt sorry for poor
Mr.  Holiday."

"Father or son?"

Skye shrugged.  Her bright hair spilled over her shoulders.  "Both, I
suppose.  Does it matter?"

"I think it's harder to feel sorry for the father.  He's in this up to
his neck with Jay Mac."  She sighed and closed the book she'd been
reading, keeping her finger in place to mark her page.  "What's got
into Jay Mac?  I mean, why now?  He's never mentioned marriage for
me.

He knows I want to be a doctor.  I have an excellent chance of being
accepted by that women's college in Philadelphia."

"Who knows why Jay Mac does the things he does?  Besides the fact that
he loves us and thinks he knows very well what's best for us.

Michael stood up to him and so did Rennie."

"Rennie ended up marrying the man he picked out for her."

"True, but it was her choice.  And Mary Francis did what she wanted."

"Mary Francis became a nun," Maggie said dryly.  "Even Jay Mac has to
realize there are limits to his influence."

Skye laughed.  "Well, my point is that she did what she wanted.

You'll have to do the same, Mag."

Maggie's lower lip was sucked in under her teeth.  She worried it
gently, her wide, green eyes uncertain.  "I don't know.  I'm not like
the rest of you.  It's not so easy for me."

"Easy?  Who said it was easy?  Do you think my heart wasn't thumping
near out of my chest?  I pushed that spinach between my teeth and
smiled for all I was worth and prayed I had the courage to keep it
there.  I simpered and chatted and pretended I'd never completed a
sentence, let alone a complete thought, in my entire life.

Jay Mac was glaring at me, especially when I went on about religion,
and Mama looked as if she wished herself anywhere but where she was.

Rushton Holiday felt sorry for me, sorrier for Jay Mac and Mama.  Beryl
Holiday-who I do not like one bit, I can tell you, though she's
astonishingly beautiful--was looking rather pleased because I was so
clearly unsuitable for her stepson."

"And Connor?"

"He, my dear sister, shows the measure of just how difficult this
was.

Connor Holiday is a very handsome man.  Very handsome.  He was
considerate, too.  And polite.  A trifle cool perhaps, reserved really,
but that was to be expected.  Playing the fool in front of him was
rather like cutting off my nose to spite my face.  Teaching Father a
lesson about interference has never been so painfully humiliating."

"If you've taken a liking to Mr.  Holiday then perhaps you should..."

Skye held up her hand, cutting off her sister.  "Oh no, I worked too
hard making my point to do an about-face.  Besides that, I don't think
Connor would have me as a gift."

Since her sister was a beautiful, and an often-sought-after companion,
Maggie knew Skye must have made a horrible impression.

"Then neither of us is going to have him."

"You'll have to make a stand.  Jay Mac and Rushton are still
plotting."

"How do you know that?"

Skye shook her head in disbelief.  "Maggie?"  she asked impatiently.

"How can you not know that?"

* * * Rushton Holiday stubbed out his cigar.  "Where do we go from
here?"

Jay Mac had long since finished his drink.  He contemplated another one
then decided against it.  A clear head was called for.  "Do you still
want to sell the land?"

"I've never wanted to sell it, but you know the market.

I need the funds."

Jay Mac nodded.  He had been lucky to have sold some stocks early,
anticipating the most recent downturn by only days.  "Rennie says the
tract of land leading from the mountain ridge through the valley is all
she needs."

"It's the best grazing area.  That's why Connor is so opposed.  It cuts
across the waterway and splits the property.

Granted, it's a small strip when held against the entire acreage, but
it's the most valuable-to your railroad and my son."

"Rennie has found another route that would be acceptable."

"Acceptable, but not ideal."

"True, but if you weren't willing to sell I'd have to take what I could
get."

Rushton rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"We've done business before, Jay Mac.  We've been fair and honest
traders and I'd like to think I know you a little better than most of
our colleagues.  You're not certain you want the land any longer.  I
can hear it in your voice."

"If you'll recall, Rush, I was never certain I wanted that strip.  It
was what Rennie wrote about Connor that intrigued me.

She was impressed by his commitment to the land and more than a little
impressed that the money she offered didn't turn his head.  Connor
thinks Rennie went to the deed office on her own, but I sent her
there.

I recalled you once saying something about property in Colorado; it
seemed unlikely that the name Holiday was strictly coincidence.

"I continue to be more interested in Connor as a husband for my Maggie
than in the ranch.  If he were to marry her I'd settle the deed on him
and we would forget all about using any part of the ranch for the
line."

Rushton poured himself another drink.  His jaw was set hard.  A small
furrow had appeared between his dark brows.  "I'm not so desperate for
money that I haven't thought all this through.  I explained it all to
Connor.  He knew what was expected of him."

"But he didn't agree right away."

Rushton's mouth lifted in a half-smile, remembering.  "No.  He's my
son, after all.  Would you have respected him if he had?"

Jay Mac knew that he would not have.  "You never told me what changed
his mind."

"I suppose I didn't think it mattered."  He tipped back a third of his
drink.  "After I talked to him he was angry.  I think you can imagine
how the interview went.  You've seen how my son and I are together.

There's no love lost between us."  He shook his head, clearing it.

"Afterward he went out and tied one on.  He'd brought enough money east
with him to stake himself in a poker game somewhere in the city.  Don't
ask me how he did it but he swears he won an entire twelve thousand
that evening."

"He swears it?  You've never seen the money?"

"I've never seen it.  He was feeling a little full of himself, or
perhaps he was still angry, I don't really know.  He went to a
brothel.

He says the woman he was with that night stole his money."  Rushton
watched Jay Mac carefully to see what reaction he had to the story.

Jay Mac's expression was contemplative, not judgmental.  "He agreed to
meet your daughter later, after it was clear to him that his money
wasn't going to turn up.

"I see.  Then he came here tonight feeling as if there was no other
choice."

"Very much so.  You neglected to tell me the name of the daughter you
had in mind for him.  We've never done business on such a personal
level before.  I'm afraid I assumed you meant Schyler.

I'm certain Connor must think the same."

Jay Mac nodded wearily.  Children should not be so difficult, he
thought.  "Before we agree to make this strictly a business
transaction, let's see if we can't think of a way to bring Connor and
Maggie together."

Beryl was finding Moira pleasant company, not as silly or frivolous as
her youngest daughter.  "Really," she said, laughing lightly over the
rim of her coffee cup.  "It's beyond me why anyone thought Rush's son
and your daughter would be a good match.  She's terribly young for
him."

Moira took no offense in the remark though she found it interesting
that Beryl Holiday would cast her stone in that direction.

Moira didn't think she was too far off the mark by putting the
difference in Beryl and her husband's age at two dozen years.  She was
certain Beryl was younger than Rushton's son.  "I doubt either Jay Mac
or Rushton thought it through," she said easily.  "It's very much like
Jay Mac to do so in personal matters, though I can't say about your
husband."

"And I don't think I can say about Rush.  We've not been married all
that long."

"I'd forgotten, though you're obviously well suited.  One would never
suspect that it's been less than a year."

'Just under eight months, actually."

"Under eight months?  Why that's quite hard to believe."  Moira added a
dollop of cream to her coffee.  "How did you and Rushton meet?"

Beryl realized the question was asked in all innocence but it still
caught her off guard.  "Didn't you know?"  she asked in an attempt to
recover her composure.  "I thought everyone knew.  I met Rushton when
he came to visit Connor a year ago.

Moira didn't understand why that would have caused Beryl the slightest
discomfort, yet it was clear her guest was flustered by the question.

"I'm sorry," Moira said.  "Have I put my foot in it somehow?"

"Oh no," Beryl said, forcing a smile.  "I'm so used to people
knowing.

. . I just assumed .  .

"Dear, you don't have to explain yourself.  I'm sure I don't need to
know."

"No, it's quite all right.  You're bound to learn it and it's nothing
I'm ashamed of.  You see, I was Connor's fiancee when I met Rushton."

"I see," Moira said slowly.  And she did see.  A lot more than Beryl
Holiday thought she had revealed.

"I don't want to hear any more, Skye," Maggie said.  "You did
wonderfully well and I'm envious and grateful, but it doesn't change
the fact that I don't know what I can do."  She ignored Skye's pouting
lower lip.  "I think I'll go to the library.  I have more reading to
do."

She raised her book which still held her index finger captive.

"You're welcome to join me as long as you'll be quiet."

"I don't think so.  Jay Mac says you spend all your time in books and
for once I'm inclined to agree with him."

Maggie smiled.  "Careful, Skye.  I could use that against you."

Her sister's musical laughter followed her into the hallway.

Taking the back stairs to avoid the company, Maggie slipped into the
library quietly.  A feeling of calm overtook her almost immediately.

The smell of the leather bound volumes, the stillness in the air, the
expectancy of adventure and knowledge to be pried free of the pages,
Maggie sensed it all.  This was the room that signified home for her
and she would miss it most of all.

She found a bookmark and laid aside her reading on the table inside the
door.  The fire in the hearth was a welcome surprise.

She had expected to have to light one herself.  Intent on stoking the
flames, Maggie skirted the pair of large wing chairs facing the
fireplace.  She picked up the poker and tapped it against the marble
apron.  The voice that came from behind her caught her completely off
guard.

"I swear to God I should beat you with that."  Chapter 4

She was precisely as he remembered her.  There was some small
satisfaction in knowing that his memory hadn't betrayed him.  There had
been a whore, just as there had been twelve thousand dollars.

He waited for surprise to give way to recognition as his dark eyes took
her in.  The fire behind her cast her delicate features in shadow and
created a penumbra about her head, streaking her hair with gold and
copper.  She wore it pulled back, loosely caught with a grosgrain
ribbon.  He could see that her full mouth was parted, that her
cat-green eyes were widened a fraction larger than usual.  She gripped
the poker like a weapon, holding it up near her shoulder to get a full
swing.

Her dress was plain navy blue, more for service than fashion.  The high
neckline was buttoned modestly to her throat, the sleeves rolled up to
her elbows, and an apron tucked neatly about her waist.  When she moved
suddenly, intending to dart out of the way, he noticed that the toes of
her shoes were scuffed.  Whatever she had done with his money, it
hadn't been spent on herself.  Yet.

He leaned forward and grabbed a handful of her skirt as she attempted
to dash past him.  Connor yanked her hard, sending her off balance.

She dropped the poker harmlessly on the floor and came crashing over
the arm of Connor's chair to land squarely in his lap.

Maggie pushed at his chest but he held her fast, locking his arms about
her waist and pinning her wrists with his hands.  She quieted only when
he recognized the futility of struggling and Connor was patient enough
and strong enough to wait her out.

Summoning the threads of her dignity, Maggie said, "Please let me go,
sir."

"In time."

Maggie frowned, turning her head to look at him fully.  His voice was
soft and rough and somehow dangerous.  It was also vaguely familiar.

She didn't understand how that could be.  Uncertainty caused a
shiver.

He felt her tremor.  "The fire's warm enough," he said.  "I doubt
you're cold.  That leaves scared.  Have I frightened you?"

Though she didn't understand it, it seemed to Maggie that he would have
been satisfied by her fear.  She merely blinked at him.

"What are you doing here?"  he asked.

"I.  . . I came for a book."

Connor gave her a little shake.  "Don't be stupid."

"I don't know what you mean."  She pulled impatiently, trying to free
her wrists.  "Please let me go.  You're hurting me."

"I'm not," he said.  "But I should.  I should beat you within an inch
of your life and unless you answer my questions I just may do it."

"I'll scream."

He laughed at her threat.  "That's not the sort of thing you generally
announce.  You simply do it.  Anyway, try it.  See what happens."

Maggie looked down at her captured hands.  To stop her from screaming
he would have to let her go.  Hadn't he realized that?

He had, of course.  As soon as Maggie opened her mouth to scream Connor
jerked her lower in his lap and covered her mouth with his own.  She
was too surprised to clamp her teeth closed against his intrusion.  His
tongue pushed, his lips moved across hers.  He deepened the kiss even
when there was no response from her.  He drew it out until he felt her
sag against him, not submissive, merely resigned.

Connor pulled back and studied her.  Except for the swollen ripeness of
her lips her face was devoid of color.  Her eyes were awash with unshed
tears.  Her breathing was shallow and light and where once he had
thought she was only frightened, he now saw she was terrified.  Connor
released her completely and gave her a push off his lap.

Maggie scrambled to her feet and out of Connor's reach.  She stared at
him mutely, her vision blurred by the tears that would not fall.

"You're not going to faint, are you?"  he asked.

Was she?  She didn't know.  She'd never done it before.  "I don't

... I don't think so."  Why was it so difficult to catch her breath?

She could barely hear for the slamming of her own heart.  "You're not
going to do that again, are you?"

"Are you going to try to scream?"

She shook her head.

"Well then, I won't do that again," he said roughly.  He pointed to the
wing chair at an angle beside him.  She dropped in the seat like a
stone.  Connor nodded approvingly and yanked the chair closer, turning
it so she was facing him directly.  "Tell me what you're doing here.

And not that nonsense about getting a book.  I want to know what you're
doing in this house."

"I live here."

"Do your employers know about your other profession?"

"My employers?"  Maggie's head began to pound.  The ache behind her
eyes was nearly blinding her.  "You're confusing me.  I don't think I
want to.."

"Where's my money?"  Connor demanded tersely.

Maggie bowed her head and began to rub her temples with trembling
fingers.  Tears finally slid over her pale cheeks.

Connor was unmoved.  "My money," he repeated harshly.

Maggie looked at him helplessly.  She started to get up but he grabbed
her by the wrists again and jerked her back into her chair.

Leaning forward, Connor rested his forearms on his knees.  His eyes
were intent on hers, his features coldly set and unsympathetic.

"You can call out for anyone you wish," he said, "but are you prepared
for what I'm going to say when they get here?"

She frowned.  "What .  . . what would you say?"

"That you're a thief and a whore."

Maggie sank back into the chair, revolted.  "I think you're a horrible
man, Mr.  Holiday."

Connor had a long way to go before he felt any shame for anything he'd
done since Maggie entered the room.  He actually smiled at her pathetic
pronouncement about his character.  "So you do know who I am."

Maggie impatiently brushed away her tears.  "Of course I know who you
are.  Everyone's been expecting you and I saw you arrive earlier
tonight.  You didn't come in the carriage with your father and
stepmother."

His eyes narrowed, pinning her back with the force of his stare.

"If you hope to avoid another nasty confrontation, then don't refer to
my father's wife as my stepmother.  Her name is Beryl."

"All right."

"You're very compliant," he said, watching her closely.

"I don't know what else to do."  There was a ball of nausea in the pit
of her stomach.  She folded her arms across her middle as if she could
keep it in place.  The back of her throat stung with rising bile that
she forced back.  "Are you going to hurt me?"

"Not if I get my money."

She felt tears creeping back into her eyes.  She shook her head, biting
on her lower lip.  "I don't know about any money."

"Liar."

"I don't."  She swiped at her eyes.  "Please, I want to go upstairs
now."

Connor had no difficulty ignoring her plea.  "I suppose you don't know
about Mrs.  Hall's house either."

Maggie stared at him blankly.

"And you never prostituted yourself there."

She blanched.

"You never spread your thighs for me, never crawled all over my body,
never took me in your mouth, and never left with my bag filled with
more money than you could make in four lifetimes."

When Maggie stood this time he didn't stop her.  She held one hand over
her mouth, certain she was going to be sick.  It wasn't until darkness
was upon her that she realized she was fainting.

Connor caught her before her head hit the floor.  She slumped against
him, a dead weight in his arms as he lifted her.  There was a chaise on
the far side of the library and he took her there and laid her down.

He tapped her cheeks lightly with the back of his fingers.

She didn't stir and the only color in her face was the hue he forced
there.

Shaking his head, disgusted, Connor stepped into the hallway and strode
toward the dining room.  He poked his head in the door.  Jay Mac and
his father were still deep in discussion and didn't notice him until he
had been standing there a full ten seconds.

Jay Mac saw him first.  "Connor, come in.  I'm glad you've decided to
join us.  Your father and I were just...

Connor held up his hand, interrupting his host.  "I need your
assistance in the library.  One of your hired help has fainted."

Jay Mac was on his feet instantly.  Rushton followed.  Connor preceded
them back to the library, ushering them in.  He was closing the double
doors and was unaware that Jay Mac had stopped in his tracks only a few
feet inside the room.

"I thought you said it was a servant," Jay Mac said, his eyes fixed on
his daughter's pale face.

Connor turned.  "She is, isn't she?"

Jay Mac shook his head and went to Maggie's side.  "Rushton, will you
find Mrs. Cavanaugh, our housekeeper?  Ask her for smelling salts, but
don't alarm her.  She'll alert Moira and there's no reason for that
yet."

Rushton left the library, a sinking feeling in his chest as to the
identity of the unconscious girl.  He gave his son a hard, accusing
stare in passing.

"What the hell happened?"  Jay Mac demanded.  He sat on the chaise at
the level of his daughter's waist and took her hand in his, rubbing
it.

"Maggie's always been delicate but she's not prone to fainting."

Maggie.  Connor had wondered about her name.  "I believe I frightened
her, sir.  She wasn't expecting to see me in the library."  It was the
truth as far as it went and Connor had no qualms about saying it.

"That doesn't sound like Maggie."  He tapped her cheeks the same way
Connor had earlier.  "But then she hasn't been quite herself these past
six weeks.  I don't know what's been wrong."  He was hardly aware he
was speaking aloud.  "She insists it's nothing, but I wonder."

Connor stepped closer to the chaise.  He could just make out Jay Mac's
whispered and strained voice and each word was another nail in his
coffin.

"A father can't help worrying."

That last nail slammed home.  Connor looked past Jay Mac's shoulder to
Maggie's composed and still features.  His thief, his whore, was the
daughter of John MacKenzie Worth.

Rushton appeared at that moment with the smelling salts.  Connor took
them from his father and knelt beside the chaise.  He took the stopper
from the ammonium salts and waved it slowly beneath Maggie's nose.  She
responded almost immediately, wrinkling her nose and trying to get away
from the sharp, pungent odor.  Connor pulled back his hand and
waited.

Her long lashes fluttered and when she saw Connor leaning over her she
said the first thing that came to her fuzzy mind: "I don't need a
doctor."

Jay Mac patted her hand a little harder, laughing with relief.  "Of
course you don't.  I'm not going to send for one."

"But .  . ."  She looked at Connor in some confusion, an elusive
memory, a certain uneasiness, playing at the back of her mind.  He
simply returned her stare.  She could see her own reflection in his
dark eyes.  Then she remembered other things, the terrible accusations
he had hurled at her, and she cringed from the blankness of his
expression now.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," Connor said.

He wasn't sincere, she thought.  Didn't Jay Mac know?  Couldn't his
father hear it?  She tore her eyes away and looked at her father.

"I'd like to go to my room now," she said a trifle breathlessly.

"I'm feeling rather silly."  She squeezed her father's hand.  "Mama
doesn't know, does she?"

Jay Mac shook his head and helped Maggie up.  Connor sat back on his
haunches and put the stopper back in the bottle of salts.

Rushton stepped aside as Maggie came to her feet.  She blushed,
embarrassed to have made his acquaintance under these circumstances.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, her eyes dropping to the floor.

"I ... I can make my own way to my room."  She lifted the hem of her
gown a few inches and hurried from the library.

"So that's Mary Margaret," Rushton said once she was out of earshot.

"You never mentioned that she was sickly."

"She's not."  Jay Mac and Connor spoke at the same time.

"She's not," Connor repeated more softly.  "I frightened her."

Rushton ignored his son and looked questioningly at Jay Mac.

"What have you been keeping from me, Jay Mac?  I thought we had put all
our cards on the table but I'm not so certain any longer.

Is there something about your daughter that makes it imperative she
make a marriage soon?"

Jay Mac stiffened.  "I don't think I like what you're getting at,
Rushton.  Perhaps you'd better make yourself entirely clear or drop the
subject altogether."

"I didn't think I minced my words," he said stiffly.  "But if you need
it said differently, then I'm asking you: Is Mary Margaret p..

Connor did not allow his father to finish the sentence that would good
as finish a business relationship that had survived the better part of
a decade.  "I'd like to ask for Maggie's hand in marriage, sir," he
said to Jay Mac.

"Connor!"  His father spoke his name sharply, forgetting momentarily
that he had never exerted any influence in his son's life, and if he
had, the time had long since past where it could be influenced by a
single utterance of Connor's name.

Connor continued to address Jay Mac.  "I'm quite serious about this,
sir.  I would like permission to call on your daughter."

Jay Mac's ash-blond brows were pulled together in a single line above
his eyes.  He took off his spectacles, folded the stems, and tucked
them into his vest pocket.  It gave him time to think.

There were things here he did not understand.  Of that much he was
certain.  He and Rushton both had what they wanted, yet he didn't feel
entirely satisfied and it was clear that Rushton didn't, either.

"I'd like to speak with Maggie privately first," Jay Mac said.

It was not what Connor wanted but he had no choice.  "Of course.

"But not tonight.  I don't think she's up to it tonight."

"I understand."

"Come and see me in two days.  At the Worth Building.  Do you know
where it is?"

"I can find it."  Connor looked at his father.  "I'm ready to leave.

If you and Beryl want to stay longer I'll walk."

"That won't be necessary," Rushton said.  "We'll go with you."

It was much later that night when Jay Mac and Moira had retired to
their bedchamber that he told her about Maggie's fainting spell and
Connor Holiday's offer.  Moira stopped plaiting her hair and turned on
her vanity stool to seek out Jay Mac's assurances.  It was one of the
few times she saw nothing in his face to ease her worry.

One of them had to say it and Moira could see that Jay Mac couldn't
bring himself to do it.  "Do you think Maggie's pregnant?"

"No!"  He sat down slowly on the edge of their bed.  "That is, I don't
know.  Who could be the father?  She hasn't been anywhere, seen
anyone... she knows her books and medicine, nothing... no one else."

Moira could see that it was time to return the strength he usually
showered on her.  She left her vanity and sat beside him on the bed.

"It's not the end of the world if she is," she said softly, taking his
hand.  "We had five daughters out of wedlock.  We raised five children
without benefit of a church vow between us."

Jay Mac barely heard her.  "She's been so secretive."

"Maggie's always kept to herself" "Yes, but if she's pregnant.

"What's bothering you, Jay Mac?"

"The father's married.  I know it.  That's what it is.  It's why we've
never seen her with anyone or heard her talk about him."

"You were married," Moira reminded him gently.  "I was your mistress
for twenty-eight years and I still would be if Nina hadn't died."

"That was different," he said stubbornly.

She smiled.  "And someday I shall make you tell me how.  Right now,
however, I'm going to see our daughter and ask her myself if we have
reason to be concerned on that count.  And if I haven't insulted her
beyond all reason, you can tell her later about Connor Holiday's
offer."

Maggie was sitting up in bed, an unopened book in her lap, when her
mother entered her room.  She had been holding the book for the better
part of an hour, never finding the energy or interest to read any part
of it.  She put it aside and shifted her legs to make room for Moira.

"I thought you'd be sleeping by now," Maggie said.

"I could say the same thing to you."

"Is anything wrong?"

"And ask you the same question."

Maggie's smile faltered; her green eyes darkened.  'Jay Mac told you
what happened downstairs."  She saw in her mother's careworn expression
that she had guessed correctly.  "He shouldn't have.

There was no need.  I'm fine, really.  It was the silliest thing.

I don't know why it happened."

Moira searched her daughter's fine-boned features.  Of all her
daughters it was Maggie who most emphatically bore the Dennehy stamp.

Her character, in turn, was also more like Moira's than jay Mac's.

Moira wondered if Maggie ever regretted that she was not more like her
father or her sisters.  Perhaps it was that very reason that Moira
herself felt closer to Maggie.  They shared a quiet strength.  Moira
had tapped hers many times over the years; Maggie, she knew, did not
yet suspect what she was capable of.

"Perhaps we should ask Dr.  Turner to examine you," Moira said.

She pulled her hair over her shoulder and began to plait it.  "When
people faint there's usually a reason."

"I think it's just been nerves, Mama.  You know how it is when Jay Mac
sets his sights on one of his own.  I suppose it's my turn now and I
don't know if I'm up to it.  I want to go to medical school.  Why is he
trying to stop me?"

"Is that what he's doing?"

Maggie leaned forward and took the braid out of her mother's hands and
began to plait Moira's hair herself.  She had always found it easier to
talk if her hands were occupied.  "What would you call this, this
obsession with Connor Holiday?"

"I don't think your father believes that medicine is a fitting
profession for a woman."

"That's not fair.  Michael's a newspaper reporter.  Rennie's an
engineer.  Are those fitting professions for women?  Must I become a
nun like Mary Francis?"

"If you recall, your father wasn't very pleased with her decision,
either."  Moira laid her hand over Maggie's busy fingers.  "You've had
your education, dear.  Four years and a degree just like your
sisters.

That's more than most men in your father's position allow for their
daughters.  If you want still more then you should be prepared to take
it on your own and not look to Jay Mac for help."

"I have money saved.  What I don't have I'll work for.  I'm not afraid
of that.  But, Mama, I want to do it with your blessing.

Yours and Jay Mac's.  Do you think I can't do it?  Is that it?"

Moira shook her head.  Her hand squeezed Maggie's.  "Your father and I
have talked about this for a long time, for as long as you've made your
wishes known.  Neither one of us doubts your ability.

Don't ever think that.  What we doubt is that you can support
yourself.

No, hear me out.  You must have considered it.  Who will come to see
you?  Who will have you as part of their practice?  You'll always be
frustrated by what you can do for others and will never be given the
chance.  That's what worries your father, and if I'm honest, it worries
me as well."

None of this was what Maggie wanted to hear.  The knot that had never
left her stomach tightened.  "So I should get married."

"Not if you don't want to."  Moira took a calming breath.  Her hand
dropped away and she turned so she could see her daughter fully.

"There's no reason that you think you have to, is there?"

Maggie's brows furrowed.  She tilted her head, emphasizing the slant of
her eyes.  "You mean other than Jay Mac's insistence that I should."

"Other than that."

"I'm not sure I understand.  Why would you..."  Her voice trailed off
as her frown cleared and her mouth gaped slightly.  "Because I
fainted?

Oh, Mama!  How could you?  Is that what you and Jay Mac think?  That
I'm carrying a child?"

"It occurred to us," Moira said honestly.  She didn't look away,
feeling that she owed her daughter that much.  "You've been so quiet
recently.  I'm not even certain when we first noticed it; perhaps as
long as a month and a half ago.  We've been worried, Maggie, you can't
expect that we wouldn't be.  You'd tell us, wouldn't you, if you were
pregnant?"

Something kept Maggie from answering that question.  She answered
another.  "I'm not pregnant," she said.

"Could you be?"

"Immaculate Conception?"

"Don't be blasphemous."

"I'm sorry."

Moira sighed.  "And I'm sorry, too, Maggie.  Sorry that I had to ask.

Deeply sorry that I didn't have more faith in your judgment."

She leaned toward Maggie and kissed her daughter's forehead.  "Go to
sleep now.  Let's put tonight behind us."

Maggie caught her mother's sleeve before she could move away.

"Do you ever regret raising all of us alone?"

"Is that what you think?  That I raised you alone?  It's not true,
Maggie.  Your father was always with me, even when he was with his
wife.  He probably saw more of you than if we had lived under the same
roof all those years.  Every spare moment he had he spent with us.

Don't ever forget that.  Know this, Mary Margaret: I have no regrets
about my life with your father.  None."

"Do you think your parents were disappointed in you?"

"They were dead by the time I met Jay Mac, but yes, I suppose they
would have been deeply disappointed with the choices I made."

Maggie merely nodded, thoughtful.  She dropped her mother's sleeve.

"Good night."

Moira smiled.  She stood there for a moment longer, watching Maggie as
she turned on her side and drew the comforter about her shoulders.

Moira turned back the bedside lamp, then she left the room, only a
little less troubled than when she had entered it.

It was a long time before Maggie drifted off to sleep.  In the back of
her mind were the things that Connor Holiday had called her.

Thief.  Whore.  The things he had said she'd done: spread her thighs,
crawled all over his body, took him in her mouth.  He was an evil
man.

A disturbed, deranged man.

But Mary Margaret Dennehy would have slept easier if she could have
accounted for eight hours on the night of March 24.

Connor Holiday leaned against the granite blocks in an alcove of the
Worth Building.  His stance was casual, ankles crossed, arms folded in
front of him.  He looked as if he were watching the pedestrian traffic
on Broadway, taking in the hurried single-mindedness of New Yorkers
going about their business.  At another time he would have found all
the activity entertaining in its own fashion.  Now, on a street crowded
with people, for all intents and purposes, Connor Holiday was alone.

She didn't want to marry him.  The words played again in his mind.

Sometimes in Jay Mac's voice, sometimes as if he were hearing Maggie's
husky, melodious tone.  She didn't want to see him.  She didn't want to
have anything to do with him.

The outcome of the interview with Jay Mac wasn't entirely surprising.

Connor had expected Maggie Dennehy to have objections.

What he wasn't prepared for was that Jay Mac, who had initiated
everything, who had plotted and prodded and prompted toward a very
different end, was actually going to honor them.  It made Connor wonder
if Maggie had told her father the content of their conversation in the
library or the circumstances of their first meeting.

He shook his head.  He couldn't quite imagine Maggie repeating his
actions or his accusations to Jay Mac.  Connor couldn't quite imagine
still being alive if she had.  Yet there wasn't a thing he had said
that he would take back.  All of it was true.  He remembered the
evening at Mrs. Hall's establishment very well even if Maggie Dennehy
pretended not to, and there wasn't much that had happened there that he
would take back, either.

Connor pushed away from the granite wall and thrust his hands in his
pockets.  He needed to know more.  If he was going to collect on what
Jay Mac's daughter owed him, he needed to know something more than he
did now.

When he jogged down the steps outside the Worth Building, when he
turned the corner onto Ann Street, Connor had no clear destination in
mind.  He thought he was still uncertain about where and how he might
have his questions answered.  He would have said his walking was
aimless, without purpose or direction, yet twenty minutes after leaving
the Worth Building Connor found himself in the middle of the red light
district.

Lisa Antonia Hall didn't usually see visitors before noon.  The girls
were still abed and she never felt as if she were at her best.  She
made an exception when Samuel told her who was waiting in the foyer.

Connor Holiday was trouble.  It had been too much to expect that she
had seen the last of him.

She patted down her hair, arranged the string of pearls around her
neck, and smoothed the skirt of her gown over her hips.  Papers
cluttering her mahogany desk were quickly stuffed inside the middle
drawer.  She eyed her palm-sized pistol, wondering if she should keep
it handy, then decided against it.  It was pushed to the back of the
drawer as her business ledger was shoved in.

Mrs. Hall stood behind her desk while Connor was shown into her
office.  She smiled in greeting, hoping she was more gracious and cool
and in charge than she felt.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Holiday?"  she asked, indicating to Connor
that he should take a seat in front of the desk.  "Would you like a cup
of coffee?  I can ask Samuel to bring some for us."  The bouncer, and
sometimes butler, was hovering near the door waiting for his orders.

When Connor declined the offer Mrs. Hall dismissed him.  "I imagine
that you being here means you haven't recovered your money."

Connor realized it was a rather large concession on the madam's part to
make that statement.  "Then you do believe I had the money with me."

"When cooler heads prevailed that day the doctor and I both believed
you."  She leaned back in her chair, tilting her head to one side.  "I
would hope by now that you realize your accusation in my direction was
unfounded."

"I don't know that with certainty, but I'm willing to listen.  I'd like
to hear more about the girl you put me with that night."

Mrs.  Hall held up one beringed hand and shook her head slowly.

"I did not put you with that young lady, not on purpose.

It was your misfortune, and certainly hers, that I have the most
difficult time with directions of a left and right nature.  I admit to
not noticing which way you turned at the top of the stairs, but I
thought I was sending you to Megan's room, nowhere else."

Connor was reserving judgment, his gaze fixed on the madam.

"Why do you say it was her misfortune?  I'm the one who had twelve
thousand dollars stolen."

"That young woman came into this house a virgin.  The evidenceon those
sheets says she wasn't one when she left."

Connor blinked, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Surely that's not a circumstance unknown here."

"My girls all have experience before they work for me."

"She didn't."

"She wasn't one of my girls."

He forced himself to relax.  "I think I'll have that coffee after all,"
he said.

Lisa nodded and rang for Samuel.  After giving her man the order she
turned back to her guest.  "After you left here six weeks ago I had
this house searched from top to bottom.  I supervised every aspect of
it personally.  We went through the attic and the root cellar.  We
turned over beds and tore apart wardrobes.  Your bag and your money
aren't here.  When you didn't return I assumed you had come to that
conclusion yourself or that you had found it."

The bracelets on her left wrist jangled musically as she made a
sweeping gesture with her hand.  "I invite you to look anywhere you
wish.  You may inspect my ledgers, my personal bank books, or the
finances of any of my employees until you're satisfied that we don't
have your money.

Lisa reached inside the middle drawer and pulled out her expense
ledger.  She slid it across the desk toward Connor.  "You can start
with this one though they're all at your disposal.  Running an
establishment such as mine requires a certain amount of discretion,
confidentiality, and practices that are above reproach.  That includes
trust.

The clientele entertained here expects it."  She nudged the ledger
again, challenging him to pick it up.  "I'm very aware you haven't made
any slanderous remarks concerning my business.  I would have felt the
effect of them by now if you had.  My clientele is only loyal to a
point.  They would have abandoned me if they thought I couldn't be
trusted."

She waved Samuel in as he returned with the coffee.  When her cup was
served, creamed, and sugared just the way she liked it, she picked up
the thread of her conversation again.  "Which leads me to believe, Mr.
Holiday, that in spite of your words to the contrary, I think you know
that I'm innocent of any wrongdoing."

Connor drank his coffee black.  Playing his cards close to the vest, he
resisted the temptation to tell the madam she was right.  "Tell me what
you know about the girl," he said.  "She's the only lead I have."

Lisa replaced her cup in its saucer and folded her hands on the
desktop.  "I know very little, though you can be sure I made some
inquiries of my own.  My sources in this case aren't entirely
reliable."

"Tell me anyway.

"The best I can piece it together is that she somehow wandered into the
district on her own.  Not even this end of the district.

She was lost along Canal Street before she got this far.  Apparently
she was accosted by a group of sailors looking for some
entertainment.

They were probably too drunk to take note of her clothing or her manner
and see that she didn't belong where they found her."  Lisa heated her
coffee with a little more from the pot.  "Harlan Porter, a pimp of the
worst sort, rescued her."

"Rescued?"  asked Connor.

"A relative term, to be sure," she replied dryly.  "It seems he led her
along, promising to get her home, then ended up drugging her and trying
to sell her to Horace Beale.  Beale, by the way, is an old man with a
taste for young flesh."

The surface of Connor's remote calm rippled a little.  His fingers
whitened a fraction on the delicate china cup.

Mrs. Hall had seen the infinitesimal change in her guest's features
but she didn't comment.  It satisfied her to imagine that he was
remembering the girl in that moment.  "My man Samuel, who managed to
get these details from Harlan with very little in the way of physical
persuasion, tells me that she escaped Harlan at that point.

He chased her and caught up with her in my back yard.  One of my young
women sent him running and we took in the girl.

"I'm no fool, Mr. Holiday.  I knew that girl wasn't part of the life
and it certainly wasn't my intention to help her take it up.  The poor
thing was ill.  She had bruises on her neck where Harlan or the sailors
had choked her and between that and her sickness and the drugs she
couldn't get a word past her throat that anyone could understand.

"We set her up in a spare room, drew a hot bath for her, gave her some
laudanum, and sent for the doctor."

Connor jerked.  Coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup and trickled
down his fingers.  Lisa was there immediately with a linen napkin,
mopping his hand and fawning over him.  He took the napkin from her and
set his cup aside.  "It's nothing," he said.

"Did you burn yourself?"

"It's nothing," he repeated curtly.  He didn't know himself why it had
happened, not with any certainty.  It was something Lisa had said,
something that caught his attention, his memory, in a particular way
and then was gone before he could grasp its implication.  "You were
saying .  . ."  he said as she returned to her chair.

"Actually I was finished.  You know better than I what happened
next."

Connor had recovered his calm.  He dropped the napkin on the serving
tray.  "I was sent to the wrong room.

"Not intentionally," she said quickly.

"Perhaps," he conceded after a moment's pause.  "I'm not a fool either,
Mrs. Hall.  When I arrived in that room I had no reason to believe
your guest wasn't precisely what she seemed to be.  She was compliant
and she wasn't a chatterbox."

"She was feeling the effects of the drugs and she was ill."

Connor's dark eyes narrowed.  "What are you saying?  That I forced
her?"

"I wasn't in the room.  Did you?"

He stood and leaned forward at the desk, bracing himself stiffly
against it, towering over Mrs. Hall.  "You don't know anything about
it."

Lisa Antonia Hall was not cowed.  She stared up at him calmly.

"If you ever find the young woman perhaps you'll ask her what she
thinks.  Perhaps she feels she was perfectly entitled to your money
after what you took from her."

Something flickered in Connor's eyes before they became reflective
again.  He straightened, turned on his heel, and left without a word in
reply.

kye rounded the corner in the upstairs hallway and came to a halt on
the landing.  Looking down the wide staircase to the foyer below, she
saw her sister adjusting her yellow straw bonnet in the mirror.

"Where are you going?"  she called.  "It's barely daybreak."

Maggie almost stuck herself with her hat pin as she jumped.  The wild
strawberries decorating the brim bobbled.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Skye said, hurrying down the stairs.

"It's all right."  That was because it was guilt that had made Maggie
jump, not fear.  She adjusted the bonnet again.  "I was
wool-gathering."

"Oh?"  Skye asked hopefully.

"None of your business."

Skye pulled a face, disappointed.  "Oh."

Satisfied with the arrangement of her bonnet, Maggie stepped away from
the mirror.  "I'll be home in time for luncheon."  She placed one hand
on the door knob.

"Where are you going?"

Maggie's hand tightened on the knob but she answered easily.  "To the
library."

Skye nodded.  Then she noticed her sister didn't have any books or
papers or pens.  And it was absurdly early for such a visit.

Her brows knitted.  "Maggie," she began earnestly, "if there's
something that" "Not you, too!"  Maggie said.  It was not hard to
appear betrayed.

It was exactly what she felt.  "Please, Skye, don't do this.  Mama and
Jay Mac are so certain there's something wrong that they watch me all
the time.  I'm feeling smothered in my own home.  I can't go anywhere
without being interrogated."

"You haven't gone anywhere," Skye pointed out.  "Not in weeks you
haven't.  Not since you told Jay Mac you weren't going to marry Connor
Holiday.  One would think you're afraid you'll run into him."

"Don't be ridiculous.  He's probably back at his ranch by now."

"Well, if he is, it won't be for long.  Jay Mac is getting ready to
close the deal with Rushton.  The Double H won't be Connor's after
that."

Maggie closed her eyes momentarily as she felt uncertain guilt wash
over her again.  Weeks ago she had accepted the fact that somehow she
was at fault for Connor losing the land, yet she had no clear idea why
that should be so.  "It was never Connor's," she told her sister
sharply.  "It was his father's."

Skye frowned.  "You're different, Maggie.  Something's not" "I'm going
to the library."  She slipped outside and closed the door firmly behind
her.

There was the scent of early summer in the air.  The day was warm,
slightly humid, and the air was redolent with the fragrances from
flower gardens in full bloom.  Maggie's light shawl was more of a wrap
than she needed but she drew it around her shoulders protectively,
chilled from within.  It made no difference that she was out of the
house.  She was still smothered.  It was her own company that she
wished to escape, her own thoughts, the terrible sense of dread that
seemed to weigh her down so she was alternately sluggish or numb.

She didn't want to think about where she was going or what awaited her
there, but she found she had almost no choice in the matter.  She
couldn't call up the numbness to serve her when she needed it most.

Maggie Dennehy lowered her head and hunched her shoulders as she
approached the large brownstone on the northeast corner of 52nd Street
and Fifth Avenue.  The residence of Madame Restell was a pretentious
one, built long before the wealth of the city began moving uptown.  It
was a quiet scandal that the denizens of Fifth Avenue could now count
the most notorious and expensive abortionist in the city as one of
their own.  She was excluded from public social circles, but she had
intimate knowledge of the private ones.  After more than thirty years
of practice she was feared, and therefore protected.

Maggie hurried up the front steps, glad it was still very early and the
normally busy thoroughfare had only a little traffic.  She rang the
bell and was shown in almost immediately.

Maggie waited nervously in a sumptuously appointed parlor furnished in
royal purple and gold.  Thirty long minutes ticked by before Madame
Restell joined her.

"You shouldn't have come here," she said haughtily.  She was a slender
woman who carried herself with a stately air that lent her height and
consequence.  The pale skin of her face was engraved with fine lines,
especially around her mouth where they underscored an unfaltering and
sour expression.  The clear, sharp eyes were frankly assessing, wise,
and shrewd.  "This is my home.  I have offices on Chambers and
Greenwich Streets.  I advertise them."

Maggie had come to her feet upon Madame Restell's entrance.

Her fingers fidgeted nervously in the folds of her gown I...I didn't
know," she said uneasily.  "I only knew that you lived here."

"Then this is a social visit?"  she asked coldly.

"No.  Of course it's not.  It couldn't be, could it?  We've never met
before."  She waited expectantly, wanting a name to put to the
delicately featured face in front of her.

"Must you know my name?"

"Naturellment.  You know my name.  Knowing yours is my best
protection."

It didn't even occur to Maggie to try to lie, she was so bad at it.

"Mary Margaret Dennehy."

Madame Restell didn't blink.  With typical directness she said, "One of
Jay Mac Worth's bastard daughters."  When she saw Maggie's surprise at
her instant recognition she added, "I find it amusing to know the
skeletons in other people's closets."

Maggie bristled and her wide green eyes fired brightly.  "My sisters
and I are hardly skeletons since Jay Mac has never tried to hide our
existence."

"Nor tried to get rid of it either, it seems," Madame said bluntly.

"It's a certainty you weren't referred here by your mother."

At the mention of her mother Maggie blanched.  Her legs felt unsteady
beneath her.

"Sit down before you drop."  Madame Restell rang for tea.  When it was
brought she served some to Maggie but took none for herself.

"Drink it all," she ordered.  "It will put color back in your cheeks.

Have you lost weight recently?"

"A few pounds, I think."

"Judging by the fit of your gown I'd say it was closer to ten.  And you
have none to spare.  Have you been trying to lose it?"

Maggie shook her head.  She saw Madame's shrewd eyes drop to her tea
cup and Maggie quickly took a sip.

"That's better," Madame said approvingly.  "Then you weren't trying to
hide the fact that you're pregnant?"

"Am I?"

"Don't you know?"

"That's why I came here."  She took a large swallow of her tea, burning
the inside of her mouth this time.

"You came here to find out if you're pregnant?"  Madame asked slowly,
scarcely believing it.

"Shouldn't I have?"

"Most women go to a doctor first or wait until they know with absolute
certainty."

"But I can't go to my doctor.  He's a family friend and I don't want
anyone to know."

"So you came here."

"That's right."  She set aside her cup and saucer.  "Will you help
me?"

Madame Restell looked hard at her guest.  John MacKenzie Worth's
daughter.  It was a lovely irony.  The man had been trying to buy her
property and move her off Fifth Avenue for the better part of a
decade.

He had fathered five bastard daughters and carried on an open affair
with his mistress for years, and he was not only accepted by society,
he was one of its leaders.  She welcomed the opportunity to make him
beholden to her.  Mary Margaret Dennehy.

It was too delicious to pass.  "Come with me, child, and bring your
tea."

Maggie left by a side entrance less than an hour later.  She was too
dazed to bow her head or hunch her shoulders, too insensible to
comprehend the risk she was taking by allowing herself to be seen.

She could only think of the packet that Madame Restell had slipped into
her hand at the end of the examination.  Infallible French pills.

Maggie didn't know if she was afraid enough to use them or more afraid
not to.

Bery] Holiday opened the front door because the knock came while she
was passing.  It bothered her that with five servants in the house none
of them ever seemed available for the little duties she thought were so
intrinsically their province.  She vowed to speak to Rushton about it
again.  It was intentional, she thought, not mere coincidence.  The
servants didn't respect their new mistress.

"Yes?"  she asked.  "Is there something I can do for you?"

"You must be Mrs.  Holiday."

At least the woman hadn't mistaken her for a servant.  "That's
correct."

"I'm Maggie Dennehy."

Beryl stared at Maggie blankly.  It took her a moment to recognize and
place the name.  When she did, she blinked widely, shocked that Connor
had made an offer for her.  Mary Margaret Dennehy was thin and
curveless.  Her cheekbones were too prominent, her eyes too large, her
mouth too full.  Beryl supposed her hair was a nice feature but the
humidity had curled it haphazardly around the bonnet she wore.

"Of course, Miss Dennehy.  Won't you come in?"  Beryl, feeling more in
control of things by the second, opened the door wider.

Maggie hesitated.  "Is Mr. Holiday at home?"  she asked.  "Connor, I
mean.  I've come to see Connor."

Beryl's inclination was to lie but she wasn't given the opportunity.

Connor stepped out of his father's study and into the hallway.

"I'm right here, Beryl," he said.  "Please show Miss Dennehy in."

There was no choice but to comply.  She ushered Maggie in.  "May I take
your shawl?"  she asked politely.

In response Maggie drew it around her like armor.  Her grip relaxed
only when she caught the amused, almost superior glance that Beryl
tossed off in Connor's direction.  Maggie raised her head a notch,
straightened her spine, and walked boldly toward Connor.

He stepped aside to let her precede him into the study and blocked
Beryl from following.

"Don't even think it, Beryl," he murmured.  "You heard Miss Dennehy.

She came to see me."  He started to shut the door and paused to caution
his former fiancee.  "And no eavesdropping."

Beryl stamped her foot.  "You're hateful, Connor Holiday."

"I know."  He shut the door in her face.

Maggie was hovering near the chair where he had been sitting and
reading.  Her eyes had strayed to the book that curved open over the
arm of the chair.  She was tilting her head, trying to read the gold
leaf lettering on the spine.

"Don't twist your neck," he said.  "It's Jules Verne's Twenty Thousand
Leagues Under The Sea."

Maggie didn't attempt to hide her surprise.  "I don't know what to make
of that," she said honestly.  "Are you enjoying it?"

"Very much so."  He watched her consider that, finding it odd that she
could amuse him with her seriousness.

"I wouldn't have expected it."

"You don't know me very well."

It was like a wash of cold water slipping over the surface of her
skin.

She felt her skin go alternately hot and cold but she managed to say
steadily, "I wasn't sure that you would be here."

"You came anyway.

"I took a chance.  I thought perhaps you'd have returned to Colorado by
now."

"I'm leaving in a few days."

"I see."  She found it easier to look anywhere but at Connor.  "My
sister told me this morning that my father and yours are getting ready
to close the deal on the land."

"That's right."  He watched her expressive eyes fix on a point beyond
his shoulder.  She was worrying her lower lip.  "Is that why you've
come?"

She looked at him.  "What?"  Her eyes darted away again.  "No, that's
not it."

"So you don't have my twelve thousand dollars."  He was almost sorry he
said it, she looked so pained.

Maggie shook her head.  "No, I don't... I can't..."  Her soft voice
trailed away.  A film of tears formed in her eyes and she blinked
quickly to force them back.

"Maggie?"

She turned away.  "Those other things you said to me that night in my
home," she began before she lost her courage, "were they true?"

Connor surprised himself by hesitating.  Finally he said, "Yes.

They were all true."

Even though she had been expecting nothing less, her shoulders sagged
slightly.  She drew in a deep breath and turned to face him again.  She
raised her chin and this time she found the courage to look directly in
his cool and remote eyes.  "A few hours ago I found out I was carrying
a child.  I wondered if you might be the father."  Chapter 5

Connor Holiday had had his gut twisted by double-fisted punches that
were less numbing than the blow Maggie had just dealt him.  He knew he
had heard her correctly and he didn't insult her by asking her to
repeat it.  "Why don't you sit down, Maggie?"  That way he could do the
same.  He felt he had to.

She looked around and chose the short sofa opposite Connor's chair.

She perched on the edge like a fledgling bird, hands folded neatly in
her lap, her face raised expectantly.

Connor went to the door, opening and closing it softly to make certain
Beryl wasn't on the other side.  He returned to his chair, put his book
aside, and sat.  "Don't you know who the father is?"  he asked
quietly.

Maggie's face flushed with color but she managed to keep looking at
Connor.  "There's been no one... that is, no one I know of.  I only
thought of you because of those things you said."

He leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees.

His hands pressed together, forming a steeple with his fingers.

"Isn't it time you stop pretending?"

"Pretending?  Oh, I see.  You think I'm making it up."  She shook her
head.  "Perhaps I don't want to remember, Mr. Holiday, but it's still
true that I can't remember."

Connor thought that over, then responded to the only thing that made
sense to him.  "It's Connor, Maggie.  You may as well call me that.

Then there's no confusing me with my father."

A terribly gruesome thought occurred to Maggie.  Her expressive eyes
relayed her panic.  "Did I. . . you know.  . . with your father?"

Something flickered in Connor's eyes.  His voice was colder than he
intended.  "No.  That's not something you have to answer for."

Relieved, still a little confused, Maggie released the death grip she
had on the folds of her gown.  "But I did with you," she said.

"Yes."

She shook her head wonderingly.  "It's hard for me to believe," she
said, not much above a whisper.  "It's as if it happened to someone I
don't even know."  She stilled and stared steadily at Connor, trying to
imagine herself touching him.  It was difficult to get past the granite
remoteness of his face, the coldness that seemed powerful enough to
burn her with its intensity.  Had her fingers threaded in his
inky-black hair?  Sifted through the thickness at the nape of his
neck?

Had she touched the hollows just beneath his cheekbones or felt the
warmth of his bronzed skin?

Had she kissed him?  She remembered the kiss in the library of her own
home when he had wanted to stop her from screaming.  She was wondering,
though, about a different sort of kiss, one that was without force or
anger, just for pleasure's sake.  Had she kissed him like that?

Maggie's eyes had dropped to Connor's mouth, her expression intent on
the shape of his lips, until she realized the hint of the smile she saw
there was at her expense.  Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze to her
lap.  "I don't see how I could have done what you say."

"You did."

"But I don't know how."

"You learned."

"Maggie," he said, his tone approaching gentleness.  "You're carrying a
child.  How much more proof do you require?"

Her knuckles whitened as her fingers knotted in her lap.  "Can it be
anyone else's child?"

Connor's faint smile vanished.  "That would make it more palatable, is
that it?  It's easier to believe as long as I'm not the one who had his
calloused ranch hands on you.

She knew she had angered him but had no clear sense about why.

"Yes... no... that's not what I meant."  Maggie stood and crossed her
arms about her middle.  She went to the study's single arched window
and stood in front of it, looking out.  "I don't know what you're
talking about now.  You must know this isn't easy.  None of it.

I walked for hours before I gathered the courage to come here and maybe
it's only fear that's keeping me rooted in this room, but I'm still
here and I came for answers.  I need you to fill in gaps, not create
them."  She turned toward him again and asked frankly, "Are you the
father of my child?"

He could have said he wasn't certain, that he couldn't account for the
hours after she left him or the days and weeks that followed, but he
declined to muddy the waters or perpetuate the notion, in his own mind
or hers, that she was a whore when he knew it was no part of the
truth.

"The child's mine," he said.

Maggie was silent for a time, just thinking.  She didn't even feel
Connor's steady regard.  "It was March 24th, wasn't it?"

"Yes.  You remember that?"

"Not the way you think.  It's the only day in my adult life that I
can't entirely account for."  She glanced at him.  "Where did we
meet?"

Connor stood.  He pointed to the sofa while he reached to ring for a
servant.  "I think you'd better sit down, Maggie.  I'll have some lunch
brought to us.  This could take a while."

They didn't speak at all while lunch was being prepared.  Maggie
browsed through Rushton's collection of books while Connor pretended to
do something other than watch her.  She caught his attention without
any guile on her part and that puzzled him.  She was outside the realm
of his experience.  It was easier to deal with her when he thought she
was like this a jade.  Then he remembered there was still the matter
of twelve thousand dollars.  For some reason that made him relax.

Maggie wasn't hungry and under Connor's watchful eye it was even more
difficult to eat, but somehow she managed to do credit to the luncheon
that had been prepared.

"Tell me what you remember about the 24th," Connor said.  He buttered a
roll and gave Maggie half.

"I was at the library most of the day.  Skye came in with her friends
and wanted me to join them on a scavenger hunt."  She took a small bite
of the roll.  "I didn't really want to go but my sister can be very
persistent.  It was easier to give in.  We broke into teams and went
looking for the items on our list.  Skye's main reason for wanting me
along was so she could be with her friend Daniel.  No one else would
have let her disappear alone with him, but she didn't give me any
choice in the matter."

"So she was with Daniel and you were by yourself."

Maggie nodded.  She smiled slightly, unaware her eyes had clouded.  "I
didn't mind," she said.  "I wasn't afraid or anything like that.  I
continued to collect things on our list.  My problems began with a pair
of white gloves."

"I don't understand," he said.  What he did understand was that she had
hated being left to carry on alone and it seemed a betrayal of her
sister to say so.  "What about the white gloves?"

"I needed to find some.  I saw a man coming out of Delmonico's who was
wearing a pair and I thought I would simply ask him for them."  She
sighed.  "Only I'm not so brazen as all that and I followed on foot a
long way before I realized I could never ask him to give me his gloves
for a silly game.  I let him go on and that's when I think I realized I
was lost."  Maggie looked down at her plate, pushing a bit of cold
roast beef to the side, then raised uncertain eyes to Connor.  "I don't
know anything else.  The next thing I clearly remember is Skye waking
me up in my own bed the following morning."

Connor held her gaze for a long time before her eyes finally dropped
away.  "Do you want to hear this, Maggie?"  he asked.

"Have you really considered whether you want to know what happened?"

"I can't not know," she said quietly.

Connor saw that she wasn't going to eat any more so he put aside the
serving table that had been placed between them.  She declined his
offer of tea.  He poured a small tumbler of whiskey for himself.  "I
don't know all the details of that evening, not about the things that
happened before I met you, or after you left me, but I think I know
enough to fill in some of those hours."

"I'm ready," she said.

Connor doubted it.  "You followed the man with the white gloves from
Delmonico's to the red light district."  He saw by the embarrassed
color in her cheeks that he didn't have to explain what that meant.

"While you were there, perhaps while you were trying to find your way
out again, you were accosted by some sailors."

Maggie stared at him, fascinated as he went on.  She heard the words he
was saying but there was no connection to herself or anything that she
had ever done.  This time it was as if these events had happened to
someone else.  It was impossible to imagine that she had ever
encountered a man like Harlan Porter or escaped him only to find
herself a guest of a brothel... and to be mistaken for a whore?

it was the most incredible stuff and nonsense Maggie had ever heard.

She held up her hand, cutting Connor off.  "This is ridiculous," she
said bluntly.  "I can't listen to any more of it.  Now I know why you
like Twenty Thousand Leagues.  It's not a fantasy to you.  Not if you
think what you're telling me is true."  She started to rise.

"Sit down, Maggie," he ordered.  "''You can" "Sit down."

She did.  Her green eyes were angry now.

"I have no reason to lie about these things."

"You have twelve thousand reasons, she pointed out.  "And you're trying
to lay the blame at my feet."

"You have a baby in your belly," he said roughly.  "And you came here
looking for someone to blame."

"I came looking for answers.

"It's a sure thing you didn't come looking for the truth."  This time
it was Connor who stood up.  The fact that Maggie shrank back when his
shadow fell across her infuriated him.  "How did you think it happened,
Maggie?  How did you imagine we met?"

"I don't know.  I didn't think about it .  . . I couldn't."

"Liar.  I'll bet you thought we met in Central Park, that we walked
along the promenade or around the pond.  You probably imagined we were
overcome by a moment and couldn't help ourselves.  Is that how your
romantic head and heart got you with child?"

She simply gaped at him, speechless.

"We were overcome by a moment," he said brutally.  "But it was animal,
not romantic.  I thought you were there for me and I believed you
thought you were there for me.  It didn't happen once.  It happened
twice and the second time was better than the first.  It happened in
Mrs.  Hall's brothel, not on a bed of grass in Central Park.

It happened with me, not one of your whey-faced city suitors.  And
that's the truth, Miss Dennehy.  You can rail against it all you want
but it doesn't change what happened.  It certainly doesn't change the
fact that you're pregnant."

Maggie stood.  "No, but maybe Madame Restell can do that."  She brushed
past him on her way to the door.

Connor grabbed her wrist and stopped her in her tracks.  He felt her
shudder but he held her fast and gave no quarter even when she turned
to face him defiantly.  "What did you say?"  he asked sharply.

His eyes should have been the color of ice chips, she thought.

Eyes that were so deeply brown that they were almost black should have
been warmer.  Perhaps it was because she couldn't see into them that
they were so cold.  Even his anger was cold.  Only his palm around her
wrist was warm and there he held her so tightly she couldn't move her
fingers.  "I said," she repeated slowly, enunciating each word so there
would be no mistaking it, "that perhaps Madame Restell could do
that."

His grip didn't ease.  "Now let me go.

You're hurting me."

His fingers relaxed but he didn't let her go.  "Who's Madame
Restell?"

Maggie had forgotten that Connor hadn't been raised in New York.

"She's one of your neighbors."

"That's no answer.

"It's the only one you're getting from me.  Now, let me go."  She was
sick with fear and it made her brave.  The thought of humiliating
herself by losing her last meal in front of him gave her courage she
hadn't known she possessed.  He was looking at her as if she were a
particularly fascinating insect.  Any moment she was afraid he might
pluck off her wings.

Instead he set her free.

Maggie rubbed her wrist, returning circulation to her fingers.  She
watched him warily.  "I want to leave now.

"I'm not going to stop you.

She nodded.  "Thank you for that at least."

He went to the study door with her.  "When I call on you at your home I
expect to be able to see you.

She had no idea why he expected that but she managed a short nod.  She
was biting her lower lip again.

He opened the door for her.  "I'm leaving for Denver in a few days.

We should settle things between us before then."

Maggie bit her lip harder and nodded more emphatically this time.

"Settle things," she said.  "Yes, we should do that."

Moira caught her daughter as she was slipping through the front door.

"Skye said you'd be home for luncheon.  You didn't make it."

Maggie removed her hat and placed it on a table inside the entrance
hall.  She ran her fingers through the crown of her hair.

"I apologize, Mama.  I thought I would be.  I hope you didn't worry."

Moira didn't respond directly to that statement.  "Your sister's
waiting to see you in the parlor."

"Skye?  Why is she waiting .  . ."  Her voice trailed off as another
thought occurred to her.  She tried to inject some enthusiasm into her
tone though the return of dread and panic was what she was feeling.

"Mary Francis is here?"

"Hmm-mmm.  She came late this morning and stayed for lunch.

She didn't want to go back to the convent without seeing you."

"That was sweet of her."  There was no doubt in Maggie's mind that her
father and mother had arranged this.  Mary Francis rarely arrived
unannounced; her responsibilities with Little Sisters of the Poor were
too enormous to give her the freedom to come and go as she pleased.

Mary preferred to stay where she was most of the time.

Her presence at home meant that Moira and jay Mac had called for the
big gun.

Maggie was thinking just that as she entered the parlor.  Nothing about
her sister's appearance supported Maggie's thoughts.  It was a matter
of agreement among the four younger sisters that Mary Francis was the
real beauty of the family.  The perfect symmetry of her features set
her face at rest, giving her a serenity of expression that seemed
otherworldly at times.  That her face was framed by the comet of her
habit only emphasized the impression.  She was tall, slender, graceful
in her movements, even inside the bulky and figure-hiding habit.  It
wasn't Mary's appearance that made Maggie think of a big gun.  It was
firsthand knowledge that Mary Francis never minced her words, that she
was rarely reticent, and that she packed the punch of a cannonball.

Maggie never particularly thought Mary was suited to the sisterhood.

She should have been a general.

"It's good to see you," Maggie said, reaching out to hug her sister.

She felt herself enveloped in her sister's arms and Maggie wondered if
she hadn't been mistaken.  She felt such peace in Mary's embrace.

She realized she meant it; it was good to see Mary Francis again.

"No one mentioned you were going to be here today."

With typical frankness Mary said, "I think that was the plan.  Jay Mac
was concerned you'd run scared."

Maggie laughed.  It sounded strange to her ears and she realized then
how long it had been since she found anything amusing.  "I well may
have."  She sat down on the sofa and Mary Francis joined her.

"Are you here to pry certain secrets out of my head?"

Mary grinned.  "Something like that.  No one seems quite certain what's
going on with you, Mag.  The only thing everyone agrees on is that
you're unhappy."

It bothered Maggie that she was the subject of so much discussion
behind her back.  She managed to force a smile.  "Do I seem so unhappy
to you?"

"Yes.  That smile doesn't particularly support your efforts."

Trust Mary to see right through her.  "I suppose you have a theory.

Mama and jay Mac thought there was a man."  She was amazed she could
say these things so matter-of-factly.  If she worked at it she would be
able to lie, even to Mary Francis.  "Skye thinks I'm still mad at her
for a trick she played on me weeks ago."

"Any truth to either one of those?"

"No."

Mary's calm, forest-green eyes were unwavering as she studied Maggie's
face.  "What's your explanation?"

"Nothing's wrong."

Mary Francis shook her head.  One slender hand rested on her rosary
beads.  They slipped through her fingers in an unconscious gesture.

"That's where you're making your mistake.  To say that nothing's wrong
when something so obviously is commands everyone's attention.  Do you
understand what I'm saying?"

Maggie wasn't certain.  Was Mary Francis teaching her to prevaricate or
helping her protect her privacy?  Or was it a little of both?  "I think
I do."

"You don't, but it's sweet of you to pretend."  Mary Francis released
her beads and took Maggie's hand in hers.  "I know you'll tell us the
truth when you're able," she said.  "In the meantime, know that you're
in my prayers.

It was the stinging ache of unshed tears at the back of Maggie's throat
that kept her from blurting out Madame Restell's name.  It was
difficult to swallow, impossible to speak.

Mary's hand squeezed Maggie's.  "Tell me about medical school," she
said.  "Have you heard anything?"

Somehow she managed to get the words out.  "I expect to hear something
soon.  I've been studying a lot in case I'm accepted."

"Mama says you spend a great deal of time at the library."

She nodded.  "I like it there.  It's quiet and peaceful.  Rather like
the convent, I imagine."

Mary's beautiful smile animated her face and brightened her eyes.

"Oh, Maggie, not at all like the convent.  Except for prayers it fairly
echoes with joyful noise.  If I want to be contemplative, I go to the
library."

"Mama would wring her hands if she heard you talking like that," Maggie
said.

"Poor Mama.  I think she's afraid if I'm not more respectful I won't be
able to atone for her sins.  I try to tell her that Our Lord did that
already but she sees me as her sacrificial lamb."

"Mary Francis!  That's practically blasphemous!"

"I think it is blasphemous."  She shrugged.  "And then I think it
anyway.  And say it.  I can't seem to help myself Sometimes I wonder if
Mama promised her firstborn to the church so everyone else might do as
they wish."

Maggie's eyes widened.  She'd never had an inkling that Mary Francis
felt that way.

Mary patted her sister's hand.  "Now, don't go thinking I'm saying
something I'm not," she cautioned.  "And whatever you do, don't point
jay Mac and Mama in my direction.  Perhaps I'm a little more sensitive
to your dilemma, whatever it is, because I'm in the middle of my own.

You should be thankful.  It wouldn't have taken me but two minutes to
pry your secrets loose otherwise."

Maggie knew that was true.  "What will you say to Mama?"

"That she should get involved in charity work like other grande
dames."

"You won't!"

Mary Francis gave her younger sister a sidelong glance almost begging
to be dared.  "Oh, all right," she said, giving in, "but it would have
kept her from worrying about you for a while."

"I can take care of myself, Mary," Maggie said softly.

"I know," came the gentle reply.  "That's what I'm going to tell
her."

Connor did not try to see Maggie that evening, for which she was
grateful.  She spent most of the night in her room staring at her
supply of Infallible French Pills.  At bedtime she tried a dozen hiding
places before she decided to sleep with them under her pillow.

The next morning it was the breeze just above her face that woke her.

She blinked, her eyes crossing as she tried to focus on the thing Skye
was waving in front of her nose.  "What is that?"  she asked, batting
it away.

"A letter," Skye said excitedly.  She was dancing in place and looking
every bit as young as Beryl Holiday had first thought her.

"The letter!  C'mon!  Wake up!"

Maggie pushed herself upright and managed to relieve Skye of the
bobbing letter with one swipe.

"It's from the Philadelphia Medical College," Schyler said helpfully.

"I can see that."  She examined the seal on the envelope and ran her
index finger around the edge slowly.

"Well?  Aren't you going to open it?"

It felt too light to be an acceptance.  It was probably a rejection.

An acceptance would have some instructions in it, wouldn't it?

Maggie started to wedge her nail under the seal.  She stopped.

"What is it?"  Skye demanded.  "Aren't you excited?"  Then with sudden
insight she understood the problem.  Her face fell.  "Oh, no.

You don't want me here.  That's it, isn't it?"

"I'm sorry, Skye.  I need to do this alone.  It's not you, it's
anybody.

I suppose I'm a little afraid."  It seemed these days she was afraid of
everything.  "You understand, don't you?  I'll tell everyone at
breakfast.  No matter what the news, I'll need that much time to
myself."

Skye leaned forward and kissed her sister on the cheek.  "I hope it's
wonderful news," she said.  "The very best."  Then she dashed out of
the room, fingers crossed on both hands.

Maggie had to wait for her slamming heart to quiet.  She cracked the
seal, pulled out the letter, and unfolded it very carefully.

Taking a deep breath, she read silently.

At the end there were tears in her eyes.  She let them fall.  They
dripped on the back of her hand; they smudged the ink.  She came to a
decision then.  She knew what she had to do.  It was the same thing she
couldn't have done yesterday even with a gun held to her head.  It
seemed incredible that a single letter could exert so much influence.

Maggie reached under her pillow and found the packet of Madame
Restell's pills.  She rose from the bed slowly and padded on silent,
bare feet to her bathing room.

Three expectant faces were turned in her direction as she entered the
breakfast room.  Jay Mac had delayed his trip to the office to hear
Maggie's news.  She gave them a half-hearted smile and saw they
understood immediately.

"It's not the end of the world," she said brightly, a shade too
brightly perhaps, she thought.  "I can reapply next spring for the fall
term."

"But you did so well on your exams," Schyler said.  "And you were a
straight-A student."

"That's not the only thing they care about.  I wasn't a very popular
student.  I didn't join any clubs or take any leadership positions."

She shrugged.  "Anyway, there are only twenty-two openings in the
school and my letter says they had more than a hundred applications.

Jay Mac shook his head in patent disbelief.  "A hundred women who want
to be doctors?  It defies common sense.

"Jay Mac," Moira said severely.  "This is not the time or the place."

She rose from the table and poured orange juice for everyone.

John MacKenzie Worth was properly abashed.  "I'm sorry, Maggie.  It
doesn't matter what I think.  I know your heart was set on this."

"It's all right, Papa."  Everyone at the table except Maggie noticed
that she called Jay Mac "Papa."  It was the clearest evidence they had
of how horribly sad she was feeling.  "I've been thinking that this is
the way it would be.  I wasn't really very hopeful.  Maybe that's what
everyone's been noticing about me these last months.  I suppose I've
been expecting rejection all along."

Skye's elbows spread across the table as she leaned forward, her
expression pained and earnest.  "I'm sorry, Mag.  I know how much you
wanted it to be otherwise.  I wish.  . ."  She trailed off, blinking
back tears.  Her sister's hurt and disappointment was very real to her;
she absorbed it as her own.

"It's all right," Maggie said gently, becoming the comforter.  "I was
prepared a little bit more than you.  I've been thinking of other
things I can do."

Jay Mac nodded.  "That's right.  There's no sense waving the white flag
in every direction.  Why, you could-" Moira interrupted her husband
before he enumerated all the things he thought Maggie could do.  She
looked significantly at Jay Mac.  "I'd like to hear Maggie's
thoughts."

Maggie glanced at her father.  He was chafing a little at Moira's
interruption but showed no signs of overriding her suggestion.

Maggie picked up the jam and began spreading it on a slice of bread.

"I've been thinking I should be getting some practical experience," she
said.  "I don't know if it would have occurred to me if Rennie hadn't
mentioned it in a letter not so long ago, but she did and it has."

Jay Mac stopped eating.  A strip of bacon dangled in his fingers at a
midpoint between his plate and his mouth.  He was very interested in
what Rennie may have suggested.  He was also very worried.

When his daughters began putting thoughts in one another's heads they
were a force to be reckoned with.  "I don't suppose her recommendation
had anything to do with Connor Holiday and you and marriage."

Maggie put down her knife and looked squarely at her father.

"Papa, everyone knows that was your idea and the less said about it,
the better."

Moira hid her smile behind a napkin as the crisp bacon strip snapped in
Jay Mac's fingers.  Skye grinned openly at Maggie's courageous
confrontation.

"What I want to do," she went on, "is study with Dancer Tubbs."

Now Jay Mac's brows shot nearly to his hairline.  Moira lowered her
napkin slowly.  There was no smile to hide any longer.  Skye's face
reflected her confusion.  All three of them, with nearly identical
inflections of incredulity, said simultaneously, "Dancer Tubbs?"

Maggie continued as if there had been no amazed reaction by any member
of her family.  "I don't know, of course, if Mr. Tubbs will have
anything to do with me, but I know how he feels about you, Jay Mac, and
I thought that may count for something."

"But Dancer Tubbs lives in Colorado," Moira said.

"Yes, I know.  But so do Rennie and Michael.  It's not as if there'd be
no family there."

"I thought Dancer Tubbs lived alone in the middle of nowhere in
Colorado," Skye said.

"He does," said Maggie.  "But that doesn't bother me.  Rennie would
always know where to find me."

"The conditions would be very primitive," Moira said.

"I could adjust," Maggie replied.  "Anyway, you have to think of what
I'd be learning.  Jay Mac's said himself that Mr. Tubbs knows a great
deal about healing.  He saved Jay Mac's life after the train wreck at
Juggler's Jump; set his broken legs and brought him back to good
health.  Rennie thinks the world of him.  He healed Jarret's shoulder
when no physician anywhere could.  Rennie says Jarret has full use of
his arm and hand now and she credits Mr.  Tubbs."

"I don't think it would be safe," Moira said.

"How couldn't it be?"  asked Maggie.  "No one bothers Mr.  Tubbs.

He keeps to himself I'm certain I'd be quite safe."

Still disbelieving what she was hearing, Skye shook her head slowly.

"Are you quite certain you read Rennie's letter correctly?"  she
asked.

"Was she seriously suggesting you do this?"

"I didn't mean that it was her idea exactly.  She wrote something that
put the idea in my head."

"Well," Jay Mac said firmly, "you can put the idea out again.

You're not going."

Silence blanketed the breakfast room.  Skye stared at her plate.

Moira studied the napkin in her lap.  Maggie felt heat and color rise
in her cheeks as she looked steadily at her father.  Jay Mac began
eating, the matter settled in his mind.

"Excuse me," Maggie said softly.  She stood, dropped her napkin on her
chair, and left the room before anyone saw her tears.

* * * "Where are you going?"  Beryl asked as she slipped into Connor's
bedroom.

"None of your business."  He shrugged into his jacket.

Beryl closed the door behind her and leaned against it.  "What did that
Dennehy girl want yesterday?"

"I'm surprised it's taken you this long to ask," he said.

Beryl's eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened.  He knew perfectly well
why she'd had to wait to ask the question.  Connor had managed to make
himself inaccessible.  "So?"  she asked.  "What did she want?"

"None of your business."  He walked to the door and was forced to stop
when Beryl refused to step aside.  "Get out of my way, Beryl."

She didn't move.  "Are you going to see her?"

"It's really none of your concern.  You're my father's wife, not
mine."

He waited a beat.  "Move, Beryl."

She shook her head.  "Why do you keep pretending you don't want me,
Connor?"

He managed to hold his temper.  "It's not a pretense," he said.

"Rushton knows you still want me."

"That's something you'd like him to believe.  There's no truth in it.

Beryl reached out boldly and laid the flat of her hand against Connor's
groin.  "Oh no?"  she asked.  Under the practiced manipulation of her
hand she felt him respond.  "It seems you're lying."

A muscle worked in Connor's taut jaw.  He took Beryl's wrist in his
hand and very deliberately removed it from his groin.  "Get out of my
way, Beryl."

The hardness in his opaque eyes thrilled and frightened her.  She moved
this time.

Connor stepped into the hallway and nearly ran into his father.

"She's in there," he said, jerking his chin toward his room and making
no attempt to hide his disgust.  "You know, you probably saved my life
by marrying Beryl Walker.  It's a damn sure thing you saved hers."  He
kept on walking.

Once outside Connor didn't bother to hail a hansom.  He hated the
confines of carriages, even the open ones, and itched to be riding his
own mount again.  None of the horses in his father's stable were bred
for the hard free-range work that Connor's animals performed on the
ranch.  Rushton's mounts were beautifully matched high steppers,
purchased for show.  They had speed.  Connor's mounts were sure-footed
mountain climbers and hard-driving herders.  They had endurance.

It was just seven o'clock when Connor arrived at the Worth home.

The housekeeper opened the door to him.  "Connor Holiday to see Mary
Margaret."

"Sure, and I know who you are, young man," Mrs. Cavanaugh said.  "It's
a real pleasure, I can tell you that, though I don't speak for anyone
but myself.  Always a pleasure to cast these eyes on a handsome devil
like yourself."

Completely disarmed, Connor hesitated on the threshold.

"Well, step inside.  She's not going to entertain you on the stoop."

Mrs. Cavanaugh shut the door behind him.  "Truth is, she may not
entertain you at all.  She's in the library.  I'll announce you.

Sensing an ally, Connor touched the housekeeper's arm, stopping her.

"I know where the library is.  Perhaps it would be better if I just
went ahead alone."

Mrs. Cavanaugh considered it, her mouth puckered to one side
thoughtfully.  "She'll be fit to be tied," she said, "but it's nothing
I've not seen before.  Go on with you."  She waggled a finger at him
sternly.  "I'll be close by."

Maggie was sitting in one cdrner of the sofa, her stockinged feet
curled under her, her gaze unfocused and vague.  There was an unopened
book on the rug beside her shoes.  The drapes were drawn, keeping out
late spring's twilight.  Except for a single oil lamp on the table
beside the sofa, the room was dark.

She looked up when she heard the door click shut.  "I didn't think it
would be you," was all she said.  She went back to staring at the
shelves of books on the opposite wall.

"May I?"  he asked, indicating the chair in her line of vision.

She shrugged.

Connor sat down.  She was staring right past his shoulder and he didn't
try to gain her full attention.  It gave him a moment to study her.

She was sitting at the edge of the circle of light, her features partly
obscured by shadow.  Half of her hair was a dark blend of browns, the
other half shot through with threads of copper and gold.

Her eyelids were faintly swollen, the rims just hinting of red.  As
deep as he could see into her eyes he could only see sadness.

"Your housekeeper let me in," he said quietly.

Still not looking at him, she nodded.  "There's no one else here."

"I hadn't expected that."

"Jay Mac's still at his office.  He .  . . he got a late start today.

Mama's gone to see Mary Francis at the convent and Skye's with
friends.

Would you like some refreshment?  Mrs. Cavanaugh could~" "No, nothing
for me."  He watched her withdraw again.  The change was almost
imperceptible, just a small movement of her head and a slight hunching
of her shoulders, but he was coming to know what it meant.  "after you
came to visit me yesterday I asked a few questions," he said.  "I know
about Madame Restell."

Maggie wasn't surprised, merely resigned.  "I shouldn't have told
you.

"But you did."

"I was angry."

He nodded.  "And frightened, I think."

She shrugged again.

"Have you done anything about your threat?"  he asked.

Now she looked at him.  "You mean, am I still carrying your child?"

He was silent a moment.  "Yes."  he said, "that's what I mean."

She watched him carefully.  "No.  Madame Restell's pills are as
advertised: infallible."  What was it she saw there in the darkly
remote eyes?  Pain?  Relief?  It was gone so quickly that Maggie
wondered that she had seen anything at all.  Indifference was his
practiced expression.  She wished that it might be hers.

"I see," he said.  "I believe I will have something to drink now."

Was he celebrating or mourning?  Maggie rose gracefully from the sofa
and went to the sideboard.  She pointed to the various crystal
decanters and stopped when he indicated the whiskey.  She poured three
generous fingers in a tumbler and handed it to him.  "Nothing for you?"
 he asked as she returned to the sofa.

"No."  She had never been able to drink.  Alcohol went right to her
feet and emptied her head of every sensible thought she'd ever had.

She almost told him but she suspected he already knew that about her.

"Nothing for me."

He warmed the whiskey by rolling the tumler between his opened palms.

"When are you going to marry me?"  he asked.

She blinked, stared at him, and blinked again.

Connor repeated the question.

"I heard you," she said.  "But I wonder if you heard me.  I told you
Madame Restell's pills worked.  I'm not pregnant.  There's no reason
for you to marry me.

"If you recall, I asked you to marry me before I knew there was a
baby."

"If you recall, I said no."

"Why?"

"Why!"  She was surprised to hear the passion in her voice.  "I don't
love you!"

Connor was fascinated by the brightness that had come into her eyes.

"So?"  he asked reasonably.

"I don't even like you."

"I know.  It's mutual."  He paused, watching her.  A cold half-smile
played at one corner of his mouth.  "Or did you suspect I might feel
differently about the woman who calmly tells me she's aborted my
child?"

Maggie shivered at what she saw in his eyes this time.  He didn't
merely dislike her, she realized.  He despised her.  An idea, one that
would have been impossible to imagine minutes earlier, began to form in
her mind.  "You want the land, don't you?"  s gaze didn't waver and he
didn't lie.  "Yes."

"I don't believe I took your money that night."

"And I don't believe it was anyone else."

"It's not like me," she said.  "I've never stolen anything."

It was Connor's turn to shrug indifferently.  "The way I remember it,
you did a number of things that night you've never done before."

Something tugged at the edge of her memory and Maggie was awash with a
physical sensation she couldn't understand or explain.

Pleasure rushed through the center of her.  Her breasts swelled and her
nipples hardened.  A hand was on her skin.  A mouth.  A tongue wet her
lips, pressed against her teeth.  Please, she heard a voice say.

Please.  It was her own voice.  She closed her eyes.

Maggie jumped to her feet and pressed her knuckles against her mouth.

Pleasure shattered as the memory disintegrated and Maggie was left with
a burning sense of shame.  She wrapped her arms around her middle and
stepped away from the light.

"Maggie?  Are you all right?"

She nodded.  It was all she could do.  It was difficult to catch her
breath but how could she tell him that?  How could she tell him what
had happened when she hardly knew herself?

"Do you want me to ring for the housekeeper?"  he asked.

"No."  She sat down slowly and resumed her curled position, tucking her
feet under the skirt of her coral gown.  "It's nothing."

Connor wasn't so sure.  He raised his glass, drank a little, then
watched her over the rim.

"I don't suppose I can convince you about the money," she said.

"No, I don't suppose you can.

"But you know I don't remember."

"I'm still skeptical about that," he said.  "But I'm willing to be
convinced."

Of course, she thought, when there was no way she could offer proof he
was willing to hear the evidence.  "If I agreed to marry you, she said,
"you would get the land."

"That was the arrangement suggested by your father.  My father sells
the land to Jay Mac and it becomes your dowry."

"And therefore yours."

"That's right."

"And what do I get?"

Connor didn't hesitate.  "Satisfaction that your debt has been paid in
full."

"Only one of us agrees there is a debt," she said.  "I only have your
word that there ever was any money.

Connor stretched his legs out in front of him.  "There was money, he
said.

"Even if I agree there was, it's still not enough to make me marry
you."

If Connor had ever had any doubt he was dealing with Jay Mac's
daughter, Maggie was making certain he knew it now.  He wondered if she
was aware of how like her father she was at this moment.

Nothing had changed about her physically.  She was as delicately
featured as her mother, her wide green eyes as guileless, her
expression almost serene, but she was setting up her trade with the
shrewd business savvy of Jay Mac himself.  "What is it you want?"  he
asked.

"A divorce."

She had the power to surprise him and this time it showed on his
face.

He set down his tumbler.  "You marry me and then I divorce you.

"Yes."  Now her tone was perfectly reasonable.  "You get the land and I
get what I really want."

"The divorce?"  He didn't pretend to understand.

Maggie shook her head.  "That's the means to an end.  What I want is an
escort to Colorado, specifically to a man named Dancer Tubbs.  I want
to know what he knows about healing.  I have reason to believe he'll
let me stay with him and learn from him."

Connor Holiday actually laughed.  "Dancer Tubbs?  You think you'd be
welcome to stay with Dancer Tubbs?"  Still smiling, he shook his
head.

He picked up his drink and took a short swallow.

"I don't know how you've even heard his name, or know anything about
him, but you don't know enough if you think you'll find a welcome
there."

Maggie raised her chin a trifle haughtily.  "A while back my father was
thought to have died in a train wreck at Juggler's Jump in Colorado."

"I'm aware of that.  Your father's an important man.  News of what
happened reached my ranch the same as it did everywhere else.  As the
crow flies, Juggler's Jump's about twenty miles from the Double H. I
was part of one of the first search parties to go over the area."

Maggie hadn't known that.  "Then thank you," she said sincerely.

"For what?  I didn't find him."

"You looked.  There were others on the train besides my father.

You must have helped them."

Connor didn't want her misplaced gratitude.  He brushed it aside with a
wave of his hand.  "I never heard how your father was found, only that
he reappeared one day."

"Rennie and her husband found him.  No, that's not quite true.

Dancer Tubbs found him first, took care of him, and kept him safe.

Rennie never believed Jay Mac was dead.  She made Jarret take her to
the site of the wreck and from there, on a hunch, he took her to
Dancer's place.  They found Jay Mac working in one of Dancer's mines.

"It's rather hard to imagine."

She smiled faintly.  The image of her father on his hands and knees,
picking ore out of a vein of gold, was not an easy one to maintain.  "I
know.  But it's true nonetheless.  In the months before he was found he
and Dancer Tubbs forged a binding friendship."

"That's even harder to imagine."  He leaned forward in his chair.

"Look, Maggie, Dancer is something of a legend in that part of
Colorado.  People know of him, but not many people know him.

That's the way he prefers it."

"I'm aware of that.  But he made an exception for my father.

Rennie says he does that for all hurting animals.  That's why he healed
Jarret's shoulder.  If you're hale and hearty he won't have anything to
do with you, but if you need him, really need him, he won't turn you
away."

"Are you ill?"

"Then what makes you think" "I need him.  I think he'll understand."

She saw by Connor's expression that she wasn't explaining herself well
enough.  "I've always wanted to be a doctor," she said softly.  The
ache from her shattered dream was still there.  She realized belatedly
that she couldn't expose herself to Connor Holiday.  No matter what she
had done with him, this was exposure of a different nature.  One had
only left her naked, this would leave her defenseless.  "Never mind,"
she said.  "It's not important."

Connor had no problem translating that.  She didn't want him to know.

Sensing it would be futile, he didn't press.  "Rumor has it that Dancer
Tubbs is rather .  . ."  He searched for a way to say it.

Rather difficult to look on."' "So I understand.  But it wouldn't
bother me.  It didn't bother Jay Mac.  And it didn't bother Rennie."

"You've never seen him then."

"I've never been west of Pittsburgh.  Have you seen him?"

"Never.  He's a hermit and he shows most trespassers the dangerous end
of a shotgun.  For all practical purposes he's a neighbor of mine, but
I've always respected his privacy."

Maggie was surprised when she felt the tug of humor.  "It probably has
nothing to do with the dangerous end of his shotgun," she said dryly.

"Not a thing," he deadpanned.

Comfortable silence descended briefly before she remembered she didn't
like him, was a little afraid of him, and the first feeling at least
was mutual.

Connor watched her withdraw again.  "Have you mentioned this idea of
yours to anyone?"

"Who would I talk to?"

"Your sister."

"Skye?"  Maggie thought of Skye's reaction at the breakfast table.

"No, she wouldn't understand.  I don't share everything with her."

I've never shared everything with anyone, she thought.

"I was thinking of the other one, the one who's a nun."

"Mary Francis.  No, she wouldn't approve of me setting about so
deliberately to get a divorce."

Connor's voice was terse.  "I would think divorce would pale in the
face of abortion."

In her lap Maggie's fingers knotted together.  She managed to keep her
voice steady.  "It does," she said.  Her dark green eyes were
haunted.

"And I have to live with my decisions."

He stood.  At six-foot-two Connor Holiday towered over Maggie
Dennehy.

In every other way she had managed to make him feel small.  "So you and
I are the only ones who know about your plan."

"That's right.  We're the only ones who should ever know."

He nodded shortly.

"You agree?"  she asked anxiously.  "To everything?  The escort to
Dancer's?  The divorce?"

"Yes."

"And I'll never have to see you again?  I mean, I didn't know that you
lived so close to Mr.  Tubbs."

"As the crow flies."

"It's closer than I'd hoped," she said bluntly.

"You're assuming that I might want to see you."  He said just as
bluntly.  "Don't flatter yourself."

She flushed.  "I'm sorry.  You're right, of course.  It would be as if
we were still separated by two thousand miles instead of only
twenty."

"Exactly."  He kept his remote gaze on her face.  "Well then, Miss
Dennehy, let me put the question to you again.  Will you marry me?"

"Yes, Mr.  Holiday, I believe I will."

Chapter 6

She didn't quite believe she'd said it.  Maggie stared at Connor
Holiday and waited for him to take back his proposal.  He didn't.

He merely returned her gaze until she grew uncomfortable and looked
away.  Now that she had what she wanted she hardly knew how to
proceed.

Connor took matters out of her hands.

"I'm leaving for home in four days," he said.  "I've already had to
delay my departure once.  I'm not doing it a second time."

"What about the wedding?"

"What about it?"  One eyebrow lifted.  "You're not suggesting that we
have a big affair with all our parents' society friends?"

"N-no.  I .  . . I was just wondering when we would do it?"  The
uncertainty in her own voice added to her distress.

"What's wrong with the day after tomorrow?  That leaves us with only
one night in New York and then we're on our way west the next day."

"The day after tomorrow," she repeated without inflection.  "Yes, that
would be all right, I suppose."

"Good, that's settled."

"I won't marry you in church," she said.

"You couldn't anyway.  I'm not Catholic."  He watched her bite her
lower lip.  "I'd think you'd be relieved."

She was thinking of confession.  Father Flynn was going to recognize
her voice and she was going to get a lecture on excommunication.  Her
cheeks burned.  Maggie didn't think she could summon enough courage to
go to the confessional in the first place.

"There's no relief with any of this."

Connor picked up his tumbler and went to the sideboard.  He poured half
as much as Maggie had given him the first time.  He didn't keep it for
himself.  He handed it to her.  "You don't need to knock it back," he
said.  'Just sip it."

Maggie took a tentative sip to appease him.  It worked because he sat
down again.  "Who will marry us?"  she asked.

"Most anyone, I suspect."

"Judge Halsey married my sister Michael.  He's her godfather.

Perhaps he'll do the same for us."

"Do you want me to arrange it?"

"Please."

Connor indicated with a short gesture that she should take another sip
of her drink.  This time she did little more than wet her lips with the
whiskey.  "I'm not trying to get you drunk," he said, "only a little
more relaxed than you are now."

Maggie nodded her understanding, though it didn't change her actions.

She held onto her drink but didn't taste any more of it.

Connor leaned back in his chair.  "What about our wedding night?"  he
asked.

Whiskey sloshed over the side of Maggie's tumbler as she jerked
stiffly.  "Oh!"  Without thinking, she sucked droplets of whiskey from
her knuckles.

He watched her.  The dark centers of his eyes absorbed her artless
action but he was remembering the suck of her mouth on his flesh.

He felt his body stir almost immediately in response.  She didn't have
to touch him to make him hard.  Beryl would hate that.  Connor got up
and took the tumbler from Maggie's hand.  "It's a shame to waste good
whiskey."

Maggie noticed he didn't drink it, though, merely put it aside.

She cleared her throat and managed to get out rather raspily, "You were
saying?"

Connor sat on the sofa beside her this time.  He felt her draw her
curled legs closer to her body.  "I was asking about our wedding
night.

Since we'll be going away the following morning, I think we should
spend it at my father's house."

"I thought we'd spend it here," she said.

"Why?"

Because I'll feel safer, that's why.  She said, "My dressing room has a
day bed.  You can sleep there."

"Like hell.  It's probably comfortable for your friends but I'd hang
over at both ends."  He saw by her slight smile that he had guessed
correctly.  "On the other hand, the chaise in my dressing room will
accommodate you."

She didn't relish the idea of sleeping on a chaise but she was grateful
he didn't expect her to share his bed.  She avoided looking at him.

"That .  . . that will be fine."

"Good."

"I want to talk about the divorce," she said.

"In a moment.  I want to talk about the journey west.  I wasn't
planning on first class accommodations.  It will be days and nights of
sitting up in-" Maggie shook her head, interrupting him.  'Jay Mac will
let us take the private Northeast Rail cars.  He'll insist on it,
actually, so there's no sense in thinking we'll be doing anything
different."

"And he always gets his way.

Maggie stared at her hands, thinking about what she was going to do.

"Usually," she said hollowly.  "He usually gets his way."

"This time I don't mind."

She turned to look at him, her smile a little lopsided, a little sad.

"It's hard to mind when Jay Mac throws money at you."  Connor looked as
if he might interrupt and Maggie stopped him.  "No, don't explain.  I
understand.  Believe me, I understand.  Jay Mac's money is very
seductive."

So is Jay Mac's daughter.  Connor didn't much like the direction of his
thoughts.  His eyes strayed to Maggie's slender waist.

Thinking about the child that might have been, he found the common
sense that had momentarily deserted him.  "You wanted to talk about the
divorce," he said tightly.

She supposed she had angered him with her talk of money.  He probably
didn't like being reminded that twelve thousand dollars had bought
him.

"I think we should begin proceedings as soon as we arrive in Denver.

It could take a while and I'd rather not draw it out longer than
necessary.

"You don't think it would be better to wait, say a year or so, before
beginning?"

"No!"

"It's hardly flattering that you're so horrified."

"Good," she said stiffly.  "I don't mean to be flattering."

Connor considered that.  "You'll have to get over this aversion to me
at least for one day."

"My family won't expect that I've suddenly fallen in love with you,"
she said.  "That would make Jay Mac suspicious.  He imagines love will
come in time.  We need only be civil."

"All right," he said.  "That'll make things easier for me, too."

Maggie blinked.  For a moment she had forgotten she wasn't the only one
with an aversion.  "Then it seems we're agreed."

He stood.  "I'll talk to my father tonight and yours tomorrow."

Maggie also stood.  She looked at him uncertainly when he held out his
hand.

"A shake," he said.  "To seal our bargain."

Maggie's slender fingers were swallowed by his as she extended her
hand.  Long after he was gone she could still feel the warmth of his
skin against hers.  She'd struck terms with a man, she thought.

Why then did it seem as though she'd made her bargain with the devil?

For three days Maggie lived in fear that someone would see through to
her heart.  Everyone, even Jay Mac, asked her why she was changing her
mind about marrying Connor Holiday, but they all accepted her
explanation that Connor himself had helped her see the sense in it.

Perhaps because it was a little of the truth or perhaps because they
all found it remarkably easy to believe she could be led about so
simply, there was no unpleasant interrogation.

True to form, Jay Mac was congratulating himself for being so
foresighted in his estimation of both his daughter and Connor
Holiday.

Knowing that she was going to thwart his plans, Maggie almost felt
sorry for him.  Almost.  For three days she permitted herself the small
satisfaction that accompanies revenge.  She understood herself well
enough to know that she would live with guilt after that.

She saw little of Connor.  He spoke to her once, as a formality, after
speaking to her father.  Their conversation was stilted on that
occasion.  She was invited to dine at his home by his father and Beryl
but during that ordeal Maggie felt oddly protected by Connor's
presence.  He called for her to go riding in Central Park.  They sat
side by side in an open carriage, more to be seen than see, laying
rumors concerning their hasty marriage to rest.  She smiled.  He
smiled.

Their hands never touched.

Maggie remembered that leisurely ride through Central Park as she stood
beside Connor in Judge Halsey's private chambers.  The last time they
met they hadn't exchanged a single word and now they were exchanging
vows.

She had thought it would be the hardest part.  She had forgotten about
the kiss.

Maggie raised her face.  Connor was studying her, his dark eyes sliding
over her forehead, over the tiny crease between her brows, over her
pale cheeks and anxious eyes, until they settled on her mouth.  She had
drawn in one corner of her lower lip, worrying it gently.  He shook his
head slightly and she released it.  Somewhat self-consciously the tip
of her pink tongue peeped out and dampened the line of her lower lip.

She saw her reflection in Connor's darkening eyes as he lowered his
head.

His mouth was firm on hers.  He didn't press but the pressure was
there.  Her lips parted yet he didn't invade.  As a kiss it was chaste
and Maggie knew that because the one she was comparing it to had been
filled with carnal promise.

She shivered slightly as memory prodded her senses.  She could feel his
mouth on hers, insistent, hot in its seeking.  She could taste him as
his tongue wedged itself between her teeth and she opened her mouth
wider.  He teased her, his lips mobile on hers, sucking, plundering.

Then playful.  He released her.  And his mouth went lower.  He touched
her .

"Maggie?"

She came out of her reverie with a start, blinking widely.

Connor's face was very close to hers.  His breath was warm against her
skin as he said her name.  "Oh," she said softly, dazed.

"Oh, indeed," Judge Halsey broke in, his tone knowing.  He beamed
hugely at Jay Mac and Moira, who returned his fulsome smile.  Skye
giggled.  Mary Francis grinned.  Rushton nodded, pleased.  Only Beryl
looked thunderous.

Feeling foolish, Maggie stepped back, slipping out of Connor's light
hold on her elbows.  She was grateful he let her go.  She turned away
from his cool and distant gaze and faced her family.

She was enveloped in their loving arms, in their fierce
congratulations.  Jay Mac and Moira hugged her warmly while Skye danced
around her happily.  Mary Francis was more subdued but just as
affectionate.  Judge Halsey made certain he got to kiss the bride.

Rushton also stepped forward to welcome Maggie into the family.

Beryl moved to stand beside Connor.  She looped her arm in his,
securing him in case he wanted to make a scene of fighting for his
release.  "It seems the bride is getting all the attention," she said
softly, provokingly.  "Perhaps the groom would like a kiss?"

"It's not necessary.

"I know that.  Still, I wouldn't mind congratulating you."

"I'd mind."  He didn't even look at Beryl.  His gaze swept Maggie and
her family and for the first time he appreciated the difficulty of the
task she had set for herself.  It wasn't easy going against a force
like Jay Mac and now that she had drawn others in with the deceit of
her marriage, it was going to be even harder.  Connor didn't think
Maggie was by nature a deceitful person.  She had told him plainly
about the abortion when it would have served her just as well to lie.

She caught him looking at her and when he refused to look away it was
she who flushed and turned her attention to his father.

"She's a pitiful thing," Beryl said, following the direction of
Connor's gaze.  She witnessed Maggie ducking her head in embarrassed
confusion.

"Do you think so?"  he asked.

"She doesn't even like you looking at her.  What are you going to do in
the bedroom?"

"Turn back the lamps, I suppose."

Finding it impossible to goad him, Beryl almost stamped her foot in
frustration.  Across the room she saw that Mary Francis was watching
her.  "I don't think I like the nun," she said under her breath.

"It isn't hard to imagine why."

"Oh God, here she comes."  Beryl managed a credible smile as Mary
Francis approached.

Mary Francis was struck first by the proprietal grasp that Beryl
Holiday had on Connor's arm.  She was struck secondly by Connor's
complete indifference to it.  "I don't know that anyone's officially
welcomed you into our family," she said softly to Connor.

"Thank you."  He eased out of Beryl's arm by pinching her
surreptitiously on the soft underside of her wrist.  When he was free
he leaned forward and kissed Mary Francis on the cheek.  It was
impossible not to feel warmth from her smile.  "I regret we won't have
a chance to get to know each other better."

"Connor," Beryl said, drawing out his name disapprovingly.

"Shame on you lying to Sister Mary Francis that way."  Her pale blue
eyes darted over Mary's placid and thoughtful expression.  "He was just
telling me how happy he'd be to get back to his ranch."

Mary Francis didn't rise to the bait and addressed her remarks to
Connor.  "That's understandable.  Even on brief visits you must find
New York terribly confining."

Beryl wasn't used to being ignored.  "I think he meant that going home
was preferable to spending another minute in the company of your
family."

Mary Francis laughed.  It was no light, musical trilling sound that
came from her either.  Mary Francis had a deep and hearty laugh that
usually shocked people with its robustness because it was so
unexpected.  She saw Beryl's beautiful features contort with surprise
and she laughed harder.  Tears formed at the corners of her eyes and
she didn't bother trying to brush them away.  Across the room Skye
began laughing without even knowing what was funny.  It had always been
that way.  Mary Francis's laugh was completely contagious.

Connor saw his wife was smiling.  He grinned back at her and this time
her smile broadened.  It was the first spontaneous moment they had
shared all day.

Mary Francis caught her breath.  She found a handkerchief tucked
beneath the sleeve of her habit.  Treating Connor to a watery smile,
she dabbed at her eyes.  "I'm sorry," she said to Beryl.  "Did you
think I was laughing at you?"

Completely bewildered by Mary's frankness, Beryl stuttered to a halt.

"Of course you did.  How could you help it?"

Beryl's eyes sought out Rushton's.  She was frantic to escape.  "If
you'll excuse me," she said.  "My husband wants a word with me."

Mary Francis nodded serenely.  "By all means."  She watched her go,
then turned to Connor.  Her smile was gone and her forest green eyes
were hard.  "That woman's a witch," she said with quiet fierceness.

"What is she to you?"

Connor found himself admiring his sister-in-law's directness.  "My
father's wife," he said.  He watched Mary Francis consider that,
wondering if she should take it at face value.  He helped her out.

"That's all she is to me."

Mary Francis continued to stare at him, her eyes narrowed and
thoughtful.  "She could hurt Maggie."

"I won't let her."

Maggie joined them then.  Her glance darted between her husband and her
sister as she tried to divine the nature of the conversation she had
interrupted.  She asked Connor, "Has Mary Francis threatened to break
your kneecaps?"

Connor's brows rose slightly and his glance at Mary conferred greater
respect.

"We were just coming to that," Mary Francis admitted shamelessly.

Maggie's nod was wise.  "I thought that might be what was going on."

She looked at Connor.  "I suppose it's because she's the oldest that
she's taken on the role as everyone's protector, but she takes it very
seriously."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Connor said.  He was careful not to
smile.  Not only would it have been condescending but he believed he
risked the chance of never walking again.

"Mary Michael and Ethan were married in this very room and she
threatened his kneecaps."

"So it's something of a tradition," Connor said.  "Then I do feel
welcomed."

Mary Francis couldn't help smiling.  "As long as you don't hurt my
sister you have nothing to fear."  She paused a beat.

"Otherwise..."

On that note she walked away.

Maggie turned so that her back was to her family.  Her face, which had
been animated moments earlier, was drained of color.  She couldn't
appreciate the irony that it was only with Connor that she could be
herself.  "Please," she said quietly, "can we leave soon?

I can't bear much more of this."

"We'll leave now," he said.  He took her hand in his and tucked it
against his side.  Her fingers were cold, her skin like ice.  He
wondered that she wasn't shaking.  "I reserved a suite for us at the
St.  Mark."

Panic paralyzed her for a moment.  "But you said..."  "My father's
idea," he told her.  "A gift to us, actually."

It was not so much Connor's words that calmed her, but the way he said
them.  He managed to communicate that he was no more pleased about the
arrangement than she was.  That made her feel better.  She thought she
might be able to go on a little longer.

"We're expected to join everyone for a wedding dinner at my parents'
home," she said.  "The judge is going to join us."

He sensed the change in her, the way she had tapped into some reserve
of strength she hadn't been able to find moments earlier.

"Are you certain?"  he asked.  "I can make our excuses.

"I'll be all right," she said.  "That is, if you don't mind."

A decade ago, as a young man, Connor had had to choose between a
ravenous wolf pack and a forty-foot drop down the sheer face of a
cliff.  He knew precisely why he was remembering that incident now.

His choices seemed equally unpleasant, though perhaps not as
potentially fatal.  His glance wandered to Mary Francis in deep
conversation with his father and he reconsidered his last thought.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said, then added significantly, "but
not always.  This time I don't mind."

The wedding dinner was not the painfully stressful event Maggie had
feared.  The tension that always seemed to exist between Rushton and
Connor had eased to a tolerable level and Beryl was properly attentive
to her husband.  Mary Francis and the judge were responsible for the
liveliest conversation and Skye for the ribald humor.

Moira made certain no one's plate was ever quite empty while Jay Mac
filled their glasses with samplings of the best wines from his
cellars.

Maggie and Connor extricated themselves from the gathering after only
two hours, their parting made easy since the real farewells would
happen at the train station in the morning.  A light rain had started
and pattered gently against the carriage roof.  By the time they
reached the St.  Mark Hotel it was a downpour.

"Do you want to make a run for it?"  Connor asked.  "Or wait it out?

It doesn't look as if the doorman intends to come out with an
umbrella."

"I don't think an umbrella would help much," she said doubtfully.

"Let's run for it."

Connor shook his head.  "I wasn't thinking.  You'll ruin your gown.

Maggie looked down at herself.  The bodice of her gown was embroidered
with beads the color of sapphires.  Everywhere else, including the
square train that swept the floor around her when she stood, was pale
blue satin.  Even her delicate shoes had been specially dyed to match
the gown.  She sighed.  "You don't mind waiting?  I rather liked this
gown."

Connor was thinking that he rather liked it himself.  Or at least he
liked the way Maggie looked in it.  He knew she didn't suspect that he
felt that way.  He had been successful hiding his appreciation behind
his remote gaze, but it had been as much a strain as any other part of
the day's charade.  "We'll wait."  He craned his neck so he could get a
better view of the sky.  It was unrelentingly gray and night was
closing in early.  "It's got to let up sometime.

Maggie rearranged her train and settled back.  The combs that kept her
carefully coifed hair in place were uncomfortable when pressed tightly
to her head.  She removed them and combed out her hair with her
fingers.  "That's better."  She leaned back against the leather
cushions again and closed her eyes.

Connor's eyes fell on the vulnerable line of her white throat and his
fingers itched to close around it.  He thrust his hands into the
pockets of his jacket and tried to think of something besides the
uncomfortable swelling in his groin.  Nothing occurred to him.  In his
mind's eye he could only see the repetitive sultry motion of Maggie's
fingers threading through her hair.

He took off his jacket.  "Here," he said roughly, pushing it in her
direction.  "Put this on."

The sound of Connor's insistent voice jerked Maggie out of her peaceful
musings.  She frowned, her head tilting to one side.

"But-" "I've changed my mind," he said.  "I told you we wouldn't always
do things your way."  Maggie fumbled with the combs, trying to jab them
back into her hair.  He took them from her nerveless fingers and made
her take his jacket.  As soon as she had it on he jumped out of the
carriage, then turned to lift her out.

Maggie expected to be put on her feet again and prepared for the rain
to seep into her shoes and stockings.  It never happened.

Connor Holiday swept her and her train in his arms and carried her
straight into the St. Mark.  He was the one who had done the work but
somehow she was the one who was breathless.

Once inside he set her down.  Maggie was aware of guests in the lobby
watching them, smiling knowingly, nudging one another.  She supposed
the spectacle had looked romantic after a fashion but the reality felt
nothing like it.  She removed Connor's jacket carefully and handed it
to him.  Her reflection in the full-length mirrors that graced the St.
Mark's entrance bore out the fact that she had been protected from the
deluge while Connor had borne the brunt of it.

Curling ends of his dark hair dripped water onto his collar and his
white shirt clung wetly to his shoulders.  Even his lashes were
spiky.

He shrugged into his damp jacket.

"Wait," she said when he started to go toward the registration desk.

She stood on tiptoe and brushed away a droplet of water from his cheek
with her index finger.  "There.  That's better."

It wasn't, but he didn't tell her that.  He took her wrist in his
hand.

He saw by the look on her face that the pressure of his fingers was
more than he had intended.  He eased his hold slightly, forced a smile,
and for the benefit of their onlookers, kissed the back of her hand.

Maggie had no choice but to go where he led though she didn't feel as
much escorted as she did dragged along.  She removed herself from his
hold while he confirmed their arrangements with the hotel manager and
looked around the lobby.

The St. Mark had a certain grandeur that made one feel awed and
comfortable at the same time.  The intricately plastered ceilings drew
the eye upward while the muted reflections in the polished woodwork
kept one grounded.  Maggie had been in the hotel many times, especially
when her sister Michael had made her home there.  The St. Mark catered
to families and long term boarders with its open and inviting dining
and sitting rooms.

Maggie turned back to the manager who was assuring Connor that
everything would be to his liking.  She only listened with half an
ear.

Her attention fell on the open registration book in front of her.

Mr.  and Mrs.  Connor Holiday.

It was as though she had ceased to exist.

Caught in his own dark thoughts, Connor didn't notice Maggie's pensive,
withdrawn mood as they rode the steam lift to the fifth floor.

He ushered her inside the suite and they were followed in short order
by the bellboy carrying their bags.  120

The spacious suite was appointed tastefully with dark walnut
furniture.

The sitting area had two wing chairs and a long, stiffly stuffed
sofa.

The area rug carried out the room's color theme of cream, maroon, and
hunter green.  The dining space was marked by a small walnut table and
two side chairs, all of them polished so they reflected the occupants
of the room.  An enormous cut glass vase had been set in the middle of
the table and the sweet fragrance of a dozen long stemmed red roses lay
heavily in the air.  Above the mantelpiece was an elaborate gilt-framed
mirror which magnified the gas jet lighting in the room.

The bellboy placed their bags in the bedroom which was to the left of
the dining area.  He showed them the armoire, the dressing and bathing
rooms, and the balcony that overlooked Broadway when one opened the
French doors.

As she stood on the threshold of the bedroom, Maggie took note of these
things with only one small part of her mind.  Her attention was riveted
on the bed and when the bellboy left and she was alone with Connor
again she said the first thing that came to her, the only thing she'd
been thinking about for ten minutes.

"There's only one."

Connor paused in removing his jacket.  He looked at her oddly.

"What?"

"There's only one," she repeated.

He finished slipping out of the jacket and hung it on the brass coat
rack just inside the door.  "I understood that part," he said, running
one hand through his dark hair.  He plucked at his damp shirt.  "I
don't understand what it means."

"One bed," she said.  "One bedroom!  There should be two.  My sister
had a suite here.  She had two bedrooms."

"I'm sure she did," Connor said evenly.  "But she lived here, didn't
she?  She wasn't married then."

Maggie found his calm infuriating.  "So?  What has that to do with
anything?  The St. Mark has suites with two bedrooms and I want
one."

Even to her own ears she sounded like a spoiled child on the verge of a
temper tantrum.

Connor was thoughtful for a moment, watching her, then he shrugged.

"Fine," he said.  "But you'll have to arrange it."

In spite of his indifferent tone, Maggie sensed he was challenging
her.

"Fine," she said.  "I will."  She smoothed her hair in the mirror above
the fireplace and when she was satisfied with the hasty repairs to her
appearance she turned to go.  Connor was standing in front of the door,
blocking her way.

"You know they realize we were just married," he said pleasantly.

Maggie would have realized it if she'd thought of it.  "So?"  she asked
carelessly, pretending it didn't matter.

Connor stepped aside to let her pass.  "If you're not embarrassed to
request a second bedroom on your wedding night, then I'm not going to
stop you."

Determined to brazen it out, she said, "It's the lesser of two evils,
isn't it?"

He opened the door for her.  "Be my guest.  I look forward to hearing
your explanation."

She sniffed haughtily and swept past him, gracing him with a sour
giance when he chuckled under his breath.  Maggie took the lift but she
asked the operator to let her out on the second floor.  She stepped off
confidently, pretending she had a direction in mind.  When she heard
the gate close behind her and the lift move upward again, she stopped
and leaned against the wall in the dimly lighted hallway.

What was she going to tell them at the front desk?  Bridal nerves?

The groom was a wife beater?  One of them was ill?  The marriage was a
farce?  They were only comfortable sharing a bed in brothels?

Maggie's laughter was a trifle hysterical.  Down the hall a door opened
and a man stepped out.  She ducked her head, covered her mouth with her
hand, and pretended to cough.  She began walking, her head bent, and
felt the stranger's inquisitive eyes on her.

Maggie went to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the
stairwell.

Once she was safely away from curious glances she paused on the steps,
leaning lightly against the iron rail banister.  She looked down.

There were twenty-four steps circling down to the first floor.  She
remembered the smiling hotel manager, the good wishes of the desk clerk
and porter.  Mr.  and Mrs.  Connor Holiday.  Maggie looked up.

Three flights of stairs loomed above her.  Seventy-two steps.

Well, she thought, if she walked slowly she might just have her story
in place by the time she reached the top.

Connor wasn't in the sitting room when she returned.  She dreaded
walking into the bedroom, afraid to find him there in some state of
undress.  Calling herself all manner of fool and a coward, Maggie went
into the bedroom.  He wasn't there.  She said his name, quietly at
first, then more loudly.  He didn't answer.  She peeked in the dressing
room and knocked on the bathing room door.  There was no response.

Had he gone looking for her when she took so long?  Maggie frowned,
wondering how that might complicate the story she had planned.  She
lighted the bedside lamps and turned off the gas jets.

Sitting on the edge of the large four-poster, Maggie removed her shoes
and carefully rolled off her stockings.  She opened her valise and
found it empty.  The armoire was filled with her clothes-and his.  It
made her stomach flutter oddly to see his shirts on a peg beside her
chemises, her stockings beside his socks.  Her colorful hair ribbons
shared space with his black bow ties.  His vest nudged her corset.

Maggie pulled out her nightshift and laid it at the foot of the bed.

This morning her mother and sister had helped her with her gown.

Now Maggie struggled with the tiny row of buttons at the back.

Watching Maggie from the balcony, Connor felt like a beggar urchin with
his nose pressed to the bakeshop window.  Only his wife wasn't a hot
cross bun and it wasn't his mouth that was watering.

The cool night air wasn't as effective as a cold shower on his aching
groin, but then Connor wasn't willing to turn his back on Maggie in
favor of the view of Broadway.  He sat tensely on the edge of the stone
balustrade, his arms crossed in front of him.  His usually remote gaze
had taken a sleepy, heavy-lidded turn as his eyes wandered over
Maggie.

She was twisting and turning, trying to get at the buttons at the back
of her gown.  Still, there was something inherently graceful in her
movements.  She had managed to free one shoulder and the bare curve of
her skin caught the lamplight.  Muted shades of orange defined her
collarbone.  The combs that had held her hair back were dislodged by
her struggles.  She tossed them aside and plaited her hair quickly so a
single thick coil of copper fell down her back.  For a moment she
looked too young to be the wife of any man.

Then she slipped out of the beaded blue gown.

The cambric chemise molded her figure.  It was a plain garment with no
flounces to emphasize the curve of her breasts or hips.

She pulled at a ribbon and the garment fell silkily past her arms, her
waist, her thighs, and circled her bare feet.  She stepped out of it.

Connor shifted his weight on the stone railing as Maggie reached behind
her to tug at the laces of her corset.  The movement thrust her breasts
forward.  He watched her sigh as the corset fell away.  She reached
under her camisole and rubbed her flesh with the flat of her palms.

Connor wondered why she bothered with the contraption when it served no
purpose except to make her uncomfortable.  He could nearly span her
waist with his hands.  The corset merely kept him from feeling the
softness of her the way he wanted to.  Then again, perhaps that's why
she wore it.

Connor stood up and pushed away from the railing as Maggie touched the
hem of her camisole and began to lift it upward over her midriff.  He
tapped lightly on a pane of glass in the French doors.

He saw her freeze.

Like a doe sensing danger, Maggie became still and alert.  The sound
was not repeated but it didn't matter to her.  She knew she had heard
it and she knew where it had come from.

Maggie raised her head slowly, her fingers dropping away from her
camisole at the same time.  It modestly fell over her bare skin but it
hardly mattered.  She felt naked and exposed.  She saw his shadowy
outline on the balcony, the dark profile that was still dangerous and
threatening despite the fact that she knew his identity.  She didn't
have to see his eyes to know their cold, fathomless depths, or see his
face to be aware of his mocking half-smile.

Maggie was pleased with her composure; pleased that she didn't scream
as instinct prompted her to.  Turning her back on him, she picked up
her nightdress and slipped it over her head.

Connor tapped again.  He jiggled the door handle for good measure.

When she turned back around she was smiling.  He was locked out.

It was a delicious irony and made her feel infinitely more in
control.

She took her time getting to the door and grinned cheekily at him.

"There won't always be a door between us," he reminded her.  He knew
she wouldn't have given him such a smug look if she wasn't feeling safe
and superior.

"You're right," she said.  "If you take the street exit I'll be a widow
and rid of you permanently."

"Don't count on it."

Even through the distortion of the glass his voice maintained its
peculiar menacing quality.  He'd probably take the leap and live just
to spite her, or worse, die and haunt her.  Maggie turned the jammed
lock and opened the door.

"Thank you," he said coldly, stepping inside.

Maggie ignored him.  She went to the armoire, removed her dressing
gown, and disappeared into the bathing room.

Connor's eyes narrowed at the militant set of her shoulders.  His
fingers curled into a tight fist, enabling him to keep from grabbing
her swinging braid and yanking her solidly against him.  He didn't know
what he would have done with her then.  He wanted to believe he would
have shaken her but he suspected he might have been persuaded, with no
provocation on her part, to kiss her.

Cursing softly, Connor went to the armoire and removed his own
nightshirt and dressing gown.  It seemed likely that Maggie was going
to spend the better part of the evening in the bathing room.

An hour later and for the second time that night, Maggie stopped cold
on the threshold of the bedroom.  Connor was sitting up in bed,
occupying the entire middle section as he read the New York Chronicle,
effectively claiming the four-poster as his territory.

Maggie cleared her throat.  "I don't recognize squatter's rights," she
said.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"I always hear you," he said patiently, not looking up from his
paper.

"But I never seem to understand what you're saying."

Infuriated by his inattention, Maggie leaned across the bed and yanked
the newspaper out of his hands.  She stared at the crumpled paper in
her clenched fists and was appalled by her behavior.  When she raised
her eyes to Connor she saw he was watching her with that fascinated,
studied look that completely unnerved her.

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to quite convey how sorry she really
was.

She unfolded the paper, laid it on the bed's goose down duvet, and
attempted to smooth it out.  She was only marginally successful.

"Let me," he said, removing the paper from beneath her fingers, "before
you destroy it."  He folded it neatly and placed it on the bedside
table farthest away from Maggie.  Then he gave her his full
attention.

"You were saying?"

Maggie took a step back from the four-poster.  "I don't recognize
squatter's rights," she said again, pointing at him then gesturing to
the entire bed.  "Just because you got there first doesn't give you
ownership."

One of his dark eyebrows kicked up.  "It doesn't?  Do you mean there's
somewhere I have to go to stake my claim?"

"That's not amusing."

"I hadn't meant it to be.  I'm serious.  Do I have to apply in the
lobby for rights to the bed?"

"You're doing this on purpose," she said, frustration edging her
tone.

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

He looked around him as if taking note of his complete possession of
the bed for the first time.  "Did you think I wanted the whole thing
for myself?"  he asked, baiting her.  "I'm willing to share."  He
patted the bed.  "Either side."

Not quite believing that she'd heard him correctly, Maggie stared at
him for a moment.  "Go to hell," she said finally.

He watched her go, his derisive smile flattening as she slammed the
door on her way out.

Maggie winced as the door thudded shut.  When Connor didn't respond to
her second childish tantrum of the evening, she eyed the sofa in the
sitting room as if it were her enemy.  Pillows and blankets were in the
other room and she refused to return for them.  Turning off the gas
lighting, Maggie curled in one corner of the sofa, discovering
unhappily that it was as stiff and as uncomfortable as it looked.

She took off her robe and tried using it first as a pillow, then as a
blanket.  It was not particularly satisfactory as either.

She stretched out but her relatively short height was no benefither
feet still dangled or curved her body unnaturally if she tried to rest
them on the far arm.  Noise and light from the street below filtered
into the room.  She couldn't do anything about the revelers, but she
could shut out the light.  She got up, padded over to the window, and
drew the drapes.  She tried both wing chairs as possible sleeping
nests.  Neither worked.

She stubbed her toe on the footstool as she went back to the sofa, then
turned her ankle as she danced around.  Frustrated, she kicked the
stool which only served to magnify the pain in her foot.

"Dammit," she swore, collapsing onto the sofa.  She held her injured
foot between her hands and massaged it.  Connor Holiday would never be
accused of being a gentleman, certainly never by her.

The door to the bedroom opened.  Connor leaned against the jamb,
backlit by the lamps.  "Are you quite finished?"  he asked.

"Finished doing what?"  she asked impatiently.

"Making noise."

Even though she hadn't been doing it deliberately she asked, "Why
should you sleep when I can't?"

"Why indeed?"  he asked dryly.  He pushed away from the jamb and came
into the sitting room.  His eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he
noticed for the first time that Maggie had hurt herself.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

Connor sat on one arm of a wing chair and cinched the belt of his
dressing gown more securely about his waist.  "Are you going to be this
miserable the entire way to Colorado?"  he asked.  "Because if you are
I'm going to reconsider my promise to escort you.

Maggie didn't consider his threat a real one.  "We have a deal."

"People break deals all the time."

"Not you."  She didn't think he was a gentleman, but then neither did
she believe he was without some shred of honor.

Connor simply stared at her for a long moment.  "All right," he said at
last.  "Not me.  But that doesn't mean I can't be miserable right
back."

"You've already proved it," she said under her breath.

He heard her and ignored the comment.  "Do you really want to travel
two thousand miles like that?"

As a matter of pride she pretended to think about it.  Finally she
shook her head.

"Very well then," he said.  "How did you hurt yourself?"

"I stubbed my toe on the footstool."

"And?"  he asked, not satisfied.

She wondered how he knew there was more.  "And I think I've sprained my
ankle," she admitted reluctantly.

Connor lighted an oil lamp on one of the walnut endtables.  He found
the overturned footstool, set it in front of Maggie, and sat down.

Without asking permission, he took her foot and rested it on his
knees.

He examined the toe first, flicking it lightly with his finger, then
gingerly probed her foot and ankle.

Maggie winced and jerked reflexively, trying to withdraw her foot when
he managed to find the tender part.

His hold was firm but gentle and he didn't let her go.  He felt her
relax, wary still, yet trusting him more than she just had a moment
earlier.  "It's a sprain, all right."  His fingers absently stroked her
warm skin as he spoke, lightly going over the bones of her foot.

"What do you want to do about it?"

"Why ask me?"  Her voice was slightly breathless, something she didn't
like and hoped he hadn't heard.

"You want to be a doctor, don't you?"  He felt her stiffen again, less
trusting, though for different reasons and it made him angry.

"You told me that much yourself.  I asked Skye about it this
afternoon.

She says you didn't get accepted by the medical school.

Is that why you came to me?"

"Perhaps you can get some ice for my foot," she said.

"Did you go to Madame Restell before or after your rejection?"

"Never mind," she said, sitting up straighter.  "I'll get the ice
myself."

Unconsciously Connor's fingers pressed more tightly on Maggie's injured
foot.  "Did you think of anyone but yourself when you made your
decision?"

Maggie's breath caught at the back of her throat as pain shot through
her foot.  It seemed to travel all the way through her spine and
exploded in her head.  "Please," she gasped.  "You're hurting me."

It all registered belatedly: his grip, her tears, his painful
questions, her fear.  Connor released her foot.  "I'm sorry."

She got up from the sofa and backed away from him, limping.

"Don't touch me," she said hoarsely.  "Don't ever touch me.  I hate it
when you do.  You always hurt me.  You don't know any other way."  She
was trembling now and her eyes were accusing.  "I don't care if you do
hate me and I don't care what you think of me.  You got what you wanted
out of this marriage.  I'm not the only whore in this room!"

She shrank back as Connor came to his feet.

"Maggie," he said quietly.  He watched her press herself more solidly
against the wall.  Connor had no clear idea what he wanted to say.  He
despised what she had done.  Didn't that mean he despised her as
well?

But perhaps not well enough.  If he didn't want her, if he wasn't
attracted to her, he wouldn't have to remind himself so often how much
he disliked her.  Self-loathing eclipsed any hint of color in his
eyes.

They were flat, black, and cold as a winter night.

"I'll get the ice," he said.  "Excuse me.  I have to change."  When he
came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, Maggie was no longer
pressed to the wall although she was still leaning against it.  Out of
the corner of his eye he saw her flinch as he passed.  "This is never
going to work," he said quietly.

Once she was alone Maggie felt as if she were melting down the length
of wall.  She was dry-eyed though she had never felt more like
crying.

It was difficult to swallow and there was a pressure in her chest that
made it hard to breathe.  What had he meant?  What wasn't going to
work?  He wasn't talking about their marriage, certainly.

It wasn't supposed to be a success.  They had wed for failure.

Anything else was unacceptable to either of them.

Maggie drew her legs up to her chest and locked her arms around them.

Was he going to back out of their arrangement?  Earlier in the day she
had seen Jay Mac take Connor alone into the library.

Neither her father nor her husband had mentioned it later but Maggie
knew what had taken place.  Jay Mac had handed over the deed to the
Double H. The land was Connor's again, safe from the tyranny of
Northeast Rail and the robber barons.  And all he had had to do was
take a wife he didn't need, didn't want, and didn't like.

Connor wasn't long in getting the ice.  The restaurant staff wrapped
shavings of it in a linen napkin and gave him a bucket of it besides.

There was no one at the St. Mark who wasn't willing to accommodate the
newlyweds.

Connor placed the shavings on the sofa and the pail of ice on the
marble apron of the fireplace.  "Come here," he said, holding out his
hand.

She hesitated but he didn't withdraw.  Maggie placed her hand in his
and let herself be pulled to her feet.  He motioned to her to sit on
the sofa.  Instead of taking the stool for himself this time, Connor
knelt on the floor and lifted Maggie's injured foot on the stool.

He raised the hem of her nightdress a few inches then lightly pressed
the napkin full of ice on her ankle.

"Too cold?"  he asked when he saw her grimace.

"I can stand it."

"That isn't what I asked.  I can get another towel to wrap the ice in
if it's too cold."

She strove to be civil.  "It's fine."

Connor sat back on his haunches.  "I apologize for what I did earlier,"
he said.  "I didn't mean to cause you pain."

Maggie knew he was talking about the physical pain.  The other had been
purely intentional.  "I know.  It's all right."

"Do you always let people who hurt you off so easily?"

Surprised, Maggie's eyes widened.  "I don't understand."

"I don't either," he said, studying her face.  The cat-like shape of
her eyes was more pronounced as she tilted her head.  Her lower lip was
drawn in, caught between her teeth in a habit that could indicate
thoughtfulness or anxiety.  There was the tiniest vertical crease
between her brows as she drew them together.  He had a sudden vision of
her sitting up in a wide bed, her slender body somehow both edgy and
eager as he walked into the brothel's bedroom.  "If I had realized .

.

." His voice trailed off Would he have done anything differently?  he
wondered.  Would he really have crawled into her bed that night?  He
had asked for someone quiet, someone who wouldn't ask too many
questions, or worse, bore him with the story of her miserable life.  He
hadn't wanted to know anything about the woman under him, the woman who
took him into herself and let him pound his frustrations against her
slight and supple body.  He hadn't meant it to be that personal.

"Never mind," he said.  The mask that imprisoned his features was back
in place.  He stood.  "What did they say at the front desk when you
asked about another room?"

Maggie was caught off guard.  It was a question she had expected much
earlier.  She nearly forgot what she had planned to say.  "The hotel's
full," she said.  "The manager said there aren't any rooms to be
had."

"None at all?"  A half-smile played at the edge of Connor's mouth.

"I wish I had known that," he said.

Maggie frowned.  "Why?"

"I wouldn't have bothered asking for one."  He disappeared into the
adjoining bedroom and when he returned he was carrying his valise.  The
sleeve of one shirt peeked out through the closure, pinched in his
hasty packing.  "Room 313," he said.  "The manager had no trouble
accommodating me when I told him I didn't want to disturb you.  He
offered me my choice of rooms, actually.  Several were two bedroom
suites, but I explained I didn't see the point of aggravating your
injury by moving you.

Maggie groaned softly, her face flushed with embarrassment at having
been caught in her lie.  "I hope you looked suitably frustrated when
you spoke to him," she said, struggling to maintain her dignity.

The thought that Connor might have revealed he was content, even
delighted, to be rid of his bride for the night was humiliating.

Connor didn't respond until he was in the hallway, well out of Maggie's
hearing.  "Looking frustrated was the easy part," he muttered.

Chapter 7

In the morning Connor joined Maggie for breakfast in her room.

"Did you sleep well?"  he asked, thinking of his own restless night.

"Yes," she said quickly, not quite able to look him in the eye.

"Your foot didn't hurt you, then?"

"What?  Oh."  Maggie hadn't been thinking about her foot.  It wasn't
her ankle that had kept her up most of the night.  "No...

no, it didn't bother me .  . . not at all.  I'm not limping this
morning."

Connor lifted the silver dome that covered their bacon and eggs and
began serving himself.  "You're able to travel?"

"Yes, of course."

He nodded, not entirely satisfied but willing to be convinced.

"Bacon?"

"One, please."

He gave her two and a generous serving of scrambled eggs.  When he
broke and buttered his biscuit he gave her the larger half.

Connor made certain Maggie's coffee was always warm by adding a little
more to her cup every time she took a few sips.

His attentiveness made Maggie nervous.  While the aroma of the food
teased her senses she discovered that under Connor's watchful eye
everything had become essentially tasteless.

He observed her pushing her eggs around her plate rather than eating
them.  "You're going to have to do better than that," he said.

"I realize we're not going west by covered wagon, but you'll be
surprised how this trip's going to sap your strength.  You'd better eat
up."

She ducked her head and stared at her plate.  "I can't eat when you're
hovering," she said.  "You're acting like a mother hen with your
chick."  The silence that followed her statement went on so long Maggie
was certain she'd made him angry.  She dared a glance upward.

Connor burst out laughing.  Her shock was so palpable that he laughed
harder.  It finally became necessary to raise his napkin to his eyes to
wipe away the tears.

"It wasn't that funny."

He sobered gradually.  "No one's ever accused me of it," he
explained.

"That's all.  I've been called a, well, you can use your imagination.

You've called me a few unsavory things yourself."

Maggie felt heat rising in her neck and face.

"But a mother hen?  No, no one's ever accused me of that."  He took a
quick bite of his eggs and stole another strip of bacon from the
serving dish, then rose from the table.  "I left my things in the other
room," he said.  "I'll get them now so you can finish eating in
peace.

We're expected at the train station at eleven so we have some time."

When he was gone Maggie realized what a perverse creature she was.  She
actually missed his companionship.  Meals in her home were never taken
alone unless one was ill.  There was always conversation, some exchange
of ideas or general story telling.  She was going to miss it even
though she was rarely the one to initiate a debate and even less likely
to take a major role.  The chatter had always gone on around her and it
had been agreeable to be the quiet one.  Her sisters thought she was as
inscrutable as it was possible for a New Yorker to be.  A faint smile
touched Maggie's lips and her eyes held the faraway look of someone
capturing childhood memories.

She shook her head slowly, laughing at herself, and began eating.

Connor was surprised when he heard the door to his suite open.

He didn't think he had been very long getting his things together.

"You decided you missed the mother hen already?"  he called from the
bedroom.

Beryl followed the sound of his voice.  'Mother hen?"  she asked.

"Is your poor little wife already homesick for her mama?"

Connor dropped his valise back on the bed and turned to the doorway.

He made no attempt to hide what he was feeling or thinking.  His black
eyes speared Beryl.  "What the hell are you doing here?"

Beryl untied the scarlet ribbon that secured her bonnet.  A fringe of
her dark chestnut hair fluttered against her forehead as she fanned
herself casually with the brim.  "You shouldn't talk to me that way,"
she said, unperturbed.  "I could be here because something's happened
to your father."

"Are you?"

She smiled and moved into the bedroom.  "No."  Beryl caught her
reflection in the full-length swivel mirror.  She was confident enough
of her appearance not to dwell on it or try to rearrange it.  No matter
what Connor said she knew he found her attractive.  Beryl's walking
dress was the same shade of scarlet as her bonnet ribbon.  The bodice
was a modest cut emphasizing the length of her neck and the narrowness
of her shoulders.  It was also tightly tailored, molded to her breasts
and cinched in at the waist.  She dropped her bonnet on a rocker and
came to stand at the foot of the bed, inches from Connor.

"Rushton's in good health."  Her smile became sly and touched her eyes
in the same way.  "Vigorous health, actually."

Connor had no difficulty taking her meaning.  He wished his father
would take Beryl to bed all day long.  It was the surest way of keeping
her out of his.  "Does he know you're here?"

"I told him I might stop by.  He's gone to his office at the mill.

He plans to meet you at the train station to say his farewells along
with everyone else."

"And you?"

"I plan to say my farewells now."  Her delicate hands came up to her
throat and she began to unfasten the silk-covered buttons.

"Don't worry," she said.  "I know your wife's in a separate room.

They told me at the front desk.  It's a shame about her foot.  Do you
think she did it on purpose?  To stay out of your bed?"

"Beryl, I told you before that when you married my father it was over
between us.  You can't have his money and me in your bed.

There's been no love lost between Rushton and me but I won't do this to
him.  Credit me with something you don't have yourself morals."  He
turned away and continued packing.

"It is over between us," she said.  She undid another button.  The lace
that edged her camisole was visible now.  "You're going back to
Colorado and we'll probably never see each other again.  This is about
good-bye, Connor."

"I don't want you, Beryl."

"Do you expect me to believe you want her?"  she demanded.

Beryl's short laugh was hollow and spiteful.  "Don't talk to me about
morals, you sanctimonious hypocrite.  If I married Rushton for money
then what the hell was it you did yesterday?  I suppose when Jay Mac
pulled you into his library he didn't give you a deed worth twelve
thousand dollars and thank you for marrying his insipid,
green-as-grass, too-smart-for-her-own-good daughter?"  Beryl's fingers
worked over the buttons until her scarlet bodice was completely open.

Her corset pushed her breasts up and forward and she flaunted the
invitation.  "Dammit, Connor, do you think I'm going to make a stink if
you take her to bed?  That would be the pot calling the kettle black,
don't you think, since I have Rushton and enjoy making love to him?

I've never sought to deny you your pleasures.  I only asked you to
share them with me.  What's the harm?  We're both married.

We'll share the sin."

Connor deliberately finished folding his shirt before he answered.

"Share the sin?"  he asked.  "I don't think that's the way it works,
Beryl.  I believe they compound that sort of thing in heaven, not
divide it equally among the black sheep."  he gave her head a furious
little toss.  "Don't make fun of me."

He turned on her angrily.  "It's either that or hurt you."

Beryl Holiday stood on tiptoe and slipped her arms around Connor's
neck.  She pressed herself against him and buried her face in the curve
of his neck.  "Then hurt me," she whispered against his flesh.

"I don't mind."

One of Connor's hands was placed on her waist, the other curled roughly
in her hair.  When he tried to pry her away her head was tilted back
and her lips, slightly parted now, damp, hinting of secret pleasures,
invited his mouth.  She looked up at him, daring him and drawing him in
with the darkening centers of her pale blue eyes.

"Damn you," he said through clenched teeth.

Beryl closed the distance between them.  Her mouth worked over his
lips, her tongue probed.  Her fingers threaded in his hair, securing
him for her eager and hungry touch.  Her breasts swelled against his
chest and she stretched trying to expose them above the line of her
corset and camisole.  His fingers bit into her waist and the coil of
hair at her nape.  She felt captured by his bruising embrace,
vulnerable even as she was the aggressor.  His skin was warm, his mouth
hot.

She welcomed the pressure, the hardness, and against her thighs she
felt his need.

Maggie didn't realize she had done anything to draw their attention.

Connor could have told her that she only had to be in the same room to
command his.  She didn't ask what made him look toward the doorway and
he wasn't given the opportunity to explain.  By the time he extricated
himself from Beryl's grasp Maggie was gone.

Connor found Beryl's bonnet and thrust it at her.  "Take this and get
out," he said roughly.

Dazed, Beryl dropped down on the bed.  She glimpsed herself in the
mirror.  Her hair was disheveled and her lips swollen.  There was
heightened color in her fashionably pale face and her eyes were dark
and languid.  "What's wrong with you?"

Connor grabbed his valise and left.

Beryl heard the door slam.  She lay back on the bed, stretched slowly,
arching her spine in a movement that was peculiarly feline.

She turned her head toward the mirror again.  The bedroom doorway was
entirely visible to her.  Beryl's smile shifted from shrewd to
satisfied.

Maggie wasn't in their suite when Connor got there.  Her bags were also
gone.  Cursing, he chose to take the stairs rather than wait
interminably for the vertical steam lift.  Slightly out of breath by
the time he reached the lobby, Connor was relieved to find her calmly
waiting for him in one of the areas partially secluded by its
arrangement of chairs and greenery.

He dropped his bag beside hers and sat in the chair opposite her, then
pulled it closer for privacy.  Maggie was studying the hands folded
neatly in her lap as if they were not her own.

"Look at me, Maggie," he said.  His tone, while not quite a demand,
fell far short of coaxing.  "Do you think I don't know why you chose to
come down here?"

She raised her eyes.  There was a dullness in them that was at odds
with her fixed, bright smile.  "I'm glad you're so perceptive,
Connor.

It saves explaining."

"Then I wish you were as perceptive," he said.  "Because you require an
explanation.  What you saw back there was.."

Maggie shook her head.  "I don't want anything from you," she said
quietly.  "Especially not an explanation."

Connor glanced around.  Maggie had chosen her setting wisely.

He couldn't very well make a scene in the lobby of the St.  Mark.

"Sooner or later you're going to have to listen to me," he said.

"Then I choose later."

He didn't like it but he was coming to recognize the stubborn,
unyielding thrust of her jaw.  "Very well," he said, coming to his
feet.

"I'll see about getting a hansom to the station."

Everything was quickly arranged by the manager.  Their bags were taken
out to the street and the hansom appeared within minutes.

Connor offered his arm but Maggie pretended she didn't see and preceded
him out of the hotel.  She let the cab driver assist her into the
hansom and seated herself in the far corner.  She didn't believe Connor
would impose himself by sitting beside her.  He knew she wanted nothing
to do with him.

The ride to the station was accomplished in silence.  Maggie
concentrated on how she would behave in front of her family and
Connor's.  By the time they reached the train Maggie had convinced
herself she could touch her new husband without losing her breakfast or
her dignity.

Events of the morning had caused them to arrive earlier than planned.

Two of Northeast Rail's private passenger cars had just been coupled to
No.  454 and they were adding the freight cars from a side track.  An
amiable porter began loading their baggage along with the trunks that
had arrived the night before.

Connor pointed to the pyramid of satchels, valises, and trunks.

"All of that's yours?"  he asked Maggie.  He knew the answer, of
course, but he couldn't credit her with that much foolishness.

"Mama and Skye packed for me.  I told them it was too much but no one
listened."

Connor got the impression it was a state of affairs she was used to.

"Dancer Tubbs won't have room for everything you own.

Maggie sat on one of her trunks, making herself comfortable.  Her gown
was tailor-made, cut with a masculine bias from the dark gray color to
the bodice that resembled a man's waistcoat and jacket.

"I'll leave some of the things with Mary Michael in Denver.  If we see
Rennie I'll give some things to her.  You don't have to worry about
carting my belongings all over Colorado.  I'm not going to be a burden
to you.

"Where do you get these ideas?"  he asked.  "I only said that Dancer
couldn't accommodate your things.  The train's going to take us as far
as queen's Point and we'll use wagons and horses from there.  Traveling
isn't the problem.  Dancer's cabin is."

"I'm sorry," she replied.  "I misunderstood."  Maggie turned her face
away from him and watched the station traffic instead.  The platforms
and ticket counters were beginning to crowd with passengers and
well-wishers.  The available benches were already taken by people who
enjoyed nothing so much as watching the trains come and go, sometimes
placing a friendly wager on which arrival would be late and which
engine would come thundering in under the clock.

Seasoned travelers dressed for it, ignoring spring and summer fashion
and wearing darker colors that could hide the offending smoke, soot,
and cinders.  Women herded their children together, counting brown,
black, and towheads as they hurried along the platform.

Husbands distanced themselves from the flock to keep an eye on the
baggage handlers and the occasional unescorted and attractive female.

Salesmen held onto their cases of product with white-knuckled
intensity, protecting the life's blood of their work.  A sketch artist
went by, carrying his pad and easel, looking for customers who might
pay a few pennies for a farewell portrait.

Connor didn't like the station.  It was everything he disliked about
New York: too crowded, too noisy, too hurried.  It reminded him again
how much he was his mother's son, not his father's.  Had things been
different, the Colorado ranch wouldn't have interested him as anything
but a source of capital, just as it was to Rushton.

He glanced at Maggie, watched her take in the sights, welcoming the
very same things he detested, absorbing the nervous pulse of the
station, breathing in the crowd and the confusion as if it were vital
to her very existence.  She wouldn't last two weeks on the Double H and
probably less than that at Dancer's, if he let her stay there at all.

Connor was relieved Maggie had proposed divorce, otherwise the onerous
task of bringing it up would have been left to him.

She had given him back his ranch but she'd never survive there.

She felt his eyes on her and she turned.  It unnerved her when he
watched her so intently and gave nothing away of what he was
thinking.

"What are you looking at?"

At that moment he was looking at her throat.  Beneath the jacket-bodice
of her gown she was wearing a starched white shirt with a pleated
front, pearl buttons, and a black silk bow tie at the collar.

Somehow she managed to look entirely feminine wearing an outfit that
should have given her a mannish appearance.  He pointed to the bow
tie.

"That's mine," he said, his voice indicating something close to
astonishment.  "I wondered what happened to it."

She smoothed the tie neatly.  "You packed in a hurry last night," she
said.  "And this morning?"  She shrugged, her smile indifferent.

"This morning, I'm not surprised you didn't think of it.  Do you want
it back?"

He shook his head.  There was something oddly intimate about her
wearing what belonged to him.  It surprised him more that she had
chosen to do it, and after what she witnessed with Beryl, that she kept
it on.

For once she was able to divine his thoughts as his glance became less
impenetrable.  "It looked better with my dress than any of the ribbons
I owned," she said.

"Then keep it."

She suspected it wasn't simple generosity that prompted his gift.

It occurred to her that once they were west of the Hudson River Connor
never planned to wear a tie again.  "Thank you," she said politely.

Connor looked as if he were going to say something, but the arrival of
the porter for the trunk she was sitting on interrupted him.

Maggie stood and let her seat be taken away.

Connor looked around for a bench where she could sit.  There was none
available.

Because he looked as if he might enjoy clearing a few of the sightseers
off their benches, Maggie laid a light restraining hand on his
forearm.

"It's not necessary," she said.  She pointed to the far end of the
platform where a small, noisy group of people were mounting the
stairs.

"Anyway, I think the family's arrived.  That's Mary Francis
laughing."

Connor had recognized the unmistakable hearty laugh as well.  He held
out his arm for Maggie.

"Don't worry," she said, her smile fixed in the direction of her
approaching family.  "Unless you or Beryl say something to Mary Francis
your secret and your kneecaps are safe."

His reply was filled with soft menace.  "You're very brave when your
family's around."

Maggie ignored him although she knew it was true.  She reached out for
her mother, hugging Moira with only a fraction of the desperation she
felt.  Over her mother's shoulder she saw Rushton and Beryl arrive.

Her touch went cold.

Moira drew back, holding Maggie a few inches from her.  "You look
wonderful, dear."

"Mother," Skye said, rolling her eyes.  "You just saw her yesterday.

And if you ask me, she looks a little peaked, though I like the bow
tie."  She kissed her sister on the cheek.  "Where did you get it?"

Happy for the diversion from her appearance, Maggie pointed to
Connor.

"Pilfered it, I'm afraid."

Frankly astonished, Skye looked at her new brother-in-law.  "You stole
it?"  she said.

Connor laughed.  "No, brat.  Your sister stole it from me."

Mary Francis poked her youngest sister in the ribs.  "You don't have to
act so stupid around him now, Skye.  He's Maggie's husband, not a
potential suitor."

"Girls," Moira said in a maternal tone.  She sighed.  Neither of her
daughters was particularly abashed by the reprimand.  "Was the St. Mark
as lovely as I remember?"  she asked Maggie.

"Quite lovely, Mama."

Jay Mac clapped Connor heartily on the back.  "You look as if you can't
wait to be rid of the lot of us," he said.

Connor wondered how much honesty Jay Mac would accept before he was
insulted.  He chose a tactfully truthful response.

"I'm looking forward to seeing my ranch again," he said.  "I miss the
space and silence."

Rushton joined them as Connor was speaking.  His son's reply made him
think of Edie, his wife who wouldn't be moved from her valley.  His
attention went to Maggie.  She was lithe and delicate, with fine-boned
features and a smooth complexion.  He tried to imagine her on the
Double H, riding the range beside Connor, cooking meals for the hired
help, birthing children in the same bed where Edie had birthed
Connor.

None of it seemed possible to him.  She was very different from Edie,
Rushton thought, but in one important way she was exactly the same: she
was a native flower, no more able to flourish in the harsh Colorado
setting than Edie could have in the hostile New York air.

Rushton took his son's hand and shook it, wondering all the while what
Connor really thought of his new wife.  He drew Connor aside, letting
Beryl fend for herself and held his son's gaze with his own.

"Don't let her die out there," he said quietly.

Connor's remote expression didn't change, though he felt a coldness
seep through his skin to his bones.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Your wife," Rushton said.  "She'll never survive the Double H.

Let her go before it kills her."

"You mean let her run out in the middle of the night the way you
did?"

Some of the color left Rushton's chiseled features.  A frown creased
his brow.  "Is that the way you think it was?"  he asked.  "Did Edie
let you believe that all these years?"

"My mother never talked about you deserting her," Connor said coldly.

"But Old Sam made sure I knew."

For a long moment Rushton didn't say anything, then he nodded slowly,
resignation in the faint, tired movement of his head.  "He would," he
said, more to himself than to Connor.

"Are you going to suggest it was somehow different?  That you didn't
leave in the middle of the night?  That you didn't hate living on the
ranch?"

Rushton looked at his son, then across the way at his
daughter-in-law.

"No," Rushton said finally, staring at Maggie.

"I'm not going to tell you different.  You couldn't hear it from me."

His attention came back to Connor.  "I pray to God you don't have to
learn it from your wife."

Connor accepted his father's enigmatic reply because Beryl chose that
moment to join them.  "Rushton," she said, "you can't keep Connor all
to yourself over here.  Other people want to wish him well."

Rushton Holiday smiled, patting Beryl's arm as she wound it around
his.

He thought he'd chosen his second wife well.  She was a beautiful
flower but not fragile, common without being coarse, a survivor because
it was her nature.  He never told her why he sometimes called her
Daisy.  "Come along, then," he said.  "We'll join the others.  Connor's
heard all the paternal wisdom he's willing to tolerate."  They moved
away, leaving Connor standing by himself.

"Are the cars to your liking?"  Jay Mac was asking his daughter when
Connor came up behind her.  He rested his hands lightly on her
shoulders and her tensing was so slight that he was certain he was the
only one who noticed it.  There was a fragrance to Maggie's hair that
teased his senses.  Lavender, he thought.  It was subtle, delicate.

It suited her.

"We haven't been inside yet," Maggie told Jay Mac.  "I'm certain
everything's fine."  She tapped her father lightly on the chest,
smiling.

"I know you like comfort when you travel."

Jay Mac's face took on a ruddy hue as Moira and his other daughters
laughed.  He took off his spectacles and made a show of cleaning
them.

John MacKenzie Worth was a wealthy man but he didn't surround himself
with ostentatious reminders of it.  His private railway cars were his
only exception and he was still self-conscious enough about it to be
embarrassed.  "Not a word, Rush," he warned his business friend.  "I've
seen your carriages and your matched pair of cinnamon mares.

"We all have our vices," Rushton said.  Beside him Beryl's pale eyes
rested on Connor.

The boarding of No.  454 was announced up and down the platform.

Moira drew closer to Jay Mac.  "I can't believe it's happening," she
said.  "First Michael, then Rennie, now you."  She twisted a
handkerchief in her hands.  "And so far away, all of you.  I wish..."

She bit her lower lip, a gesture so like Maggie's that Connor was taken
back by it for a moment.

"I'll write, Mama," Maggie said, stepping free of Connor.  She took her
mother's fidgeting hands in her own.  "You know I will."

"I'll hold her to it," Connor said.

For the sake of everyone, Moira pretended to be relieved by the
promise.  She kissed Maggie on the cheek.  "You can always come home,"
she whispered in her daughter's ear.

Maggie's eyes closed briefly.  Her heart ached.  "I know, Mama.  I
know."

The next few minutes passed in a blur as Maggie was handed from one
person to the other.  The farewells were personal, wrenching, but
somehow she got through them.  She knew she had because she was finally
standing on the balcony platform at the rear of the second private car,
Connor beside her, her family and his on the station platform below.

She grabbed him instinctively to steady herself when the train began to
move.  He put an arm about her shoulders.

They held that pose until they were out of the station and there was no
one left to see them.

Maggie opened the door to the private car and preceded Connor inside.

She had rarely traveled in the car but her father used it
extensively.

Although Jay Mac had had a second car commissioned he seldom used both
when he was traveling alone.  The car that Maggie and Connor were in
had been fitted for Jay Mac's comfort, but also for the practicalities
of his business.

Everything in the car was built in or secured in some fashion.  A
mahogany desk, polished to bring out the hint of red in the wood, took
up a large area at the head of the car.  A heavily padded burgundy
leather chair accented the desk.  A map of the United States,
indicating all the rail lines, existing and proposed, extended between
two windows.  Bookshelves lined a portion of the wall behind the desk
from floor to ceiling and two wing chairs were situated near the small
wood stove.  The work area of the car gradually gave way to other
furnishings.  A dining table, no larger than the width of the window
under which it was secured, meant that Jay Mac could take his meals in
privacy.  An Oriental carpet kept the cold from seeping through the
hardwood floor and added warmth with its patterned splash of colors.

Drawers were built in under the berth-like bed and a trunk with extra
blankets was against one wall.

Maggie noted immediately that her father had added some touches just
for the newlyweds.  Several glass vases had been attached to the sides
of the car with brass fittings.  They alternated with the milk-glass
globes that covered the oil lamps and each one was filled with
carnations, greenery, and baby's breath.  The wine rack was stocked and
a bottle of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the table.

A cloth banner had been draped from one side of the car to the other,
announcing their just-married status, and the towels and bed linens,
neatly folded on the unmade bed, had already been monogrammed with an
elaborately curled H. Maggie could only imagine that her father had
hired seamstresses to work day and night to embroider the linens in
time for their departure.  She hated to think Jay Mac was so certain of
the outcome that he had had the work done months ago.  Sighing, she
turned away and nearly collided with her husband.  She ducked to one
side and followed the direction of his gaze.

Connor wasn't looking at the linens.  He was critically examining the
size of the bed.

"It's three-quarters size," she said.

"Cozy."

"I was thinking it was a little big."

Connor's attention shifted from the bed to Maggie.  They obviously
weren't thinking about the bed in the same light.  "I suspect we have a
problem," he said calmly.

"I don't think so," she said carelessly.  "I'll take the bed and you'll
use the sofa in the forward car."

"As I said, I suspect we have a problem."

Maggie refused to argue about it at the moment.  She removed the towels
from the bed and stacked them in the cupboard near the curtained-off
toilet; then she took off her mantle and hung it on a brass and
porcelain knob just inside the rear door.  The private car swayed
slightly as the train gathered speed and Maggie held onto the secured
mahogany side table as a sudden wave of nausea caught her off guard.

"Are you all right?"  asked Connor.  Under the circumstances he thought
he deserved the brief sour look she shot him.  It had been a stupid
question since she was obviously not all right.  Her face was
wretchedly pale, her eyes were pained, and her mouth had flattened.

"What's wrong?"

Maggie didn't answer immediately.  She waited for the sensation to pass
as she knew it would.  She straightened slowly and eased her grip on
the anchoring table.  "Nothing," she said.  She didn't ask herself
whether she deserved Connor's disgusted look; she simply ignored it.

"Would you like to see the other car?"  she asked.

Without waiting for a reply, she headed forward.

Passage to the next private car required stepping outside and across
the coupled balconies.  Overhangs on both cars made the brief journey
protected from the elements.  While the private car they had first
entered was furnished so that Jay Mac could use it alone, the second
car was meant for taking influential investors and business colleagues
on day-trips from New York.  The round mahogany dining table in this
car seated eight comfortably.  There was a large open basket of fruit
at the center and another covered basket sitting on one of the
chairs.

The wood stove was embellished with brass fittings and the iron wine
rack held a full dozen bottles.  Four burgundy wing chairs and two
sofas were arranged for easy conversation and small side tables were
especially fitted with ashtrays and oil lamps.

Two Oriental rugs were used this time, one under the dining table and
the other in the parlor area.

Connor looked around and whistled softly.  He pointed to the dining
table.  "Hell of a place to play poker."

Maggie smiled.  "You're exactly right," she said, looking at him
sideways.  'Jay Mac told us it was so he could serve his friends dinner
on their day-trips but no one's ever believed it.  Every few months he
gathers five or so friends together and they leave New York, supposedly
on business.  The only deals they make, I think, are from a deck of
cards.  Your father's gone with Jay Mac a number of times."

"He's never mentioned it," Connor said.

She wasn't surprised.  "You're not very close, are you?"

Connor shrugged.  "We hardly know each other."

It was not what he said, but the way he said it, that warned Maggie
that conversation on that topic was ended.  She glanced around the
entire room.  "Well?  What do you think?  Can we manage
satisfactorily?

Between the two cars there's plenty of space.  And there is the rest of
the train.  You'll be allowed access to all the other cars.

I don't see why we have to be in each other's pockets."

Connor's soft grunt was noncommittal.  He was mentally measuring the
length of the sofa against his own.  The accommodations were far
superior to anything he would have arranged for himself but it was
difficult to remember that when he kept thinking he was giving up a
comfortable bed for an uncomfortable sofa.

"If you don't mind," Maggie said, "I'm going back to the other car to
unpack my things."

"And if I do?"  asked Connor.  "Mind, that is?"

"I'll do it anyway," she said stiffly.  "I was merely trying to be
polite."

"I thought so."  When she started to go he put his hand on her arm
lightly, stopping her.  He felt her recoil and his dark eyes became
colder and more remote as she stepped back.  "I was going to tell you
not to exhaust yourself trying to be polite.  It seems you're not going
to do that after all."

Embarrassed that she had made her distaste of his touch so blatantly
apparent, feeling somehow that it showed a weakness on her part, Maggie
lowered her head and hurried out of the car.

Connor stretched out on the sofa.  As he suspected it was about
eighteen inches shy of restful.  Every muscle in his body would be
curved taut as a bow if he had to sleep on it until Denver.  The floor
was preferable and he thought it was probably where he would end up.

His wife clearly was not willing to share a bed.

His wife.  Connor ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed the back
of his neck.  He remembered how she had shied away from him, but on the
heels of that he remembered another time when she had only been shy
with him.  What the hell did he really expect from her?

he wondered.  What the hell did he really expect from himself?

He glanced over his shoulder at the door where Maggie had exited.  For
a moment he considered following her but he had no clear idea what he
wanted to say.  Did she really need him to damn her for aborting their
child when she looked haunted all the time?

Was he supposed to apologize for what she assumed about Beryl's visit
at the St.  Mark?  What in God's name was it she wanted from him?

Nothing.

He hated that it bothered him.

Connor iguored the full wine rack and went in search of hard liquor and
companionship in the forward passenger cars.

By the time Maggie finished unpacking her own belongings she was more
tired than could be easily attributed to the task she had
accomplished.

She hadn't slept well the night before and the farewell to her family
had been especially wearing but it was more than that as well.  As soon
as the thoughts surfaced she resolutely buried them and immersed
herself in another mindless task, this time taking care of Connor's
bags and trunks.  It was an intimate, wifely sort of duty, just the
kind of thing she thought she would abhor, and it surprised and pained
her to discover there was nothing inherently distasteful about it.  She
supposed that had she been doing it for someone she loved, the ritual
of folding and smoothing and stacking and packing might even have been
a comforting one.  She imagined the faint scent of him clung to his
clothes and had she felt differently she might have held them closer,
taking an odd reassurance from them.

Maggie shook her head, clearing away the vague yet unsettling
fantasies.  She stuffed the last of Connor's things in the narrow
armoire and eyed the unmade bed.  Instead of snapping out the
monogrammed sheets to make it up crisply, Maggie stretched out on it
the way it was.  She struggled with one sheet, covering herself
haphazardly, and was asleep within minutes of her head touching the
pillow.

Connor found her just that way an hour later.  Her hair, freed from its
ivory combs, fell over the curve of her neck and shoulder and curled
around the pearl buttons on the pleated front of her shirt.

She had loosened the bow tie but not taken it off.  The hem of her gown
had climbed up her calves and where the sheet didn't reach Connor had a
glimpse of the smooth line of her legs.  She had one hand tucked under
her face, pressing her cheek, and the other lay flatly against the
sheet just where the monogram H had been elaborately stitched.  Her
plain gold wedding band caught streamers of sunlight as the train
rolled past fields of Pennsylvania corn.  He had chosen the band
without consulting her or asking his father.  The ring had been Edie's,
his mother's, and he wasn't certain why he had wanted Maggie to have
it.  He hadn't told her its significance and he hadn't warned his
father, but when he pulled it out of his pocket at the ceremony he had
looked past Maggie's gentle, cautious smile and seen Rushton's brief
anguish.  For a moment he had felt powerful, being able to force that
emotion on his father.  Then Maggie's hand had stirred in his, the
delicate bones shifting in his palm and beneath the thumb that was
passing over her knuckles, and he knew that if she was using him, he
was also using her, using her in ways she didn't clearly understand.

The feeling of power passed.  He felt petty.

Connor rearranged the sheet over Maggie.  There were faint shadows
under her eyes that were not caused by the dark fan of her lashes.

He touched her forehead with the back of his hand.  She stirred
slightly, wrinkling her nose.

"I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly.  He had found hard liquor
and companionship in the forward cars and had indulged in neither.

Each of the three second-class cars had friendly poker games in
progress.  Connor had been invited to join but he chose to watch
instead.  He wondered what the players would have thought if he'd told
them about twelve thousand dollars he had won and lost in the space of
a single evening.  His black eyes drifted over Maggie.

They might have believed he'd won the money.  They'd never believe how
he lost it.  "You have the face of an angel," he said.

She was sure she was dreaming and her smile was unguarded.

Maggie turned slightly, rubbing her cheek against the back of her hand,
the movement lazy and vaguely feline.

Connor drew up a chair and sat down, resting his feet on the frame of
drawers supporting the bed.  He rocked back in the chair so it was
balanced on the two rear legs and crossed his arms in front of him.

Maggie came awake by slow degrees and found her dream disconcertingly
real.  Her smile vanished.  "What are you doing?"  she asked.

It was disappointing to her that her voice was husky and breathless.

Connor did not look at all threatened or inclined to respond.

"Well?"  she demanded, more firmly this time.

"Are you always so prickly when you first wake up?"

"You'll never know," she said sweetly.  Maggie sat up and rubbed her
temples.  The nap hadn't been refreshing; it had left her with a
headache.  "Because I'm not waking up with you this close to me
again."

She sighed.  "Would you please move away from the bed so I can get
up?

I need a headache powder."

"I'll get it for you."

Maggie didn't argue because she didn't want to move.  She lay back down
and told him where he could find the packet.  There was a keg of fresh
water beneath the washstand.  She heard him rummage through cabinets
until he found a glass and a spoon.  Almost immediately after that he
was handing her the medicine.  She raised herself on one elbow long
enough to drink it down.

"Is it the motion of the train that's making you ill?"  he asked.

"Something like that."  She closed her eyes.

"You should have told me."

"I didn't think of it," she said tiredly.  "I don't travel that
often."

"Yet you're going halfway across the country with a man you hardly know
to study with a man you've never met.  It must be important to you."

She didn't answer immediately.  There were things about herself she
didn't want to give up, not to Connor Holiday who despised her as a
thief and a whore and now, because of what she'd told him about Madame
Restell, as a murderer.  Yet she heard herself say, "It is."

Connor took the glass from her hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

Maggie's panic was immediate and he made no move to touch her or try to
prevent her from rolling closer to the wall.  "I'm not going to hurt
you," he said quietly.  "I want to feel your forehead.

You're still flushed."

She automatically touched her face with her hand, but her fingers were
still cool from holding the glass of water and her skin felt much
hotter than it probably was.  Still, she was cautious of moving toward
Connor.  The situation had a curious familiarity, as if she had played
out a similar scene with her husband before.  She remembered she had
been ill in the brothel when they had first met.  Was the peculiar
sensation prompted by a memory from that time?

Connor was patient.  Had she been a filly he might have enticed her
with a bit of apple or sugar sprinkled in the palm of his hand.

But she was a woman, all woman, reluctant and wary of extending her
trust, and the only proper substitute for the apple and sugar was
patience.  Connor simply sat there, doing and saying nothing, waiting
her out.

She slid toward the middle of the bed.  The sheet and her gown tangled
in her legs and she pushed at them, getting rid of the sheet but
sliding the gown modestly over her legs.  She lay on her back and
stared up at him.

"Has this been anything like the marriage you imagined?"  he asked.

His question raised a ghost of a smile.  "I didn't think so."

"I never imagined I'd marry."

That surprised him.  His black eyes became less remote as they
flickered with interest.  "I supposed every young woman thought about
it."

"I didn't."  At her sides Maggie's fingers slowly unclenched and her
breathing came a little easier.  Connor watched her hands and wondered
what he could say to draw her out.  It surprised him when she added, "I
don't think my sisters thought about it either."

"Really?"

"Perhaps that's why Jay Mac pushes us into it."

Connor raised his hand and touched Maggie's cheek lightly, then her
forehead.  Now that the flush had faded from her cheeks she was less
warm.  "You can breathe again," he told her as he removed his hand.  "I
don't think you're sickening for anything."

"I could have told you that.  It's just a headache and motion
sickness."

"Do you want me to pull the blinds?"  he asked.

She shook her head.  The movement gave rise to the sick sensation in
her stomach.  "I just need to lie here.  It will pass."

"I can massage your scalp."  Connor expected her to shudder.  It was a
measure of how poorly she felt that she agreed after only a moment's
hesitation.  She started to sit up.  "No, stay where you are," he
said.

"I'll move."  He shifted his position so she could place her head on
his lap.  His fingers threaded in her hair and moved gently against her
scalp.  Some of the tension lines at the corner of her eyes eased
almost immediately.  He watched her lids flutter closed.

"Tell me about Beryl," she said quietly.  She felt his fingers still
and knew she had caught him off guard.  "I wasn't jealous, you know."

"I know," he said.  "This would have to be a different kind of marriage
for you to feel that."  His fingers resumed their gentle circling.  "I
imagine you thought I was trying to make a fool of you."

"It occurred to me, though I rather thought it was Beryl, not you.

Mama told me you were engaged to her once."

"How did she know that?"

"Beryl told her, I think."

Connor's mouth pulled to one side in disgust.  "That doesn't surprise
me."

"Do you still love her?"  she asked.

He paused, thinking.  It was the way she had asked the question.

It made him wonder if he had ever loved Beryl Walker.  "No," he said at
last.

But Connor's hesitation had cost him the chance to be believed and
reaffirmed all of Maggie's convictions that she had been right to
choose the course she had.  It would have been intolerable to be
married to someone who was in love with another woman.  What sort of
husband could he have been to her?  What sort of father to a child?

No, as painful as they were, she had made all the right decisions.

She might have actually fallen in love with him herself, with his
gentle fingers and his coaxing drawl, and then where would she have
been?

"Don't you have anything else you want to ask me about Beryl?"  he
asked.

She thought about it.  "No," she said.  "Nothing else."

That bothered him.  "Don't you want to know why she was at the St.
Mark?  If she was there all night?"

"I think I saw why.  And it doesn't matter if you arranged that room
for yourself to be with her.  I told you I'm not jealous."

Because she didn't want to know Connor found himself wanting to
explain.  Perverseness made him want to speak out, pride kept him
silent.  He continued kneading her scalp.

Moments before she fell asleep again.  she whispered, "I'm glad we can
be nice to each other."

Connor sighed and leaned back against the inlaid mahogany headboard.

Maggie's head turned.  Her cheek rested against his thigh.  He wondered
how long nice could possibly last.

Until dinner.

The train stopped in Philadelphia and Connor made arrangements with one
of the restaurants to deliver dinner to their private car.  Maggie was
touched by his thoughtfulness and because he had gone to so much
trouble, and because she had been so miserable most of the day, she
took the time to dress her hair and find something suitable in her
wardrobe.

She didn't notice that the waiters turned to watch her as she entered
the dining car, and she certainly didn't notice that they didn't turn
away.  Maggie knew the claret velvet gown was elegant; what she didn't
know was how she looked in it.

Connor knew.  He tipped the waiters, told them to come back for the
serving dishes, and dismissed them curtly.  The looks they exchanged,
and the single, knowing wink one of them shot in his direction set his
teeth on edge.

"What the hell do you think you're doing wearing that?"  he demanded
roughly.

Maggie was startled by the harsh question.  The waiters were not even
out of earshot.  Frowning, she looked down at herself then at her faint
reflection in the windows of the car.  She liked the cut of the rounded
neckline, the fullness of the short velvet sleeves.  The peplum bodice
made her waist look fashionably small without wearing a corset and by
contrast, her hips looked more curved.  The trained skirt was stiffened
with a lining of muslin so the gown held its elegant line and there
were velvet bands and satin pleatings at the front.

The claret highlighted the same rich hues in her hair and gave her
cheeks color without any artifice.

Whatever small confidence she had gained by putting on the gown was
effectively shattered.  She blinked several times, holding tears at
bay, then she raised her chin, her mouth set stubbornly, and sat down
at the table.  "I didn't dress to please you," she said quietly, not
meeting his eyes.  "I dressed to please me."

Jesus, Connor thought, running his hand through his dark hair.

She didn't understand.  What the hell did she see when she looked in a
mirror?  he wondered.  Not half of what he saw, obviously.  He dropped
his hand to the back of the chair and yanked it away from the table.

It scraped against the Oriental rug, causing a ripple.

He kicked at the rug and sat down on Maggie's left.

Connor lifted one of the silver serving domes and passed the platter of
sliced roast lamb to Maggie.  She took a small piece and added mint
jelly to her plate.  Out of the corner of his eye Connor watched her
reach for the covered bread basket.  He waited to see if she would fall
out of her bodice.  When she didn't he didn't know whether to be
relieved or disappointed.

"Saloon girls cover more of their breasts than you," he said tightly.

Maggie did not think anyone had ever said the word breast in front of
her before, not if they weren't referring to game hen or turkey.

Mortified, her fingers tightened around her fork to keep from dropping
it.  She swallowed hard and replied with credible calm, "I don't know
about saloon girls.  This is the latest fashion in New York."

She hadn't wanted to take the gown at all, she almost said.  She'd
known she wasn't going to have many opportunities to wear it, perhaps
none at all.  Skye had insisted and Maggie had given in.  "And don't
tell me we're not in New York any longer," she added, "because I
already know that.  I won't have occasion to wear it again and my... my
"Breasts."

"My bosom will be adequately covered in the future."  As far as she was
concerned the subject was closed.

Not so with Connor.  He grasped her chin and forced her to look at
him.

The hardness of his features was tautly defined.  "Make certain that it
is, Maggie, or accept the fact that we'll be sharing a bed before our
divorce."  His eyes burned her with their coldness.

"And if you get pregnant again I'll make damn certain there's a baby
this time."  Chapter 8

Maggie jerked away from Connor's grip and stood.  Her hand swung back
in a wide arc and came rushing forward.

A hair's-breadth away from making contact with his face, Connor seized
her by the wrist.  His grip pressed bruisingly against her pulse until
her fingers uncurled.  The fork clattered on her plate.

The sound of it caught Maggie's attention.  She stared at it lying on
the fragile bone china, a fork again, not a weapon that could have
scarred Connor permanently or blinded him.  She was trembling with
fear.

He was shaking with anger.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice small and choked.  She didn't meet his
eyes.  "I've never" She stopped because he wasn't standing beside her
any longer.  The rear door to the private car was slammed so hard that
Maggie felt the shudder roll through her.

She sat down slowly.  The aroma of their dinner seeped out from under
the silver covers.  What had been appetizing was now only nauseating
and Maggie, careless of convention or the elegant line of her gown,
huddled in her chair, her knees drawn up to her chest, trying to
smother all feelings of sickness.  She sat that way for a long time,
her mind very nearly a blank as she stared straight ahead, her
withdrawal from everything around her complete.

When she finally moved Maggie was stiff from her contorted posture.

She limped and stretched on her way back to the sleeping car.  She let
out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding when she found the car
vacant.  She didn't give another thought to where Connor might have
gone to vent his terrible anger; she was simply grateful to be alone.

Maggie lit one of the oil lamps and pulled down the blinds in all the
windows.  Her eye caught the "Just Married" banner and she tore it
down, balled it up, and pitched it under the desk.  She was in the
middle of undressing when she heard the waiters returning.  From their
laughter and sniggering in the other car she knew the scenario they had
assumed from the untouched meal.  Maggie's troubled eyes fell on her
empty bed.  They couldn't have been more wrong.

After she finished undressing and put on her nightgown and wrapper, she
made up the bed and found extra linens for Connor.  She took them to
the dining car and laid them on one of the sofas.

After a brief hesitation, Maggie arranged the sheets and blankets on it
and found some throw pillows for her husband to use.  She tested the
comfort of the sofa, stretching out and turning on both sides to
measure its length and width.  It only took her a few minutes to
realize that Connor would be hopelessly uncomfortable with the
arrangement.

She thought of the bed and of the things Connor had said to her
earlier.  There was no question of sharing it.  It was a matter of
giving it up.  The decision was taken out of her hands as she fell
asleep thinking about it.

When Connor returned to the station it was minutes before midnight and
only seconds before No.  454 was scheduled to leave.  He had no sooner
boarded than the train started to pull away.  He stood on the balcony a
moment, wondering if he should retire to the sofa or enter the sleeping
car and risk another argument with Maggie.

The muted light slipping out from under the drawn blinds warned him
that Maggie was waiting up for him.  He wondered if she had been
worried that he was going to miss the train or praying for it.

Connor stared at the door to the sleeping car for several long
moments.

He thought about having to sleep in his clothes, about not being able
to wash, about not being able to stretch all night long if he chose the
sofa, or not being able to relax all night long if he chose the
floor.

Then he thought of Maggie's eyes, the hurt and haunted look, the pain
of betrayal.  He turned to his left on the balcony platform and entered
the dining car.

The car was dark and he didn't bother lighting a lamp.  The aroma of
their uneaten meal still clung to the air but a quick sweep of the
dining table told him that everything had been taken away.  His stomach
rumbled and his mouth watered but there was no satisfying either.  He
sat down on one of the sofas and began taking off his shoes.  His grin
was self-mocking.  He was getting used to his needs going
unsatisfied.

His shoes hit the floor with a mild thump.  He removed his socks, then
stood up to shrug out of his jacket and waistcoat.  Both those items
were tossed in the direction of a wing chair.  One hit, the other
missed.  Connor tugged at the tails of his shirt and pulled them free
of his trousers.  He unfastened a few buttons and rolled up the cuff.

A haphazard search for some pillows turned up nothing.  He didn't find
any blankets or sheets but then he hadn't really expected Maggie to
think about his comfort.

He stretched out on the sofa, wondered if the other one was in any way
more suitable, and fell asleep thinking he should have given it a
try.

Sunlight filtered in under the drawn blinds.  Maggie could feel it
pressing at her eyelids, trying to slip under her lashes.  She shifted
her position and placed a forearm over her eyes.  The rolling motion of
the train was comforting, the steady clacking of the wheels over the
track, reassuring.  Maggie yawned, stretched.  She raised her forearm
and started to get up.

Connor turned on his side.  His shoulder was braced uncomfortably
against the curved arm of the sofa, his neck supported at an unnatural
angle.  One of his calves dangled over the side of the cushions, the
other foot over the far end.  He stretched, rolled again, and this time
landed facedown on the Oriental rug.

Maggie bolted upright while Connor groaned.  She slid off her sofa and
knelt on the floor beside him, placing a hand on his back.

"Are you all right?"  she asked, alarmed when he didn't move.  "Is
there something I can do?"

He didn't raise himself to look at her, but merely shook his head
slowly.

Maggie touched the back of his neck with her fingertips.  His hair
looked nearly black against her pale skin.  Afraid of a rebuff; her
touch was tentative as she sifted through his hair searching for
abrasions on his scalp.

Connor held himself very still as her fingers threaded through his
hair.  Her touch was a whisper against his skin yet he felt it all the
way to his toes.  He stood it as long as he could, then he turned on
his back and stared up at her.  Her hand hovered just above his cheek,
suspended momentarily before she began to withdraw it.  Connor took her
by the wrist and drew it back.

Maggie winced when his fingers closed over the delicate underside of
her wrist.  He released her immediately and let her cradle her hand
protectively in front of her.

"Did I hurt you?"  he asked.  His touch hadn't been rough, merely
firm.

He sat up.  "Let me see."

She shook her head.  "No, it's all right."

Connor's eyes narrowed.  Where they had been sleepy a moment before
they were alert and biting now.  "You really can't stand for me to
touch you, can you?"

Surprised by the terse accusation, Maggie's mouth parted slightly.

Defenses rushed to her mind but all were left unspoken.  She put out
her wrist instead and let him look.  He didn't deserve protection from
the consequences of his actions.

Connor's eyes dropped from Maggie's pale face to her extended arm.  Her
skin was mottled with a bracelet of ugly blue bruises.

He could make out the placement of his fingers by the dark shadows that
colored her skin.  He knew he hadn't done the damage a moment ago, but
hours ago, when she had raised her hand against him.

Maggie removed her arm from his line of vision and stood.  There were
not going to be any apologies because they would have been
meaningless.

They would hurt each other again, not physically perhaps, but in more
deeply profound ways they would draw blood.

"Did you sleep here all night?"  he asked, running a hand through his
hair.

She nodded.  "I left the bed for you."  She didn't add that it had been
unintentional.

Connor leaned against the sofa.  He rubbed the back of his stiff neck,
shutting his eyes briefly.  "That won't be necessary from now on.

She didn't argue.  "Very well."  Her voice was stiff, almost
priggish.

She couldn't seem to help herself.

"I was thinking that I might wait for another train at Pittsburgh."

"That isn't necessary.

"We'd probably arrive in Denver only a few days apart.  You could wait
with your sister until I get there."

Maggie tightened the belt on her robe.  "I would have to wait in a
hotel," she said without inflection.  "I can't go to Michael's without
you.

He was silent a moment.  "So no one in your family's going to know
about the divorce until after the fact."

"That's right."

"Are you certain you want it that way?"

Coldness seeped back into her voice.  "Very certain."

"Then I'll stay," he said after a moment.

Maggie didn't acknowledge his decision.  She simply turned to go.

She was on the point of leaving when she heard him say, "But there have
to be rules."

Connor got up off the floor and released some of the blinds.  They flew
upward, rattling in their shuttle.  Sunlight was burning off the fog as
No.  454 made the last slow descent from the Allegheny Mountains in
central Pennsylvania.  He looked over his shoulder and saw Maggie was
still at the door, her hand curled around the knob.  She was waiting
for him to expound on his idea about rules.  He offered her fruit from
their bon voyage basket instead.

"I wish I had been able to find this last night," he said, extending an
orange toward her.  When she remained where she was he shrugged and
began peeling it himself.  He nudged a chair away from the dining table
with one bare foot and sat down.  "I was starved."

Maggie's hand dropped away from the doorknob but she didn't move into
the room.  She fiddled with the end of her braided hair.

"There's a covered picnic basket on the wing chair over here."  It was
partially hidden under his discarded jacket.  She was surprised he
hadn't found it last night.  "I think it was meant for our lunch
yesterday."

"I'll look later.  This is fine for now."  He split open the orange.

Droplets of sweet juice splashed his knuckles and he sucked it off.

Watching him, something twisted inside Maggie.  Her mouth, which should
have watered at the sight of the orange, went dry instead.  "What sort
of rules?"  she asked hoarsely.

"That we spend as little time together as possible," he said.

"That you don't wear fancy ball dresses.  That you don't stand there
playing with your hair, looking sleepy-eyed and desirable and
beautiful.

That you don't touch me or let me," He stopped because Maggie had fled
the room.  She hadn't heard everything he had to say but he thought she
had gotten the message.  He stared at his hands.  They were shaking.

For the remainder of the journey Maggie rarely left her car.  It had
become hers by virtue of the fact that she had taken one of Connor's
absences to move all his belongings to the forward car.  With the
exception of the monogrammed sheets, she had managed to erase all other
traces of him.  They ate meals together when the train stopped along
the route but Connor never made another attempt to have their dinner
served to them privately.  They shared meals in hotels in Columbus,
Indianapolis, St. Louis, and Kansas City.  Breakfast and luncheon
baskets were brought to them by the porters, but as soon as they were
gone Maggie retired to her car with her portion and Connor remained
alone in the dining car.

As No.  454 rode the rails inexorably toward Denver, Maggie struggled
with loneliness.  In her family she had often been the one off by
herself, often alone, but never lonely.  She had always had somewhere
to turn, someone waiting who was eager, even happy, to include her in
their adventure or hers.  Connor had made it clear that he wanted
nothing to do with her, that as far as he was concerned she was a
pariah.  For the first time in her life, cut off from her family,
Maggie found herself physically sick with the pain of separation.

She never let on that it made her ache to be so isolated.  The only
person she could have told was the same person who wasn't interested in
hearing it.  Maggie knew that Connor often went to the forward cars.

He played poker with a changing succession of travelers in second
class, found conversational companions in first class, and even played
with some of the poor children confined with their immigrant parents in
the crowded third-class cars.  She knew this because he mentioned it in
passing sometimes and though she wanted to hear more, she never
asked.

She found herself crying at odd times, for no readily apparent
reason.

She blamed Connor at first, but it seemed unfair, so in the end she
took the burden on herself, accepting it as more of the ripple effect
from her painfully-made decision.

Maggie paid attention to what she was wearing when Connor was around.

She chose simple, modestly-cut day dresses even if she was meeting him
in the evening.  The colors were gray and brown, sometimes with a small
print and cuffs and collars in contrasting fabrics.  She didn't mind
his edict about her wardrobe because she was wearing precisely the
clothes she was most comfortable in, the ones she had thought were
suitable for her work with Dancer Tubbs.

She arranged her thick hair in a single braid, sometimes coiling it at
the back of her head, most often letting it swing loosely at her
back.

There were days when she knew she wasn't going to see Connor that she
didn't bother dressing at all, days, in fact, in which she did not rise
from her bed.

Self-pity was something new to Mary Margaret.  Sometimes it frightened
her that she might live her life that way.  Sometimes she didn't
care.

They were less than twenty-four hours outside of Denver when Connor
made an unannounced visit to Maggie's car.  She was curled in the large
leather chair behind her father's desk, reading a book.

It was late in the afternoon, too early for dinner, but her eyes
automatically strayed to Connor's hands to see if he was bringing her
something.  She couldn't imagine any other reason for his visit.

He watched her eyes dart to his hands and knew what she had expected.

"Does it matter?"  he asked.  "You wouldn't eat it anyway."

He sounded almost angry, Maggie thought.  "If you've come to pick a
fight then you may as well leave," she said.  She was pleased with her
tone, pleased that she could manage the right amount of indifference.

She opened her book again and began to read.  Maggie didn't comprehend
a single word but she took comfort in the fact that he didn't know
that.

Connor sat on the arm of one of the wing chairs.  "We're going to be in
Denver tomorrow," he said.  "I've asked the conductor to wire your
sister at our next stop so she'll know when to expect us.  The question
is, what are we going to do about you?"

In spite of her desire to ignore him, that drew Maggie's attention.

She closed the book and dropped it on the desk.  There was enough force
behind her action to make it slide halfway across the polished
surface.

"What about me?"

Connor began to wonder which of them was really spoiling for a fight.

He kept his voice carefully neutral but said bluntly, "Frankly, Maggie,
you look like hell."

Knowing it was true didn't make it any more palatable.  She wished she
could have said the same of him but the reality was that the further
they traveled from New York, the more Connor Holiday seemed to
thrive.

He no longer wore black waistcoats and tailored jackets.  His shirts
weren't starched and his studs weren't gold.

He had abandoned brushed flannel trousers in favor of the ubiquitous
pants of the west: jeans.  Silk shirts were replaced by cotton and
chambray and his short vest was scarred brown leather.  The most
jarring difference in his appearance was that somewhere between St.
Louis and Kansas City, Connor had begun to carry a gun.

Maggie knew without a doubt that if this was the man she had seen in
New York she would never have made her proposal.  The confinement of a
city like New York had not set well on Connor's shoulders, but she had
not realized how much until she had seen him shrug it off.  She'd heard
him say at the train station, in response to a question from her
father, that he missed the space and silence.  Looking at him now she
understood it better, understood how contained he had been by
convention, how crowded he had been with the choices forced on him by
her father and his own.

She thought about the space and the silence he wanted and was more
certain than ever that divorce was the best way to give both those
things back to him.

Maggie had been silent so long that Connor wondered if she had heard
him.  "Maggie?"  he asked.  "Do I have to repeat myself?"

"No," she sighed.  "I heard you.  I look like hell."  She swiveled in
the chair and gave him a dead-on look.  "Are you going to shoot me?"

One corner of his mouth lifted and he said dryly, "They shoot ugly
women in Kansas.  We're in Colorado now.  We string 'em up."

Maggie stared at him for a moment.  She blinked as his words
registered, then she burst out laughing.

Connor had not expected her laughter.  It washed over him like a
refreshing spray of mountain water.  It seemed to have substance,
touching his face, his neck, the back of his hands, sending a
skittering sensation down the length of his spine.  For the brief span
that her laughter lasted Connor had to revise his opinion.  With her
bright green eyes, with her wide smile flashing her teeth, with the
flush of color that suffused her cheeks, Maggie was simply beautiful.

Maggie's laughter faded as she felt Connor's critical gaze.

Uncomfortable beneath it, her hands fell to her lap.  "I gather you're
concerned because my sister might suspect there's a rift between us.

"I'd have thought that would be your concern," he said.  "I'm more
worried she might think I beat you."

He got up from the arm of the chair and approached Maggie.  She tried
to brush his hand away when he reached for her chin but he was
insistent.

She let him cup her jaw and raise her face for the cold and distant
scrutiny of his dark eyes.  "How much weight have you lost?"  he
asked.

Maggie wasn't certain that she'd lost any.  She'd been so inactive
lately that she thought it was more likely that it had merely been
redistributed.  "I have no idea."

"At least ten pounds," he said.  "When you couldn't afford to lose
one.

You're not going to be strong enough to make the journey from queen's
Point to Dancer's."  He drew her to her feet and made her go with him
to the mirror above the washbasin.  "Look at yourself," he said,
standing behind her.  "There are hollows under your cheeks and your
eyes look bruised."  He plucked at the shoulder seams of her
charcoal-gray day dress and demonstrated how loose the material was.

"What are you going to tell your sister?"

She shrugged.  Because Connor was still holding parts of her dress her
action gave her the appearance of a marionette.  She didn't like the
effect at all.  Knocking his hands aside, Maggie pushed away and put
some distance between them.  "I'll think of something to say to
Michael," she said.

"If you don't do something about the way you look, you're going to have
to tell her you have the plague."

"Bastard," she snapped at him under her breath.  "You're the one that
told me.."

He held up his hand.  "I never told you to hole up here like some
damned prairie dog or hermit.  Unless you've been trying to anticipate
what life will be like with Dancer Tubbs, then you've got no excuse for
what you've become.  I told you to stay out of my way, not crawl
underground.  You've never once come forward to meet anyone on the
train.  Passengers think you're a regular blue-blooded Eastern bitch,
too good even for the first-class folks.  Did you expect me to come
back here to try to coax you out of bed or out of your self-pitying
mood?"

Her green eyes flashed with anguish.  "what is it you want from me?"

she cried.

Something snapped in Connor.  He closed the distance between them.  His
hands snaked around her waist and he pulled her up against him.  Caught
off balance, her body laid flush to his.  His fingers bit into her
waist as he secured her against his chest and thighs.  Her head snapped
back and he cradled it with his palm.

"I want you to remember," he said tersely.  Then his mouth covered
hers.

Connor's lips moved over Maggie's, his tongue probing the line of her
lips, pressing for an opening against her teeth.  Her small gasp gave
him the entry he sought.

Maggie's arms hung loosely at her sides.  They rose slowly and her
hands touched Connor's shoulders first, lightly, not pushing him away
and not pulling him closer.  Gradually they looped around his back.

Her fingers closed over the soft leather of his vest and held on.

His mouth was warm and firm and the movement of his tongue was causing
her heart to slam.  Her breasts swelled against his chest.

She rubbed herself against him and a ribbon of heat curled between her
thighs.

Connor's mouth was insistent, hungry.  It moved over her greedily.

He felt her body stir, respond, then blatantly match his own need.

He backed up to the desk, leaned on it, and pulled Maggie intimately
between his open thighs.  She fit against him the way he remembered,
her arms around his neck, her breasts curved against his chest, her
thighs supporting his.

Connor's hands cupped her buttocks, pressing her closer so that she was
ground against the fly of his jeans.  The sound of his groan was
absorbed by her mouth.  He tugged on one of her arms and found her
hand, folding it in his.  He brought it along the side of his chest,
rested it against his hip, then moved it between their bodies, over his
swollen groin.  He held it there, letting her feel his need as he
turned them both and began backing Maggie over the desk.

Maggie tore her mouth away and pushed hard at Connor's chest.

He backed away immediately, his breath coming hard, his feral glance
harder as he fought for control of his body.  Maggie slumped forward,
her head in her hands.  She stared at the floor.  The intricate pattern
of the Oriental rug shifted and blurred in front of her eyes.

It wasn't fear of pregnancy that had brought her to her senses.  It was
the realization that she was letting Connor Holiday take her on her
father's massive desk.  It seemed somehow shameful that she had been
willing to let him and shame is what gave her the strength to push him
away.

She looked down at herself and saw that Connor had unfastened most of
the buttons on her bodice.  Her breasts rose and fell with each of her
ragged breaths.  Maggie closed the buttons with fingers that
trembled.

Connor watched her.  Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth swollen.

She refused to look at him.  He didn't think she remembered what had
happened on the occasion of their first meeting but she couldn't have
any doubts what he wanted from her.  "It won't happen again," he
muttered, his voice harsh with the frustration of denial.  "It
shouldn't have happened this time."

He slipped out of the car and went looking for the whiskey drummer.

aggie leaned on the edge of the desk and cried.

Connor sat with Maggie on a bench outside the Denver depot, a few
valises stacked on either side of them.  From time to time he glanced
at her but couldn't see any particular effect from his impulsive and
ill-conceived attempt to make love to her.  She had taken his advice
about her manner and mood and had managed to look brighter and
happier.

There was nothing she could do about the weight loss, though when
Connor considered it later he thought perhaps he had misjudged the
situation.  She had felt surprisingly full in his arms, her breasts
actually larger than he remembered and her bottom more rounded.  Her
cheeks were still gaunt,' however, and where her gown was open at the
neck he glimpsed the pronounced line of her collarbone.  The shadows
beneath her eyes hadn't disappeared either, but her hair was shining,
and her faint smile seemed less nervous.

"Michael's not usually late," Maggie said, glancing up and down the
platform.  No.  454 had left the depot an hour earlier.  Their private
cars had been uncoupled and were standing idly on side tracks in the
rail yard.

"Maybe she didn't get my wire," Connor said.

Maggie leaned back against the bench and tried to relax.  "Have you
been to Denver often?"  she asked.

"Not often."

"What do you like about it?"

"Not much."

She glanced sideways at him.  "Are you provoking me deliberately?"

He realized how tersely he had answered her questions.  He grinned.

"Not intentionally."

Maggie laughed.

The grin had transformed his face, the laughter hers.  When Mary
Michael came upon them, her young daughter in tow, she wasn't surprised
they hadn't noticed her.  It eased her mind.  There was little about
Maggie's marriage that didn't trouble her.  "Madison," she said to her
daughter, "you and I are intruders on a private moment."

Maggie and Connor looked away from each other simultaneously.

Maggie's expression was almost guilty as she turned her face in
Michael's direction; Connor's was merely remote.

Recovering quickly, Maggie jumped up from the bench and threw her arms
around her sister.  They hugged fiercely, young Madison squeezed
between their skirts.  "Oh, Michael, it's wonderful to see you!"  The
sentiment could not have been more heartfelt.  Tears gathered in
Maggie's eyes and she didn't have to look at Michael to know it was
much the same with her.  It was only the tugging on their skirts that
separated them.

"Someone wants to be noticed," Michael said, laughing.  She made a
swipe at her eyes to brush away tears and picked up her daughter.  "Do
you want to go to your Aunt Maggie?"

The flame-haired youngster displayed no shyness.  She struggled to get
out of her mother's arms and into her aunt's.

"Traitor," Michael whispered.  She dropped Madison into Maggie's
eagerly extended arms and turned to Connor.  "Would you like to be
noticed, too?"  she asked.  Her smile was playful and engaging.

Her dark green eyes radiated warmth.

Some of Connor's natural guardedness faded.  "I think I'd like that,"
he said.

Over the top of Madison's bright head, Maggie watched her husband's
easy response to Michael.  She felt a tug of sadness that she couldn't
coax a smile from him so simply, then another tug that she had never
tried.  She turned away and gave all her attention to Madison.

Mary Michael was several inches taller than Maggie.  She didn't have to
raise herself quite as far to place a kiss on Connor's cheek.

"Welcome," she said feelingly, then confided with characteristic
honesty, "Frankly, I don't know what to think about this marriage, but
I'll have time to sort it out over the next few days."

"I take it I'm only being accepted for inspection," Connor said
dryly.

Michael's laughter was bright.  "Something like that."  She glanced at
Maggie.  "Now don't glower at him."  Her attention darted back to
Connor.  "You're doing a credible job of hiding your surprise, but I
know you've met Rennie and I can see that no one's thought to tell you
about me."

Looking at her, Connor had no difficulty understanding what she
meant.

"You're right," he said.  "No one thought to tell me you were Mrs.
Sullivan's twin."

"Actually, she's mine," Michael said, dimpling, "but you can't get her
to admit it."

Maggie watched Connor study Michael for a moment.  She knew that he was
making a comparison to Rennie, searching for differences in the
twins.

But she also knew where his comparison would finally rest and that he
would find her, as was always the case when she drew scrutiny next to
Rennie and Michael, a pale and unexciting replica of her older
sisters.

Their hair was dark copper and wildly curling, while hers was merely
red.  Their green eyes were several shades darker than her own, more
deeply emerald while hers were green glass.  The shape of their mouths
was similar and they all shared a serious nature that flattened the
full outline when they were deep in thought, but Rennie and Michael had
dimples when they broke into smiles, while Maggie knew hers was
unadorned.

Maggie felt her face flush as Connor finished studying Michael and
turned his eyes briefly on her.  Angry at herself for caring what he
thought, she stared back at him defiantly.  His glance narrowed in
response and she found herself using Madison as a distraction and a
shield.

Connor's attention rested on Michael again.  "The resemblance is
striking, but I didn't mistake you for your sister."

Michael was used to hearing how much she and Rennie were alike.

"Rennie and I take pleasure in our similarities," she said, "but we're
always complimented when people notice how different we are.  We can't
fool our husbands for a moment."

Maggie put her wriggling niece on the platform.  "I can't believe you
tried."

"Once," Michael said.  "It was an ill-conceived plan from the
beginning."

"Rennie's idea, then," Maggie said with complete confidence.

"Of course."  She shrugged.  "You'd think I'd learn, but I went along
with it."

Madison wasn't particularly interested in the adult conversation
floating above her head.  She'd been there when her mother and Aunt
Rennie had decided to switch places and she'd seen how her father and
Uncle Jarret had pretended to be fooled.  But she hadn't really liked
it when Uncle Jarret kissed her mother in a way that only her father
did.  Aunt Rennie hadn't liked it much either.  There had been some
arguing after that and then some laughing and then some scolding.  It
had been very confusing and really not very much fun.

Connor was also only listening to Michael's account with half an ear.

He hunkered down on the platform and patiently waited out young
Madison's shy approach.  The two-year-old smiled coyly in response to
his encouraging grin.  Her glance was shaded by long lashes that were
much darker than her bright red hair.  Her head was tilted to one side
as she inspected him and made her judgments.

Connor crooked his index finger and she leaped into his arms, nearly
bowling him over.  Laughing, Connor stood and gave Madison a little
toss above him.  She giggled joyfully as her dress fluttered and her
curls bounced.

Watching them, Michael shook her head in amusement and confided to
Maggie.  "She's an incurable flirt," she said.  "I'd like to blame it
on Skye but Madison's only seen her a few times.  Though, come to think
of it, it might have been long enough for her to teach-" She stopped as
she noticed Maggie's stricken look.  "What's wrong?"

Maggie barely heard her sister.  Her complete attention was caught by
Connor and Madison.  This is what it would be like with our child.  She
watched him toss Madison into the air again, his enjoyment so genuine
that Maggie was momentarily wrenched with grief.  He never let me think
he might want our child.  And, on the heels of that thought, as he
tumbled and tickled Madison, I never really asked.

Michael took her sister by the wrist and gave her a little shake.

"Maggie?  What is it?"

Michael's concern drew Connor's attention.  He held Madison in the
crook of his arm and took a few steps toward Michael and Maggie.  His
wife was pale, the shadows beneath her eyes suddenly more pronounced.

She was looking at him as if she'd never seen him before and Connor was
not flattered by the almost accusing, horrified cast of her eyes.  For
a moment he wondered if she had suddenly remembered everything about
their first meeting.  "Maggie?"  His voice was gentle but his eyes were
sharp and they held a warning.

Maggie managed to make the sob she was choking back sound like laughter
caught in her throat.  Under the hard probing of Connor's dark eyes,
she came out of her reverie.  She shook her head, clearing it, and
smiled with self-mockery.  "I'm sorry," she said, her mind working
quickly as she tried to find an excuse for her odd behavior.

"I thought you were going to drop her.  I just froze."  She saw
immediately that Connor didn't believe her but accepted the excuse for
what it was.  Maggie was relieved when Michael latched onto it.

"Then you won't want to watch Ethan play with her," Michael said,
kissing Madison's downy cheek.  "I can tell you that my heart sticks in
my throat when he pitches her skyward.  And she just laughs and
laughs."  She hugged her daughter.  "Don't you, Maddie?  You laugh and
laugh..."

Madison giggled obligingly.

"Where is your husband?"  Connor asked, chucking Madison lightly on the
chin.  She batted at his hand while her eyes begged him to do it
again.

"Maggie thought he might be with you."

"Ethan's gone to Stillwater to testify in a murder trial.  I'm hoping
he'll get back before you have to leave for your ranch."  She pointed
to their bags.  "That doesn't look like very much to me.  You're
planning on staying more than a couple of nights, aren't you?"

Maggie spoke up quickly.  "We're anxious to get to the Double H,
Michael.  Connor's been away for a long time and I'm excited to see my
new home."

Connor saw that Michael's eyes had narrowed faintly and that she was
studying her sister more closely now.  He'd heard more desperation in
Maggie's tone than enthusiasm and he thought Michael was perceptive
enough to have heard the same.  "We're grateful for the invitation," he
said, slipping one arm around Maggie's waist, "but Maggie's right.  I'm
anxious to get to the Double H. I'll try to get her back here at least
once before winter sets in."

"That's October," Michael warned Maggie, wagging a friendly finger at
her.  "Winter comes early to the Rockies."

"Winter comes early," Madison mimicked in a sing-song treble.

She wagged her finger at Connor.

"Flirt," he said, grinning at the child.

Michael sighed.  "It must be Skye's fault," she said again to Maggie.

"I know I've never been accused of being one."  She hefted Madison in
her arms again and glanced backward at the bags.  "It's not a long walk
from here to home, but you don't want to carry those.  We'll hire one
of the porters to bring them."

"I have some trunks in the car that I want you to take," Maggie said.

"I'm not dragging all my belongings to the Double H."

Michael was immediately sympathetic.  "You don't have to explain," she
said.  "Mama and Skye did all your packing.  I still have some of
Rennie's things in my attic because she and Jarret move around so much
with the railroad.  I can put your trunks there until you decide you
want them."  She put Madison down and took the little girl's hand.  She
started to lead the way, then stopped, giving Connor a flirty sidelong
glance that was remarkably like her daughter's.  "Did Mary Francis
threaten to break your kneecaps?"  she asked.

"That's all been taken care of."  Connor said gravely.

"Oh, good.  Then you really are one of the family."  She tugged on
Madison's hand and began walking.

Behind her, Maggie and Connor exchanged glances.  Neither one of them
was smiling.

Denver fascinated Maggie.  While Connor and Michael barely glanced
around as they walked, Maggie looked in every direction, craning her
head to see up and down the length of the side streets and into every
shop and mercantile along the main thoroughfare.

She had imagined the town would be rougher than New York but she only
found it more rough-hewn.  The buildings weren't as tall, the
storefronts weren't as large, but there was a variety of services and
entertainment available including a theatre and an opera house.

She had known from Michael's letters that shootouts didn't occur in the
heart of Main Street on a daily, or even a monthly, basis, but she
realized that secretly she had been expecting something like that.

No outlaws came running from the bank they passed; no drunks wandered
out of the Lucky Seven saloon.  Men tipped their hats as they strode
along or nodded and smiled in brisk, friendly greeting.

Many of them didn't wear guns and those who did didn't seem
particularly anxious to use them.  Women and children weren't haunted
with fear as if they were expecting an Indian raid or a cattle
stampede.  It was a warm, sunny day and everyone seemed to be enjoying
it.

Maggie was a little disappointed.

Michael's house was two blocks from her husband's office.  When she let
go of Madison's hand the little girl ran alongside the white picket
fence bordering the yard until she came to the gate.  There, she stood
on the gate rail and swung back and forth, doing the very thing she was
forbidden to do.  She thought having guests would save her the
embarrassment of a scolding.  It didn't.  Michael gave her a severe,
knowing look and Madison climbed down, hanging her head with more
sheepishness than she actually felt.  The adults were hard-pressed not
to laugh.

"Quite the actress," Connor remarked, pulling back his smile.  He added
innocently, "And whose influence could that be?"

"Not my side of the family," Michael said with playful haughtiness.

She opened the gate and scooted Madison inside the yard.  "She gets it
from her father.  He once pretended to be an outlaw."  Michael saw
Connor's genuine surprise and interest and looked at Maggie, her
feathery brows drawn downward.  "Didn't you tell him?"  she asked.

"No, it didn't come up.

Michael laughed at her assumption.  "Of course it didn't come up.

I'm sure you had better things to do on your trip here than talk about
how I met Ethan."

Maggie blushed, not quite able to meet her sister's eyes.  Connor saved
her by giving her a faint squeeze and saying with just the right
inflection, "Much better things."

Michael laughed again.  "Let's go inside, shall we?"  She nudged
Madison up the two wooden steps and across the wide porch front.

To the left of the door the porch swing swayed gently as a breeze
cornered the white frame house.  Michael opened the door and ushered
everyone inside.

There was nothing about the house that reminded Maggie of their
palatial home on Broadway and 50th but they hadn't always lived
there.

Before Jay Mac had moved his mistress and children uptown they had
lived in a pleasant, unassuming house near Union Square.

Michael had managed to capture the charm of their childhood in her new
home.

Madison had grabbed Connor's hand and was taking him on a solo tour.

Maggie hung back with Michael.  "It's lovely," she said, wandering into
the parlor from the hallway.  "It reminds me of-" "I know," Michael
said, finishing her sister's thought without having to say it aloud.

"Rennie thinks the same thing.  So did Mama when she came to visit.  I
didn't do anything intentionally, it just happened.  Some of the
furniture is like what we had growing up and I suppose it's the colors
I've used in the rooms that give that effect."

"No," Maggie said.  Her eyes drifted over the mantelpiece, cluttered
with photographs in gilt and pewter frames.  The furniture was
comfortably plump with pillows scattered across the back of the sofa
and chairs and more piled haphazardly on the floor.  Copies of the
Rocky Mountain News were lying in disarray on one end table and in a
stack beside the pillows.  "No," Maggie repeated, smiling warmly, "it's
more than that.  It's like this afteling.  It's not what's in the
room.

It's how it's in the room."

Michael's mouth screwed comically to one side and she gave her sister a
frank, dry look.  Her gesture encompassed the room.

"You're referring to my housekeeping."

Maggie looked around again.  "I suppose I am," she said, surprised.

"How did Mama ever manage with five of us and no Mrs.  Cavanaugh?"

"Mama asked herself the same thing, but she was very happy to see that
I've carried on the tradition.  She calls it "homey chaos."  Jay Mac
called it a mess.  He wanted Ethan to hire a housekeeper for me.

Maggie's eyes widened.

"Oh, it didn't end there," Michael said, picking up newspapers from the
end table and dropping them on the floor stack.  "Not with Jay Mac.  He
practically ordered Ethan to order me to quit my position with the
Rocky Mountain News.  Then he ordered me himself.

He also thought it would be more suitable if we built a new home for
ourselves in another section of town farther away from Ethan's office
and the courthouse.  He decided it was too dangerous for a Federal
Marshal to be so accessible.  Mama couldn't get him to stop.  I think
there was a twenty-four-hour period when no one was speaking to him."

"Poor Papa."

Michael laughed.  "That's just it, we all forgive him even if we don't
give in."  She saw the shadow that briefly clouded Maggie's
expression.

Michael impulsively grabbed her sister's hand and pulled her toward the
kitchen at the back of the house.  "Come on, I'll make you some tea and
you can tell me everything.  Madison has your husband securely in her
thrall for the time being."

Maggie's face crumpled.  She was more surprised than Michael when she
began to sob.

Michael pushed out a chair at the kitchen table and sat Maggie down.

She didn't rush to comfort.  Instead she found a handkerchief for her
sister, thrust it in her hand, and set about making tea.

By the time she was finished Maggie had regained her composure.

Michael put a cup of tea in front of her and joined her at the table.

Above-stairs she could hear Connor and Madison playing in her
daughter's room.  "He's doing me a favor by wearing her out," she told
Maggie.

"I was afraid she'd be too excited to take a nap today."

Maggie's small smile was still a trifle watery.  "He's good with her,
isn't he?"

"Some people have a special knack with children," she said.

"Ethan does.  I'm catching up."

Maggie's brows lifted.  "You're catching up?"

"Hmm-mm.  Don't misunderstand me.  I love Maddie.  I always have.  But
Ethan's more relaxed with her.  I suppose I'm afraid I'll do something
wrong.  Ethan's fearless or confident, I'm never really sure, but she
responds like a flower to sunshine around him."  She sighed.

"Sometimes I wish I had Mama here to help me, or at least reassure
me.

I don't have her way.  You're the one who got that."

"Me?"

Michael nodded "You," she said firmly, but didn't explain.  She urged
Maggie to drink some of her tea.  "So tell me how this marriage came to
pass.  When I saw Rennie last she was kicking herself for ever
mentioning Connor Holiday and his land to Jay Mac.  She had no idea
that a few extraneous comments about the man would start Jay Mac's
interfering wheels in motion.  She's afraid you won't forgive her."

Maggie raised her teacup.  Its warmth felt good around her cold hands
and the security kept her hands from trembling.  She carefully took a
deep breath and met her sister's watchful eyes over the rim.

"There's nothing to forgive," she said evenly.  "Everything's worked
out for the best.  Connor and I are deeply in love."

Michael stared at her sister.  She was silent for a moment.  "I thought
that when I first saw you at the depot.  I've been wondering ever
since.

Maggie sipped her tea.  "It's true," she said quietly.  "We began
horribly.  Neither of us wanted to have anything to do with Jay Mac's
suggestions."

"Suggestions?"  Michael scoffed.  "You're kinder than I would be in
your place."

"That's because I'm happy to be in my place now."

"Then what were those tears about a few minutes ago?"  Michael reminded
her bluntly.  "My God, Maggie, your eyes are still red from crying."

Maggie put down her cup and self-consciously made another swipe at her
eyes with the handkerchief.  "Better?"  she asked.

"A little.  Though you won't hide it from Connor.  You'll have to think
of something to tell him, but I'm coming to believe that you're getting
used to covering your real feelings.  Not getting much better at it,
but at least getting practice."

"That's not fair, Michael," she said quietly, tucking the handkerchief
away.  "I'm telling you the truth."

Michael was not convinced.  "Why were you crying then?"

"I don't know."  And because it was very nearly the truth, it had the
proper resonance of that quality.  "It's all so new to me, I suppose.

I'm a little afraid."

"Does he beat you?"

"No!"

"Because if he does," "No!"  Maggie's teacup rattled in the saucer as
she jerked away from the table.  "Never!  He wouldn't!"

"All right," Michael said calmly.  She tapped the table lightly,
encouraging Maggie to sit again.  "That, at least, I believe."  She
paused.  "What about your dreams, Maggie?  Have you given up medicine
to be Connor Holiday's wife?"

"You've got it backward," Maggie said.  "I became Connor's wife because
medicine gave up on me.  I wasn't accepted by the medical school."

Michael's expressive eyes communicated her sympathy.  "Oh, I'm sorry,
Mag.  I didn't know."

"It's all right.  Everything's happened so quickly, there wasn't time
to write it all to you."

"So tell me now," she prodded gently.

Upstairs Connor sat with Madison until she fell asleep.  The youngster
had surrendered reluctantly, yawning so hard at times that Connor had
difficulty not following suit.  Smiling, his expression not at all
remote, he touched her small bright head, tousling the curls with the
tips of his fingers.  Would his child with Maggie have had those same
flame curls?

He deliberately pushed the thought away and rose from the bed.

He straightened a few of the things their play had disrupted then left
the child's room quietly.  He poked his head into the adjoining room
and saw it belonged to Ethan and Michael.  Their personal items were
strewn across the top of the dresser and the open door to the wardrobe
revealed their clothes.  Connor moved along the hallway.

The next door opened to a narrow, treacherously steep and winding
staircase that led to the attic.  Looking at it, he shook his head.

He'd need Ethan's help or a pulley system to get Maggie's trunks up
there.

The final door along the hallway opened to the guest room and Connor
walked inside.

His first thought was to wonder why he hadn't thought of it before.

His second thought was the realization that Maggie probably hadn't
considered it either.

Hell, he thought, they'd managed to avoid each other for nearly two
thousand miles but the next two nights didn't look so promising.

"Maggie," he called from the top of the steps.  "I need to see you for
a minute."  And because he remembered where he was, he added
significantly, "Alone, please."  Chapter 9

Maggie put off going to bed as long as she could.  It was the middle of
the night when she and Michael had finished trading every piece of
information they could think of.  Madison had climbed into bed shortly
after dusk and Connor had retired at midnight.  Maggie had promised she
would join him soon but it hadn't been difficult to keep Michael
engaged in conversation.  Their discussion may have been prompted by
Maggie's desire to avoid the bedroom, but it was perpetuated by her
desire to share.

Michael yawned hugely, not even bothering to cover her mouth.

"Is there anyone we haven't talked about?"  she asked, collapsing
dramatically against the pillows scattered around her.  "What time is
it?"

Maggie glanced at the clock on the mantel behind her sister.

There was no chance she could avoid the inevitable any longer.

"Twenty minutes after three."  There was every reason to expect that
Connor was sleeping soundly.  She remembered he'd been resigned by the
prospect; she had been frustrated.  "I didn't mean to keep you up so
long."

"I don't know which one of us is at fault," Michael said.  She yawned
abruptly, laughed at herself, and jumped to her feet with more energy
than she'd shown two minutes earlier.  She held out her hand to
Maggie.

"Up with you, Mag."  Maggie came to her feet in a fluid, graceful
motion.  "I wish I could move like you," Michael said enviously.

Maggie's dark brows lifted.  "You're the one who can dance, not me.  I
have two left feet."

"When you're self-conscious, you have two left feet," Michael told
her.

"When you're not, you're like a deer."

Maggie was too tired to think about that.  She helped Michael turn back
the lamps, then climbed the stairs ahead of her sister.  They hugged
briefly at the top.  "Good night," Maggie said softly.

Michael ducked into her room.  "Good night."  She shut the door.

There was no more avoiding.  Maggie went inside.

Except for moonlight filtering through the lacy curtains the bedroom
was dark.  After a moment Maggie's eyes adjusted enough to move without
bumping into things.  Connor was lying on the bed, turned on his side
away from her.  She knew that's where he would be because there really
was no other choice.  Between the washbasin, the highboy, the armoire,
and the rocker, there was virtually no floor.

A cat would have had trouble finding space to curl on the braided
rug.

There was no possibility that Connor or Maggie could.

Although he had been sleeping soundly, Connor was aware of Maggie the
moment she entered the room.  He lay very still, conscious of his
breathing and his heartbeat as she prepared to join him in bed.  She
was trying hard not to disturb him, moving almost stealthily as she
gathered her nightclothes and performed her evening ablutions.  He
couldn't watch her in the course of undressing or washing but his
imagination filled in the movements that were hidden from his eyes.

After a few minutes of that he began wishing he could see her,
reasoning there was no possibility the reality could be as interesting
as what he was imagining.

As Maggie washed herself at the basin she found herself glancing over
her shoulder to make certain Connor still had his back to her.

She breathed shallowly, quietly, conscious of making any noise that
might inadvertently wake him.  She tiptoed across the braided rug to
her side of the bed.  Each time the floor creaked she paused and
waited, nearly faint with anxiety that he would turn over and grin at
her and announce he'd been awake all the time.  When that never
happened, Maggie cautiously turned down the covers on her side.

Even under her slight weight the bed dipped as Maggie pressed one knee
on the mattress.  She slipped under the covers rather awkwardly and
made no attempt to get comfortable.  Instead she lay stiffly on the
very edge of the mattress, the sheet and comforter drawn protectively
to her chin.  She realized, somewhat unhappily, that unless sheer
exhaustion took its toll there wasn't the slightest chance that she was
going to be able to close her eyes.

After several minutes Connor understood that Maggie wasn't going to
fall asleep.  In that same breadth of time Maggie became aware that
Connor was awake.

Without a word passing between them they turned simultaneously to face
each other and stared.

"I'm not going to attack you," Connor said quietly.

"I know."

"Do you?"

She didn't.  Not really.  She was surprised when her thoughts were
given a voice.  "I'm afraid of you," she said.  Maggie wished she could
take it back, more afraid now that she had given him something so
powerful to use against her.

"Are you?"  he asked.  "Or are you afraid of what you want from me?"

"I don't want anything from you."

For several long moments he simply looked at her.  A pale wash of
moonshine caressed her features, the curve of her cheek, the pared line
of her nose, the fullness of her mouth.  "Be honest about that at
least," he said finally.  "Do you think I like it any better than
you?"

Maggie bit her lower lip as Connor turned on his side away from her.

He punched his pillow, slipped an arm under it, and yanked the
comforter up to his shoulders.  "I don't understand," she whispered
when he had quieted.  "What is it you don't like?  That you think I
want something from you?  All I want from you is a divorce."

"Go to sleep, Maggie," he said tiredly.  "I'm not going to touch
you."

As Maggie had suspected, it was sheer exhaustion that finally made her
close her eyes.

Under the covers her legs tangled with his.  The hem of her nightgown
had slid to her hips and the length of her bare leg lay flush to his, a
sensual contrast of texture and warmth.  One of her arms rested across
his chest, the other had slipped under his pillow and helped to prop
both their heads.  His palm curved over her hip.

His fingers pressed against the soft skin of her bottom.  Her breath
mingled with his.  Her movement stirred the sweet fragrance of lavender
in her hair.  His heartbeat accelerated.  Sensation seem to gather in
his groin.  Fullness followed, an aching heaviness that was neither
pleasure nor pain but made him long for release.

She rubbed against him when he moved.  Her back arched, then her
throat.  His lips were light on her neck, his tongue damp on the
outline of her jaw.  Her mouth opened when his came across it.

Their lips pressed, tasted, explored with sucking hunger.

His kisses seemed to steal her breath.  Her head twisted as she gasped
for air.  His hand closed over her breast and it swelled in the gentle
hollow of his palm.  Her mouth was greedy, her tongue pushing, surging
against his, playing out a sweetly urgent battle.

Her fingers moved to his hair and held him captive while her lips
touched the corner of his mouth, his jaw, and teased the lobe of his
ear.

She lay more fully against him and her movements became more insistent,
more frantic, as if she were trying to get under his skin and feel what
it was he was feeling, as if she needed to know everything, feel
everything.

His mouth was hot on her neck, moist where he touched the hollow of her
throat.  His tongue trailed across her collarbone then dipped,
spiraling around her breast to the dusky rose tip.  His teeth gently
worried the nipple, each tug shooting crackling sparks of sensation
across the surface of her skin, then more deeply beneath her skin,
where they moved in waves that pulled at the center of her as they
receded.

There was an aching between her thighs, not heavy, but hollow, and then
his hand was there, pressing and searching, intense without relief and
she moved against the heel of his palm, wanting it also.

His fingers dipped inside her and she moaned softly, wanting this but
wanting more.  Her cotton nightgown was too heavy on her skin, too much
of a barrier against the need to feel his hand on her naked flesh.

She pushed at her clothing, struggled.  He was helping her, sliding the
material past her hips and waist, pushing it past her breasts.

Free, she coiled around him and was frustrated by the drawers that kept
her from touching him.  Her fingers pulled at the drawstring; her hands
slipped beneath the material.  He arched as she pushed the drawers over
his hips, past his thighs, his knees.  They were lost in the tangle of
sheets.

His hand found hers, guided her to his thighs.  She cupped him first,
exploring, then his hand closed over hers again and moved it slowly
along the length of his hardness.  She stroked him in her fist, drawing
a gasp from deep inside him.  Her mouth moved over his chest and his
flesh retracted in anticipation of her touch.

They moved in unison, arching, seeking.  Their touch was blindly needy,
consciousness barely tapped, conscience not at all.  They felt pure
pleasure, shared it, but didn't understand it.

And at the moment when they might have surrendered to it an insistent
rapping separated them.

Connor groaned as the terrible pleasure of frustration became pain.

Bleary-eyed, he tried to sit up and found himself covered by Maggie's
lithe body.  She raised her head, her eyes horrified as awareness
speared her like a poison-dipped arrow, replacing excitement with waves
of painful humiliation.

The rapping came again and they identified it at the same time.

Maggie was paralyzed, taut and unyielding across Connor's body where
she had been supple and searching moments earlier.  It was left to him
to remove her, taking her by the hand again and guiding her away.  The
sound at the back of her throat was anguished as she realized where her
hand had been and what she had been about.

With his help she rolled away.

There was no time to bury her face in a pillow.  The door to the
bedroom was being opened cautiously.  Connor yanked the comforter over
Maggie and pulled the tangled sheet around his middle.

His drawers slipped over the side of the bed along with Maggie's
nightgown.  He made a swipe at them, pushing them under the bed as the
door opened wider, but there was no possibility of pretending they had
been sleeping.  Maggie was sitting up, clutching the comforter against
her chest.

Michael poked her head through the crack in the door.  She did not need
anyone to tell her what she had interrupted.  Connor's expression was
rigid with the frustration of denial and Maggie's looked as if she
wanted to crawl under the comforter instead of using it as a shield.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, genuinely embarrassed.  She hoped this was
something they would all laugh about some time in the future.

Looking at Connor and Maggie now, though, it appeared that that future
would be a long time coming.  "Maggie?  Could you stay with Madison
while I go for the doctor?"

Those words twisted Maggie out of her stupor.  "Doctor?  What's
wrong?"

Michael stepped in the room.  She cinched her robe about her waist and
ran a hand through her tangled hair.  There was a crease between her
brows, a worried, harried look in her eyes that belied her next
words.

"I don't think it's anything serious," she said.

"She's flushed and her skin's warm to the touch.  I'm probably making
too much of it."

Uncaring of his modesty, Connor stood and hitched the sheet more
securely around his waist.  "You stay with Madison," he said, beginning
to gather his clothes.  "I'll get dressed and go for the doctor."

"But you don't know.."

"You'll give me directions," he said calmly.

Michael hesitated.

"Go," he said.  "Unless you want me to drop my.."  He didn't have to
finish.  Michael was gone.  Connor looked over his shoulder at
Maggie.

She was getting out of bed, struggling with the comforter and her
modesty.  "Your nightgown's under the bed on my side," he said.  He
turned back, dropped the sheet, and began dressing.

Maggie's frosty glance was wasted on Connor's back.  She found her
nightgown and slipped it over her head, then put on her robe.

She brushed past Connor on her way to the door.

"Nothing happened," he told her softly as her hand closed over the
knob.  "And nothing's settled."

Maggie didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about.

The hollow ache and moist heat was still between her thighs.  Her
breasts felt swollen and heavy.  She could sense the outline of her
lips without touching her tongue to them, and when she did, she could
taste him there.  "Something happened," she said, her eyes tormented.

"But you're right, nothing's settled."

Maggie sat with her sister and Madison while Connor went for the
doctor.  She used a sponge dipped in a mixture of alcohol and water to
cool Madison's skin and prepared some camomile tea to soothe Michael's
nerves.

Michael's fingers lightly raked Madison's hair, smoothing it over her
scalp as Maggie sponged her.  "I'm sorry about the interruption," she
said.  "I didn't know what else.."

"Don't give it another thought."  Maggie avoided her sister's eyes.

She was afraid Michael might see there was no reason to be sorry, that
she was grateful for what had happened.

"Connor looked as if he might like to strangle me."

Better you than me, Maggie thought.  Keeping her head bent, she
shrugged and said, "He got over it as soon as he realized what you
wanted."

"I'm not completely sorry," Michael said.  That brought Maggie's head
up.  "I was worried there might be some.  . . some problem in the
bedroom.  It's good to know there isn't."

Maggie's cheeks flamed.  "What made you think there was a problem?" 
she snapped.  Her hands twisted hard as she wrung out the sponge but
when she returned to bathing her niece, her touch was gentle.  "And
even if there was I can't see that it's any of your concern.  You may
be my sister, but you can't dictate the relationship I have with my
husband!"

Michael's fingers had stilled.  "Maggie!"  she said softly.  "I'm sorry
if I offended you, but I know things can't be easy between you and
Connor.  The circumstances of your marriage must put a strain on both
of you."

"I told you," Maggie said tightly, "that we've managed to put that
behind us.  We both have what we want out of our marriage.  Can't you
accept that?"

Michael fell silent.  In spite of her tender touch and Maggie's
delicate ministrations, some of their tension was transmitted to
Madison.  The child stirred restlessly between the two adults and
brought an uncertain peace.

When Connor arrived with the doctor it was Maggie who went downstairs
to let them in.  "I think it's chicken pox," she told the physician.

"She only has a few spots on her bottom, so faint that I would have
missed them if I hadn't been looking."

Dr.  Hamilton nodded, thanked Maggie, and went to Madison's bedroom.

Maggie would have followed but Connor stopped her.

"This may be the only opportunity we have to talk in private," he
said.

"Let's go in the kitchen."

Maggie's fingers twisted in her hair, plaiting it as she followed him
to the rear of the house.  "The water's still warm from the tea I made
Michael," she said.  "Do you want something to drink?"

He shook his head.  "And you don't either," he said, pointing to one of
the chairs at the table.  "Have a seat."  He expected her to bristle at
the command but she obliged him, if not meekly, then with no fussing.

Connor pulled out one of the ladder back chairs and straddled it, his
forearms resting on the top rail.  His dark eyes were steady on
Maggie's.  He noticed that she didn't turn away from his scrutiny.

"I'm not going to apologize for what happened in our bedroom," he said
finally.

Maggie's voice was quiet and calm.  "I didn't ask you to."

"When I said that nothing happened, I meant that we didn't.."

"Consummate the marriage," she said politely.  "I know what you
meant.

Still, it was something to me.  I've never..."  She stopped, her voice
trailing off because she knew it wasn't true.  She had done things like
that before and with this man.  She couldn't keep hiding behind her
memory loss.  "I didn't mean for this to happen again."

"Neither did I."  He took in a breath and let it out slowly.  "I don't
want to stay here one more night that we have to."

Maggie nodded, her smile faint.  "Sometimes we do agree."  She
sighed.

"If you'll speak to a lawyer tomorrow, I'll go to the depot and arrange
for our cars to be attached to the next train out of Denver headed for
queen's Point."

"I'll do it all," he said.  "Where's our marriage certificate?  I might
need it to help us secure a divorce."

"There's a strongbox beneath Jay Mac's desk.  The key's in the middie
drawer."

"Maggie, you understand that even though we both want it, this divorce
isn't going to happen overnight?"

Her eyes dropped to her hands folded neatly on the tabletop.  "I
know."

There was a certain amount of pain in her tone.  "Just please get it
started."  She got up.  "I'm going to check on Madison.  I want to hear
what the doctor has to say, then I'm going to bed."

"I'll be up in a little while."

It was the first of three nights that Connor Holiday spent sleeping in
a rocker because he couldn't keep his hands off his wife.

* * * They delayed their departure until Ethan returned from
Stillwater.

As much as Maggie wanted to leave, she couldn't go while Madison was
ill.  Connor's understanding and willingness confounded her and
complicated matters in her heart.  Maggie watched him develop an easy
friendship with Michael, a loving one with Madison, and a comfortable
one with Ethan.  She didn't know what to make of the man who would not
always be her husband.  He was stiff and unyielding with his own
father, cold to Beryl, and angry with her, but Maggie saw that he was
rarely any of those things with other people.  She thought that even a
lifetime of living with him wouldn't provide the explanations she
sought.

There were moments when that thought relieved her, others when it tore
at her heart.

Maggie stood on the small platform balcony leaning against the iron
rail.  They were miles outside of Denver and she still couldn't quite
bring herself to go inside.  She and Connor had had to say goodbye to
Ethan and Madison at the house, but Michael escorted them back to the
depot.

The farewell had been wrenching for both sisters.  Maggie had come so
close to begging Michael to allow her to stay that she could taste
blood on her lip where she had bitten back the words.  And Michael,
without knowing the cause of Maggie's torment, felt the pain almost as
keenly as if it were her own.

Connor stepped out on the balcony and stood directly behind Maggie.

The air was cool as their train climbed the tree-lined side of a
mountain.  On their left, blue spruce pines erupted from the earth at
impossible angles and on their right the mountain fell away so steeply
that stepping off the train in that direction would have been like
stepping into the sky.

"Are you sorry you didn't ask her if you could stay?"  he asked
quietly.  He was close enough to be aware of the fragrance of her
hair.

She didn't turn around and when she felt his hands settle lightly on
her shoulders, she didn't resist.  "You knew?"

"It was pretty obvious for everyone to see.

Maggie closed her eyes.  She hadn't wanted anyone to see.  Tears
pressed against the back of her lids.

"Maggie?"  His fingertips nudged her gently, urging her to turn without
demanding that she do so.

As the train continued to climb, drawing them inexorably closer to the
moment they would part, Maggie turned and leaned against Connor, not
afraid of his strength, but wanting it.  Tears fell from the corners of
her eyes as he held her in a loose embrace and let her sob against his
chest.

Moira Worth turned the corner in the upstairs hallway and nearly
collided with the housekeeper.  Mrs. Cavanaugh had a polishing cloth
tucked in the pocket of her apron, a broom and dustpan in one hand, and
a black leather satchel in the other.

"Was that Maggie's room you just came from?"  Moira asked.

"Sure and it was," Mrs. Cavanaugh explained.  "I've been meanin' to
get around to takin' care of it since our little girl left.

I only had time to give it a spit and promise before today."  A smile
split her round face.  "And look what I found when I did the thing
right."

She dropped the dustpan and leaned the broom against the wall.  "Don't
you know, it was under her bed."  She held up the leather bag.

"Sure, and so far under that I had to use my broom handle to push it
out."

"You're nothing if not thorough, Mrs.  Cavanaugh," Moira said.

She glanced at the satchel.  "I don't remember seeing Maggie with that
before.  It looks a little like a physician's bag."

"That's what I was thinkin'.  Do you suppose the poor darling' bought
it before she heard from the medical school?"

"Entirely possible," said Moira.  "Did you open it?"

Mrs. Cavanaugh pursed her lips.  "That's not for me to do," she said
stiffly.  "I was bringin' it to you."

Moira accepted the bag.  She fingered the clasp but it didn't
release.

"It's stuck."

"I know."  The housekeeper realized her error too late, but she had the
grace to look sheepish.  "I was certain Maggie wouldn't mind if I tried
to take a peek."

Moira laughed.  "You're incorrigible."  She gave the bag back to Mrs.
Cavanaugh.  "It doesn't really matter what's inside.  It's Maggie's.

Why don't you pack it up and send it to her?  She'd like that.

She may even have cause to use it where's she going."

"Where should I send it?  To the Double H?"

Moira shook her head.  "Send it to Michael in Denver.  She'll know the
best way to get it to Maggie."

Mrs.  Cavanaugh hefted the bag and picked up her broom and dustpan.

"It's as good as done," she said, as she hurried down the hallway.

The livery in queen's Point had boarded Connor's horse during his trip
east.  Maggie stood in the entrance to the stable and watched the
reunion with a great deal of amusement.  It was difficult to know who
was happier, Connor Holiday or his horse.  She made certain she let him
know it, too.

"Tempest's been with me three years now," Connor told her, not
apologizing in the least.  "He's the best range horse I've ever had
and..."  His voice dropped to a whisper so that only she could hear.

"And my mares like him, too."  He laughed when Maggie blushed
predictably.  "Now go wait outside while I wrangle with the owner over
the fee."  He gave Maggie a push toward the door.

Fearful that it wouldn't hold up under scrutiny, Maggie didn't examine
the camaraderie that had developed between them.  She accepted it at
face value, assuming that it was impossible for tension to sustain
itself indefinitely.  The breaking point had been when he simply held
her and let her cry until she was exhausted.  He never questioned.  He
let it be.

That freed Maggie as nothing else could have.  She didn't know if
Connor had changed his opinion of her; it didn't matter.  What mattered
was that she was no longer afraid of him.

Connor purchased a wagon at the livery and two mares to pull it.

Their belongings, reduced considerably since Maggie had been to
Michael's, were loaded in no time.  Connor purchased supplies for their
journey and additional staples for Maggie to take to Dancer Tubbs as
well as supplies for the Double H. He tethered Tempest to the rear of
the wagon since Maggie couldn't manage the reins of the team and he was
afraid Tempest would throw her.

"Take a good look at that mining town," he told her as they were
preparing to leave.  "There's nothing like it between here and
Dancer's.  We'll be on our own.

Maggie kept her eyes on Connor, not on the town.  "I'm ready to go,"
she said.  "Everything I want is ahead of me."

Connor Holiday couldn't help wondering if she meant him as well.

"All right," he said.  "But there's no shame in changing your mind."

Maggie had no intention of changing her mind.  Connor snapped the reins
and the team began a slow walk on the dirt track road leading from
queen's Point.

Dancer Tubb's claim was a three day's journey from the mining town.

Connor had warned Maggie that the trip would be difficult.

Once they were underway he never mentioned it again.  It would have
been disrespectful to try to protect Maggie from the consequences of
her decision and Connor didn't try.  With the exception of not
expecting her to drive the wagon, Connor demanded that she share every
chore.

Maggie could not have anticipated what the travel would really be
like.

If Connor had taken the time to describe each aspect of the trip, she
wouldn't have believed him.  It only took an hour on the hard seat of a
buckboard wagon to convince Maggie that she was ill-prepared.

Her back ached from the wagon's steady jouncing and her bottom, in
spite of the skirt, underclothes, and cotton duster she wore, felt
bruised.  Her wide-brimmed bonnet shielded most of her face from the
sun but she still felt the tip of her nose reddening.  Her corset bound
her uncomfortably but it also supported her breasts.  Without it she
imagined she would have popped a button on her blouse each time they
hit a bump.

When they stopped to rest the horses Maggie helped draw water and feed
them.  She climbed over rocks and waded through streams to reach water
that was inaccessible to the horses while they were hitched to the
wagon.  She knelt on the bank and drank from an icy spring with her
cupped hands, washing a half-day's dust from her face and neck.

Through his hooded and remote glance, Connor watched her.  He made no
move to help her or indicate in any way that he might want to.  He only
had to take inventory of his own stiff bones and cramped muscles to
understand how Maggie was aching, yet she never mentioned it then or at
any other time during their journey.

When Connor announced they were stopping for the day he noticed she was
not particularly relieved, merely agreeable.  After a rather awkward
climb down from the wagon Maggie began gathering kindling for a fire,
and at Connor's direction, pine branches for a softer place to sit and
sleep.  She hauled water to make coffee while Connor cooked their meal
of smoked ham and beans.  He showed her how to make pan cornbread over
an open fire and Maggie watched over his shoulder, standing while he
hunkered in front of the flames.

"You can sit down, Maggie," he told her.  "There's not another thing
for you to do right now."

"If I sit down now I won't be able to do another thing later."

His attention was back on his cooking, but he was smiling.  "You're
going to eat standing up?"

"If that's what it takes," she said philosophically.  As it turned out,
she compromised, leaning against the trunk of a sheltering pine to take
her meal.  Even that small amount of inactivity made her so stiff that
cleaning their dishes and pans was a painful chore.  When Connor
roughly ordered her to lie down on the bedroll he had laid out, Maggie
obeyed without taking exception to his tone.  She slept almost
instantly.

The following morning the steamy aroma of coffee a few inches from his
nose teased Connor to wakefulness.  Maggie was kneeling beside him,
fresh-faced and smiling, holding out a mug.  It occurred to him that he
could enjoy being awakened in just such a manner for the rest of his
life, even without the coffee.

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose with his
thumb and forefinger.  He took the coffee in one hand and ran the other
through his tousled hair.  "Is it your intention to spoil me?"

"No," she said, genuinely surprised by the question and his gruff,
almost angry manner.  "It's my intention to be kind to you.  Like you
were to me yesterday."  Maggie sat back on her heels and smoothed her
skirt over her bent knees.  "Thank you for finishing up the chores and
letting me sleep.  I meant to be more help."

He sipped his coffee and shrugged carelessly.  "You did enough."

"I'll do better today."

His only response was a soft and skeptical grunt.

Because of Maggie's early rising and preparation they were underway
within a few hours of sunup.  At each stop Maggie helped Connor, often
without direction.  She prepared lunch and he cleaned up and at dinner
they shared both tasks.  Her movements were a little slower than his as
she worked out the stiffness.  She stretched and arched her back as she
climbed in and out of the wagon and occasionally she rubbed her neck,
but Connor was forced to admit to himself, if not to Maggie, that she
had managed the second day's travel and chores with more grace and
energy than he could have possibly expected.

The small fire they laid that night was less for warmth than to keep
curious creatures away.  In the brush beyond the circle of light Maggie
could hear the scurry and flutter of small animals searching out
food.

She turned on her side, her back to the fire, and gazed at Connor's
profile.  He was lying on his back a few feet from her, his head
cradled in the palms of his hands, staring at the great expanse of
black-velvet sky.  She followed the line of his vision and was struck
by the vastness she had never seen before, with brilliant star patterns
that she had only seen in books.

"We don't have these stars in New York," she said in awe.

Understanding exactly what she meant, Connor smiled faintly.  "I know,"
he said.  "I missed them.  All the glitter's on the ground in the
city.

Any city."

Maggie said nothing.  She let herself feel the space and the silence
and began to comprehend in a more profound way how Connor was linked to
the majesty of these surroundings.  Streams ran clear and cold in this
country.  Water talked back as it rushed over smooth rock.

Aspens whispered in the wind.  Leaves shimmered, lustrous green on one
side, silver gray on the other, alive to the slightest breeze.

Blue spruce covered the mountainsides, painting the Rockies with rich
and radiant color.

Connor turned on his side and slipped one arm under his head.

With the fire at Maggie's back her figure was a slender silhouette.

Only her hair captured the fire's light, giving her a burnished halo of
copper and gold.  She was too still to be sleeping, too quiet to be
doing anything but thinking.  Not for the first time he realized what a
private person she was in some ways, and how at odds she must have been
with her nosy and noisy family.

"A penny for them," he said.

Maggie smiled and extended her hand toward him, palm up.

Connor stared at her hand a moment.  When it dawned on him what she
wanted, he dug into his pocket, found a penny, and dropped it into her
palm.  Her fingers closed over it immediately and she withdrew her
hand.  "I suppose you learned that it pays to be quiet in your family,"
he said.

"That's right," she said serenely.  "Jay Mac says that collecting a
penny for my thoughts is the only business sense I inherited from
him."

She held up the penny so she could see it better in the firelight.

"This makes eight dollars and twenty-seven cents."

Connor whistled softly.  "That's a lot of thoughts."

She nodded.  "And this penny's special," she said, "because you're the
first person outside of my family who's thought my thoughts might be
worth something."

"I haven't heard one yet," he pointed out.  "I'm beginning to think I
was robbed.  I don't suppose you give refunds."

Maggie slipped the penny in her skirt pocket.  "No refunds, not
ever."

He didn't have to see her cheeky grin to know it was there.  "I'm still
waiting," he said.

She was quiet a moment.  "Very well," she said softly.  "I was thinking
what a hard thing it must have been for you to leave this place, even
in order to secure it."

"Why do you say that?"

"It seems to me that you belong here and you shouldn't have to live
anywhere else.  It's too cruel."

"That's a rather fanciful, romantic notion, don't you think?"

"Perhaps it is," she admitted.  "But it's not exclusively mine.

You've thought the same thing about me, haven't you?"

Connor was struck again by her perceptiveness and the knowledge that
his thoughts were not always so safe from her.  "I suppose I might
have," he hedged.  It was as much of an admission as he was prepared to
make.  "Our situations aren't all that similar.  I've been east a
number of times, for years at a time, and I managed to live to tell the
tale.  You can't make the same claim.  You told me once that you've
never been farther west than Pittsburgh."

Maggie was intrigued by what she didn't know.  "For years at a time?" 
she asked.  "I thought you'd only ever really lived at the Double H."

"When I was fourteen my mother sent me to live with my father," he
said, unaware of the faint edge of bitterness in his tone.  "The war
was over and it was safe to travel again.  Edie got it in her head that
I should get to know my father better.  I was supposed to stay a year
but after three months I managed to get myself packed off to boarding
school.  I finished the year there, then went back to the ranch."

He hadn't thought about that experience for a long time.

Recounting it made him realize how much responsibility he bore for
having to go to boarding school.  He'd been an angry young man, trying
to antagonize his father and prove that Rushton wasn't needed or
wanted.  "I might have stayed at the school longer but my grandfather
died and I was allowed to go back."

Maggie heard it in Connor's voice-the thing that said he would have
gone back whether or not he had been allowed.  Rushton would have been
a fool to try to keep him and though her acquaintance with Connor's
father was brief, she didn't think that "fool" was a word that could be
applied to him.  "You were close to your grandfather?"

"Old Sam was my best friend."

Maggie knew there would be no elaboration.  There was a certain
finality in Connor's tone again, a warning that this subject was
closed, as if he had expressed all that he could about his relationship
with his grandfather in that single, simple sentence.  She quelled her
curiosity about Old Sam.  "You said you were east on other occasions,"
she prompted.

"Four years later my mother and father arranged for me to attend
Princeton.  Edie wanted me to be able to choose between her world and
my father's.  She said a good education required both east and west and
I'd had more than my share of one and not nearly enough of the
other."

"You did four years at Princeton?"  she asked.

"Your shock is hardly flattering."

"That's not an answer.

"All right," he conceded.  "I did two.  I raised so much hell they
asked me to leave."

"Asked you?"

"Showed me the door."

"As in escorted?"

"As in kicked out."

Maggie laughed.  "Now that I believe.  What did you do then?"

"I went to New York and finished my eastern education-not quite in the
manner my mother had intended and-" "And not in a way that your father
approved," she finished.

He paused.  "Something like that.  I started working for William
Barnaby."

Because Maggie grew up with Northeast Rail she knew William Barnaby's
business.  He was a steel manufacturer, and, along with Andrew
Carnegie, Rushton Holiday's fiercest competitor.  There was no censure
in her voice when she responded.  "So you learned your father's
business from another man."

"That's what I did."

Maggie rolled on her back and stared at the sky.  "It's ironic," she
said softly.  "It seems as though Jay Mac's had an impact on every
moment of my life, just as Rushton's had on yours.  Who would have
thought an absent father could exert the same influence as one who was
nearly always around?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She didn't let him get away with that.  "Yes, you do."

Connor pushed himself to a sitting position.  "Then you damn well don't
know what you're talking about.  Until I agreed to marry you I've never
done anything Rushton wanted."

Maggie's smile was a trifle sad, her eyes knowing.  "And you don't
think that's influence?"  she asked quietly.

Connor stared at her.  Pale yellow flames from the fire caressed one
side of her face.  "What I think is that the next time I'll keep my
penny."

She nodded.

Unaccountably angry, Connor got to his feet and stalked away.

When he returned Maggie was sleeping.

He was still angry the next morning.  He didn't say more than ten words
to Maggie as they prepared to depart.  It made him even angrier that
she didn't seem to notice, or if she noticed, didn't seem to mind.

They rode in silence for most of the morning.  It wasn't until they
stopped for the horses to rest and attend to their own needs that
Maggie broached the silence.  And when she did it was to speak of the
divorce.

"Why do you want to know now?"  he asked tersely, patting down his
horse.  "I met with the lawyer almost a week ago."

"But you never told me what he said."

"He said it would take some time."

"How much time?"

Connor shrugged.

Maggie's brows rose.  "Didn't you ask?"

"It'll take as much time as it takes," he said roughly.  "Does it
matter?  You'll be at Dancer's.  I'll be at the Double H."  But he
could see that Maggie wasn't satisfied.  She was adjusting the bit on
one of the horses, but her eyes were anxious and the corners of her
mouth were pulled down.  He sighed.  "Look, Maggie, documents have to
be drawn up that will need our signatures."

"Documents?  But how will we get them?"

Connor frowned.  Maggie's agitation was quite real.  She was twisting
her wedding band as if she wanted to yank it off.  "They'll be sent to
queen's Point.  Someone from the ranch will pick them up when we get
supplies."

"When will that be?"

"Since I'm taking supplies with me now we probably won't need another
trip until the end of summer."

"The end of summer?"

"That's right."  He climbed onto the wagon.  "And once they're signed
they have to go back to Denver to be presented to the judge.

That will take a few months.  Then there's a waiting period of another
six months."

Maggie pulled herself up and sat down hard beside Connor.  "But that
means we're still going to be married this time next year."

"Probably."

"But-" Connor's head swiveled sharply.  "Unless you're planning on
marrying Dancer Tubbs I don't see the problem."

"I'm not planning on marrying anyone," she snapped.  "That's just it.

I don't want to be married!"

"That makes two of us!"  His air of finality brought down a curtain of
silence.  After a long, uncomfortable minute Connor jerked the reins
and the team started forward.  "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Maggie shook her head.  "No," she said.  "I'm sorry."

"You're scared."

She bit her lower lip.  "Petrified."  She was only hours away from
meeting Dancer Tubbs and though she didn't believe he'd turn her back,
she didn't know for certain.  The thought that she might have to go
with Connor to the Double H, along with the realization that she might
have to endure months of his hard-tempered silences, increased her
anxiety tenfold.  She laughed uncertainly.  "You'll be glad to get rid
of me."

"You're trying very hard to make sure I'm glad."

She looked at him and said rather primly, "I don't know what you're
talking about."

He grinned.  "Yes, you do."

She smiled reluctantly, supposing it was true.  It had started to get a
little comfortable between them as they shared the same routines and
the same space, but for Maggie the comfort itself was unsettling.

"Why were you at the brothel that night?"  she asked.  She caught his
surprised glance.  "It's another thing I've never asked you.

I mean, you know why I was there.  It only seems fair that I know what
took you to Mrs.  Hall's."

Connor's laughter made him snap the reins and the team stepped up their
pace.  "What explanation do you want beside the obvious?

I wanted a woman."

Her cheeks pinkened.  "Had you been there before?"  she asked.

"Is that why you chose Mrs.  Hall's?"

"I'd been there before," he told her.

"Was there someone special?"

"No."  He paused, then said impatiently, "If you really must know, I
went there because that morning Beryl had crawled into my bed while I
was still half-asleep.  I pushed her out, but that night, after I'd won
my stake, I still had whores on my mind.  I decided to do something
about it."

"Oh," she said softly.

He shrugged.  "You asked."

"I know."

Connor looked straight ahead, his eyes on the winding road.  "You were
quiet," he said.  "It's one of the things I liked about you.

I told Mrs. Hall that I didn't want a chatterbox and she sent me to
you.

Of course, that was a mistake, but at the time it didn't seem like
one.

You were just what I wanted."

"I could have been anybody."  She paused.  "Any body."

Connor didn't answer.  She was right.  He hadn't cared at the time,
hadn't wanted to care.  It was one of the conditions.  "I may have hurt
you," he said quietly.

She frowned.  "What do you mean?  Because I was a virgin?"

He didn't know why he'd even brought it up.  She didn't remember and
perhaps there was no good reason why she should.  "That's part of it,"
he said.  He wished he hadn't said anything, hadn't raised the doubt in
his own mind again.  But he remembered how she had moved under him,
pushing at his shoulders, shifting her legs, and as much as he wanted
to believe that what she had done was done in passion, there were times
when he wasn't so sure.  "You may not have been as willing the first
time as I wanted to believe."

Maggie's dark green eyes clouded and a vertical crease appeared between
her brows.  Her heart seemed to stop for a moment then slam against her
chest so hard that she could barely catch her breath.

"What are you trying to tell me?"  she asked.  "That you forced me?"

Connor continued to stare ahead.  He felt Maggie's fingers on his
wrist, just below his cuff, willing him to look at her.  "I don't know
what it was between us.  The laudanum... the liquor... you didn't know
what you were doing."

"The first time?"  she asked.

"The first time," he said.  "The second time .  . . I don't know."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Connor lifted his chin in a gesture that indicated something in front
of them.  "See that ridge ahead?"  he asked.  "Once we're on the other
side we'll be on Dancer's land.  That divorce you want so badly is
about to happen.  It may not be legal, but it'll be real.  We won't be
seeing each other again and I wanted you to know in case you remember
something.  It wasn't fair to leave you thinking that somehow you were
to blame for what happened."

Maggie didn't say anything to that.  She raised her face and kept her
eyes on the ridge.

Dancer Tubbs watched the couple on the wagon draw closer.

Through his spy glass he recognized the man as Old Sam Hart's grandson
and the owner of the neighboring Double H. "Hah," he muttered under his
breath.  His damaged vocal cords gave his voice a guttural, raspy
quality.  "Damn fool ain't got a right to trespass, Old Sam's kin or
no."  He turned his spy glass on the woman.  She was a pretty thing, he
thought, and familiar to him in a vague sort of way.

Dancer spit on the end of his glass and buffed the lens with the sleeve
of his gray jacket.  He looked through it again, judging the woman with
a critical eye this time, troubled by an odd sense of recognition.

Almost immediately she obliged him by removing her bonnet, giving her
head a shake, and fanning herself with the wide straw brim.  It was
when sunlight glinted in her copper-colored hair that he finally placed
her.  She was one of Jay Mac's daughters, she had to be.  It was the
only explanation for the invasion of his land.

He glanced over his shoulder where his horse stood poking at the
grass.

"It's not Rennie," he said, "because that's not Jarret with her and
Rennie ain't quite that dainty.  And it ain't Michael 'cause I hear
she's Rennie's look-alike.  Can't be the nun 'lessen she's left the
church.  Now what's the name of the other two?"  The horse continued to
snuffle.  "You ain't no help."  Dancer collapsed the spy glass, slid
down from his perch, and mounted.  He jerked the reins and urged his
horse over the line of the ridge so there was no chance of being
sighted by anyone.

Dancer let them pass and then he followed, announcing his presence only
when they were within sight of his cabin.

"You folks lost your way?"  he asked.  His pleasant voice was at odds
with the shotgun he had pointed at them.  He kicked his mount forward
until he was beside the wagon.

Connor held the team steady and didn't try going for his gun.  He
looked at Maggie's hands.  They were folded neatly in her lap, not a
sign of trembling.

"We're not lost, Mr. Tubbs," she said to Dancer.  "I'm Mary Margaret
Dennehy."  She felt Connor shift slighily beside her, a reaction to her
use of her maiden name.

Holding the gun carefully in one hand, Dancer slapped his thigh with
the other.  "Damn me if I didn't know that," he cackled.

"Knew you was one of Jay Mac's young'uns.  Couldn't put a name to
you.

"My family calls me Maggie."

He repeated her name.  The scarred side of his face distorted his
smile.  His eyes shifted.  "And you're Old Sam's grandson.  Edie's
kid."

Connor had no idea that Dancer might know him.  "Connor," he said.

"Connor Holiday."

"Ain't that something'," he said.  "Knew Edie had a kid, never knew she
was married.  All these years I thought you was a Hart."

"Holiday," Connor repeated.  "The same last name as Maggie, though
she's apparently already forgotten."

Dancer saw Maggie frown.  He lowered his Winchester.  "Suppose we step
inside the cabin and discuss it.  Ain't gonna shoot either one of you
.

. . yet."

He relished their startled looks and laughed all the way to the cabin,
his high-pitched cackle sounding as if it were breaking at the back of
his throat.

Chapter 10

The prospector's cabin was built with the timber that had been cleared
to make room for it.  It was situated on a small knoll, protected by
towering pines and aspens on three sides and a wide, shallow stream on
the fourth.  They went inside as soon as the horses were tethered and
cared for.

Dancer pointed to the two high-backed ladder chairs.  "Sit," he said.

"I'll manage just fine here by the door."  He kept his shotgun lowered
but he didn't put it away.

Maggie's eyes darted around the cabin.  As far as she could see, it was
mostly as Jay Mac had described upon his return to New York years
earlier.  A wood stove seemed to be the only addition the prospector
had made.  Judging by the size of the spider web connecting the
andirons to the damper, the stone hearth looked as if it hadn't been
used recently.  There was still no pump, which meant hauling water from
the stream.  The furniture was pine and had been crafted with
considerable care.  Running her fingers over the table surface, Maggie
found it smooth and cornered cleanly with hard right angles.

Pots and kettles hung on the wall near the stove and there were empty
pegs near the fireplace.  A colorful rag quilt covered the narrow bed
on the main floor of the cabin, but there was also a ladder leading to
the loft where Maggie knew Dancer slept.

What interested Maggie most, however, were the tiered shelves filled
with herb pots at the cabin's rear window and the dozens of small glass
bottles that were stored haphazardly in the open pantry along with
staples like flour, sugar and salt, jams and bacon grease.

She squinted, reading the carefully printed labels.  Slippery elm.

Goldenseal.  Peppermint.  White willow bark.  Ginger.

"What brings you here?"  Dancer asked abruptly.  "Can't be a sudden
desire to see this old face."

Maggie and Connor contained their reactions when confronted by the
prospector's ravaged face.  Dancer was having none of it.  He wanted
them to look and look hard.

Dancer's scars were set in white relief against his skin, like a
hundred twisted webs stacked thinly on one another.  His half-ear was
curled and flattened against his head.  The left side of his mouth was
pulled taut in a perpetually savage grin.  His beard drew down from the
right, but only covered three quarters of his face.  It was thick and
ill-kempt, black as boot polish and long enough to reach the second
button of his blue-gray woolen overcoat.  A gold braid epaulet dangled
from his right shoulder.  A saber swung from his waist.

His clear, frost-blue eyes would have been uncommon in any face, but in
one so disfigured they were especially remarkable.  Like twin points of
searing light, they burned Maggie and Connor with their heat.

"Well?"  he demanded hoarsely.  "You gonna puke?"

"Not if you don't talk about it," Maggie said primly.  Beside her,
Connor smiled.

Dancer leaned against the door.  "All right," he said.  "So you know
about me and you was prepared.  But that don't tell me what you're
doin' here in the first place."

Under the table, where they were out of sight, Maggie's hands twisted
nervously in her lap.  "I've asked Connor to bring me here because I
want to learn about healing," she said.  "I know how you cared for my
father when he was near to dying and Rennie's told me what you did for
Jarret.  She thinks you know as much as any three doctors."

"Hogwash," he said tersely.  "I ain't no doc and I ain't likely to know
what any of 'em knows."  His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Your father know you're here, girl?"

"Yes," she said.

"No," Connor said.

Dancer looked from one to the other.  "Which is it?"  "Jay Mac doesn't
know," Maggie said.  "But then it's none of his business.  Connor knows
and since he's my husband that should be what matters."

Dancer gave a short bark of laughter and said to Connor, "Ain't it
convenient how she remembers she's married when it suits her
purpose?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Connor said dryly.

"You agree with her comin' here?"

Connor looked around the cabin and tried to imagine Maggie living in
it.  Her bedroom in New York was larger than Dancer's entire home.

There were few amenities and the daily work of living would be more
than she was used to.  His eyes fell on the potted herbs and the jars
of dried teas.  "No," he said finally.  "I don't agree.  But this is
what she wants and she was willing to do what it took to be here.

Maggie's more resilient than she looks so don't be fooled by her
appearance."  The way I was, he almost added.  "I want her to come to
the Double H with me but she's not interested, perhaps not even if you
turn her away."

"That true?"  Dancer asked Maggie.  "You're not going' with him even if
I turn you out?"

"That's true."

Dancer scratched the whiskered side of his face thoughtfully.  His eyes
drifted over Maggie.  He looked hard at her wedding band.

"It's a fact there's things I don't understand here."  He laughed
suddenly.

"On the other hand, there's other things I understand better than one
of you, maybe both of you."  His hand dropped away from his face.  He
worked his puckered mouth back and forth as he considered Maggie's
request.  "Ain't got no special place for you, girl."

Maggie pointed to the bed.  "I'll be fine there.  It was good enough
for my father."

Dancer was thoughtful again, then he spoke abruptly.  "Don't like it.

How'd I know you ain't lookin' to rob me?"

"Rob you?"  Maggie asked.  "Why would I want to do that?"

"Folks do," he said.  "It's been tried more times than I got fingers
'n' toes.  Rumor in the Rockies has it that I got gold and silver
aplenty in my mines."  He gestured to Connor.  "Tell her," he
demanded.

"Tell her that's the way of it."

Connor turned to Maggie.  "There's a widely held belief in these parts
that Dancer's mined his claim and buried most of the treasure."

Dancer slapped his thigh and cackled.  "What would be the sense in it?"
 he asked.  "Bringin' gold up from the earth only to bury it again?

But folks get it in their heads and I can't get it out.

Damn me if I can be responsible for what folks is thinkin'."

"Do you understand what he's telling you, Maggie?"  Connor asked.

"There's a certain amount of danger here apart from the hardships of
living.  Tell her how many men you've chased off your land, Dancer."

"Can't say as how I've chased more than two off that were tryin' to rob
me," he said.  "But there's a score of 'em buried in the hills,
though."

Maggie couldn't quite suppress her shiver.  "I still want to stay," she
said, resolute.  "I can learn to protect myself."

"Now I ain't puttin' a gun in your hands," Dancer said.  "Most likely
I'd get my own head blowed clean off."  He ignored Maggie's challenging
look.  "How long you expectin' to stay?"

"A year," she said.  "Perhaps a little longer."

"I can teach you what I know in a month."

Maggie doubted that but she didn't argue the point.  Her dark green
eyes beseeched him.

"All right," he said.  "You can stay.  But when I say git, I mean
git.

That clear enough?"

She nodded.

Connor looked at Dancer.  "You're letting her stay here?"

"Now that's just what I said, didn't I?  You ain't gonna try to talk me
out of it, are you?  That makes no kinda sense either.  What did you
bring her here for if'n you weren't gonna let her stay?"

"I didn't say I wasn't going to leave her here," he said.  "But I could
hope that she'd come to her senses, couldn't I?  Or that you'd see this
for the folly it is."

Dancer's eyes narrowed on Connor's hard face.  "You ain't one to be
talkin' about senses," he said.  "Leastways not until you got some of
your own."

Connor's glance became more distant.  "You're probably right," he said
tersely.  His chair scraped the rough floor as he stood.

"I'll unload the supplies we purchased in town for you, then I'll be
going.

Maggie?  Do you want to help me?"

Maggie felt his stiffly cold anger but she followed him outside.

She noticed that Dancer didn't follow.  "Did you really think I'd
change my mind?"  she asked.

"No."  He began shifting sacks of dry goods from the wagon to the
cabin's small front porch.  "But I didn't think it'd matter."  To me,
he nearly said.

She put a different construction on Connor's words.  "I told you Dancer
would take me in.

"I remember," he said, letting her think what she would.  "I didn't
think you knew what you were talking about."

Maggie yanked at her valises and tossed them onto the porch.

"That's plain enough."

"What I don't understand is why he's letting you stay."  He pitched a
sack of cornmeal hard enough that it split along one seam.

Cursing under his breath, Connor reined in his frustration.  "And it's
not because you're Jay Mac's daughter or Rennie's sister.  It's
something else."

Maggie climbed into the back of the wagon and began pushing crates and
sacks toward Connor for unloading.  "I'm not one for looking a gift
horse in the mouth," she said.  "Is it so important for you to figure
it out?"

"Strangely enough, yes.

They finished unloading Dancer's supplies and Maggie's belongings in
silence.  With the wagon load lighter now, Connor unhitched one of the
mares and led it to Dancer's small lean-to stable.  "You may need her,"
he said.

Maggie was speechless.  Tears welled in her eyes.

Connor stood in front of her, his hands at his sides.  He wanted to
shake her; he wanted to hold her.  "You can reach the Double H by
following the stream due north.  Veer left at every fork.  You'll be on
my land this side of three hours but don't try it when there's more
than a few inches of snow.  The ranch sits in a valley but the passes
all drift.  You won't make it."

She nodded, drawing in her bottom lip, knowing that she'd never try it
at all.  Her dark green eyes held his.

"That's it, then."

She nodded again.

"You don't have to stay," he said.

"No, you're wrong.  It's the one thing I have to do."

Connor searched her face and saw that the indecision had disappeared
again.  "I wish you luck."  The words were inadequate, he thought, the
sentiment too stiffly offered to seem sincere.  He reached for her,
realized what he was doing, and stopped.  "Maggie?"

She responded to the heat in his eyes and the cautious uncertainty in
his voice.  She stood on tiptoe and placed her hands on his
shoulders.

She lifted her face and leaned into him, pressing her mouth full
against his.  Connor's hands cupped the inward curve of her waist,
holding her tightly, supporting her against the length of his body.

Sunlight warmed them.  A breeze lifted her hair so that it fluttered
against his shoulders.  Her skirt rippled between his legs.  His mouth
moved over her parted lips.  Her fingers slipped around his neck and
threaded in his thick hair.  She returned the kiss measure for full
measure.

It was Connor who drew away, Maggie who took the shaky breath and
laughed a trifle uneasily.  Sunlight still caressed them but the breeze
had gentled.  Maggie's hair fell back from Connor's shoulders and her
skirt drifted along the slender line of her own legs.

"Goodbye, Connor," she said softly, inadequately.  "Thank you."

Other things she wanted to say were caught in her throat.

"Goodbye."  He climbed onto the wagon and jerked the reins.

Maggie watched him until he was out of sight but he never looked
back.

She turned slowly, saw Dancer watching her from the window, and went
inside.

"Seems like you weren't all that anxious to say farewell," he said,
watching her closely.  "He know about the baby?"

Maggie wasn't startled by the question.  The baby was the reason Dancer
was letting her stay and she had counted on him to recognize her
condition and respond.  "No, he doesn't know."

"He the father?"

"Yes."

Dancer reached in his pocket and pulled out a pouch of tobacco.

He pinched some off and placed it between his lower lip and his teeth,
pressing it down with his tongue.  "Damn me if I know what's going'
on," he said.  He tossed the pouch on the table.  "Help me get these
supplies inside.  You can put your things under the bed and on those
pegs by the hearth.  No sense in you takin' the loft now.  In a few
months you won't be climbin' any ladders and that's a fact."

* * * Maggie never climbed any ladders but she did everything else.  As
summer wore on she worked by Dancer's side except when he was working
his claim.  He rarely made demands on her.

Instead he had expectations.  He didn't ask her to do anything he
hadn't done himself, nor did he ask her to do something she'd never
done before without teaching her first.

That was how Maggie learned to wash clothes at the stream without
having them float away on the current and split kindling without
chopping off her toes.  She hauled water and baked bread.

She swept the floor, mucked the stalls, and cleaned the privy.  She
learned how to use acid to separate Dancer's gold from the ore without
burning herself.  She gathered blackberries and raspberries and learned
how to make preserves.  She weeded, hoed, and harvested vegetables from
Dancer's garden and discovered that while some portion of the gathering
went to the table and another to the root cellar, there was yet another
portion that disappeared to a place not visible from the cabin.  She
followed Dancer one day as he was hauling potatoes away and came upon
his still.  That's when she learned about making moonshine.

In the beginning it seemed as though she was tired all the time.

Dancer swore she could find a way to nap leaning against a hoe.  She
collapsed onto her narrow bed as soon as the dishes were cleared and
cleaned and she was sleeping by the time Dancer climbed the ladder to
the loft.

Maggie couldn't have said precisely when it changed, only that it
did.

Gradually she became aware that she wasn't cat-napping anymore, that
she was strong enough to work more efficiently, and that some evenings
she turned back the lamps after Dancer went to bed.

There were other changes that happened so slowly they were hard to
notice.  Maggie's breasts grew heavy and tender, her abdomen rounded.

There was a nagging ache in the small of her back and her walk had
become less graceful.  Her moods were sometimes as unpredictable as the
weather.  She let out the fitted waistlines of her clothes and finally
took to wearing a smocked overblouse.  She had a habit of smoothing the
material over her belly when she was deep in thought, smiling to
herself when the baby kicked.

She'd had a lot of time to get used to having a child, ever since she'd
dissolved Madame Restell's Infallible French Pills in the wash basin in
her bathing room but it was only since she'd come to Dancer's that she
began to think about being a mother.  In Connor's company it hadn't
been possible to dwell on that eventuality.

Denial had been more important, a critical state of mind to keep him
from knowing the truth.  Now what she did best was worry.

She worried that she wouldn't know how to feed the baby or how to play
with it.  She worried that she'd drop it, or lose patience with it, or
not know what its crying meant.  She worried that she might spoil it,
frustrate it, or not teach it what it needed to know.

Was she clever enough to be a mother?  Kind enough?  Gentle enough?

The only thing she didn't worry about was loving it.

Dancer didn't understand how Connor couldn't have known what Dancer
himself had suspected almost immediately.  Maggie had given up trying
to explain because Dancer thought it was interesting that she came so
quickly to Connor's defense.  Dancer's high-pitched laughter was always
more brittle and grating when he was being superior so Maggie didn't
give him many opportunities to tease her.

She let him think what he wanted because he would anyway, and satisfied
herself that she had made the better choice by not telling Connor there
had never been an abortion.

If Dancer needled her about some things, he was more than understanding
about others.  He was patient with her slowness and lack of agility as
the weeks passed.  He never berated her for not knowing something he
attributed to plain old common sense.  He asked questions but he rarely
probed and he listened to the answers.

During the summer, intermingled among the tasks she had to learn,
Dancer Tubbs taught Maggie about the things she wanted to learn.  When
he saw her press the heel of her hand to her back and grimace with
pain, he showed her how to prepare white willow tea.

When he realized she suffered occasional morning sickness he steeped
goldenseal tea with a pinch of ginger to lessen the nausea.

Dancer was methodical in his approach, showing Maggie how to identify
the plant in the wild first.  White willow trees had olive-green
branches and furrowed, dull-brown bark.  A few teaspoons of the inner
bark were placed in a cup of cool water to soak for two hours, then
brought to a boil and divided into three doses.  In midsummer they
collected plants that grew in the wild or were specifically cultivated
by Dancer.  They always went out when the day was warmest, ignoring the
heat in order to find plants free of dew and surface water.  He showed
her how to select a plant in its best condition, choosing the flower
when it was about to open or when the shoot had reached its greatest
growth point.  The herbs were spread out and dried, some preserved in
alcohol, others in sunflower seed oil.

She learned how to make teas, tisanes, balms, washes, and poultices,
and when and how to apply them.

The leaves and shoots of watercress were an excellent remedy for
gout.

A syrup made from the bark of the wild black cherry could be used for
cough, colds, and diarrhea.  Wintergreen leaves prepared in oil
relieved a sore throat.  As a tea, wormwood was useful for indigestion
and heartburn but prepared as an oil it was a powerful poison.

Somewhat to Dancer's amusement, Maggie wrote everything she learned in
a journal.  She drew meticulous sketches of the plants, recorded their
names, their preparation, and how they should be used.  Some evenings
she worked well into the night.

Maggie felt she earned Dancer's grudging respect.  He never seemed to
mind her curiosity or her questioning except when it inadvertently
touched on the personal.  She learned a great deal from Dancer Tubbs,
except the origin of his knowledge.  She suspected most of his sources
were Indian but that his experience living among them had not been
pleasant; possibly he had learned about healing to survive and had been
driven out for stealing the shaman's powers.

Dancer never confirmed her suppositions outright, but as they worked
side by side, day after day, there were subtle indications that her
conclusions were correct.

Keeping busy provided Maggie with a balm better than any herbal remedy,
sustaining her during days when her thoughts would have otherwise been
on Connor, exhausting her by bedtime so she didn't have to think about
how things might be different if he were with her.  Still, she
remembered his parting kiss, the way his mouth had moved over hers, the
texture of his hair beneath her fingers, the single breath they shared
as they drew back.

"You missin' your man again?"  Dancer asked as he stomped into the
cabin.  A clod of dirt dropped from the heel of his boot onto the
floor.  He put his Winchester on the rack by the door, picked up the
broom, and swept the floor before Maggie could give him one of her
prim, fussy looks.  "Sure looks like you're missin' your man."  He
propped the broom against the wall and removed his saber.

"I don't have a man," she said.

"Had one, though."  He laughed at his crude joke until Maggie stared
him down.  He ducked his head in a gesture of apology.

"Sorry."  He listened to himself and added, "Damn me if I ain't
acquirin' manners."

It was Maggie's turn to laugh because Dancer Tubbs seemed quite unhappy
about the notion.  She stopped abruptly.  "Oh!"

"The baby?"

Maggie nodded.  "A powerful kick that time."

"Must be the heat that makes him so active."  He wiped his brow with
his forearm.  "There ain't been an Indian Summer like this in years."

The kicking subsided and Maggie relaxed, tipping back and starting the
rocker again.  She picked up her sewing and began hemming the baby's
nightshirt.  In her haste to leave New York before her family knew she
was pregnant, Maggie had not given much consideration to what her baby
would wear at birth.  Now she was set with the task of cutting down her
slips and gowns to make a layette and needlework had always tried her
patience.

Dancer watched her prick her finger and sighed.  He washed his hands at
the basin and took the sewing from Maggie's lap.  "Can't understand how
you can be so accomplished in most things and can't do a stitch to save
your life."  He plopped himself down in one of the chairs at the table
and began the hemming himself.

For once Maggie let herself enjoy being idle.  The last throes of
summer were sapping her energy.  She closed her eyes and rocked
gently.

"Did you see anyone coming this way from the Double H?"  she asked.

She'd been asking Dancer the same question most every day since the
middle of August.

"Nary a Soul," he said.  "Maybe Connor Holiday decided he ain't gonna
divorce you.

She raised her lashes a fraction and gave him a frank, skeptical
look.

"I don't think he'd decide that.  He hates me."

"That what you call it when a man kisses you like he wants to gobble
you up?"

"Connor agreed to the divorce."

Dancer shrugged, the scarred skin of his neck pulling with the
movement.  "A man can change his mind just like a woman."

"He won't," Maggie said with serene confidence.  "He may be the most
honorable man I know."  Connor hadn't had to share the painful,
intimate details of their first night together; he hadn't had to accept
responsibility for what happened when it was easier to call her a
whore.  "He agreed and someone will arrive here with the divorce
documents.  You'll see."

"Hope it's soon," Dancer said casually.  His eyes drifted to the
loft.

He pulled back his glance when he realized what he was doing.  "I'm
kinda tired keepin' watch for 'im just so you don't get sighted
first."

He bit off a short thread, examined his handiwork, and pronounced
himself satisfied.  Dancer placed the baby's gown on the table.

"You figured on a name for the baby yet?"

"I'm still thinking."

"Dancer's a nice name," he suggested.

"I'm having a girl."

"Still a nice name.

Maggie smiled wistfully.  Her expressive eyes were kind as they lighted
on the prospector's disfigured face.  "Yes," she said.

"It's a very nice name.

Dancer ducked his head again, this time in genuine embarrassment.

Usually he didn't mind when Maggie looked at him.  There was never any
pity in her glance.  Feeling her gentle gratefulness, though, was
almost as discomforting.  He wanted to make her stop looking at him.

His hoarse voice was challenging.  "Know how I got it?"

"No," she said, still smiling.  "How?"

"When the explosion in the mine set my face on fire they say I danced
like the devil himself."

Maggie couldn't help herself.  She blanched.  When she recovered she
saw his satisfied grin.  "Sometimes you're a horrid man, Dancer Tubbs,"
she said, her eyes snapping at him.

"That's a fact."

Maggie rose from the rocker, put on her straw bonnet, and left the
cabin.  Dancer's laughter followed her onto the porch until she shut
the door.  The wide stream that bordered the cabin's yard beckoned
her.

She wandered down to its bank and began walking along the edge.  On
impulse she took off her shoes and stockings, dropped them in the
grass, and continued her walk, dipping one foot or the other in the
water every few steps.

She laid her hand on her rounded belly.  "What do you think of Dancer
for a name?"  she asked.  The kick seemed timely but she didn't know
how to interpret it.  She laughed.  "Was that yes or no?"

There was another kick, this one right under her ribs.  "No, I
think."

Maggie lifted the hem of her gingham skirt and waded to the middle of
the stream.  She wiggled her toes over some smooth pebbles until they
were buried.  "Connor's mother was Edie," she told her baby.  "I never
asked, but I think it was short for Edith.  Do you like that?"  There
was no response.  "Well, I don't," she said.  "At least not all by
itself."  She kicked at the pebbles, letting them fly, and finished
crossing the stream.  Keeping close to the bank she continued her walk
north.  "What about Mary Edith?  Your aunts could argue for the rest of
their lives over which of them you were named after."

It seemed like a good joke on her sisters.  "Mary Edith," she said more
firmly.  She tested the name a few more times.  "I'll want to think."

The sound of approaching horses and riders interrupted Maggie's
musings.  She scanned the area quickly, looking for cover, and darted
toward some sheltering pines.  The riders were upon her before she had
covered half the distance from the stream to the trees.  One of the
riders blocked her escape with his horse while the other guarded her
rear.

Maggie's forearm dropped protectively across her swollen abdomen as she
was cornered.  She turned so that the riders were on either side of
her.  They circled again, blocking another escape attempt.

The most frightening thing, Maggie thought rather giddily, was that the
rider in front of her bore a passing resemblance to Connor.

The similarities did not hold up under scrutiny, but his build, his
battered leather vest, the dark hair and eyes, had fooled her
momentarily.  As insane as it was, she felt a fleeting sense of relief
that the menacing stranger wasn't Connor Holiday.

She caught her breath and lowered her arm slowly.  Darting a glance
over her shoulder she saw the rider to the rear was older but bore
enough similarity to the other that it wasn't difficult to recognize
they were kin.  "What do you want?"  she demanded, standing her
ground.

Her hope that by being firm, even arrogant, she could shame them for
frightening her, vanished as the rear rider laughed at her.

"Say, Tuck," he said pleasantly, "didya ever hear tell that Dancer had
a woman?"

"Never did."  Tuck's flat black eyes rested on Maggie's belly.  He
pushed back the brim of his hat a notch.  "Look's like he's fixin' to
be a father, too."

"What do you want?"  Maggie persisted.

"Name's Freado, ma'am," the older rider said.  "And we're looking for
Dancer."

"Well, you can see that he isn't here."

"Sure, I can see that.  What I'm thinkin' is that it would be a good
idea for you to come with us to his cabin.  Sit with us while we're
waitin' for him."

"You can just as easily go on without me," she said.  "You seem to know
the way.

"Oh, Tuck and I been in these parts before," Freado said.  "Only Jack
was with us then.  You don't see Jack with us now, do you?"

Maggie shook her head.  "That's 'cause Dance shot him" "He can't ride
with you now?"  Maggie asked.  "Is that what you mean?"

It was Tuck who answered.  "What Freado means is that his brother's
dead.  That plain speakin' enough for you?"

Maggie understood enough to feel the knot of fear tighten in her
stomach.  Having no clear idea where she wanted to go, Maggie tried to
move from between the horses.  Her exit was immediately blocked.

"Let me pass," she said stiffly.

Freado laughed.  "She sure enough likes to give orders."

Without another word passing between the two men, Maggie found herself
being herded toward the cabin.  They didn't let her pick up her shoes
and stockings as she passed the place where she dropped them, but kept
her moving.  The hem of her dress got wet as they hurried her across
the stream and up the knoll to the cabin.

Maggie hardly knew whether to be grateful or worried when she saw
Dancer was waiting for them on the porch.  She watched him lower his
shotgun as they approached and for the first time she realized that
Freado had his Colt leveled at her back.

"Toss that on the ground," Tuck yelled to Dancer.  "Or Freado's gonna
put a hole in your woman.  Maybe put a hole in your baby."

Dancer didn't hesitate.  He pitched the shotgun.  "What d'you fellas
want?"

Freado kept his gun aimed on Maggie.  "That's real polite that you're
asking' now.  You didn't bother last time.  Shot first, as I
recalled."

Dancer rubbed the scarred side of his face.  His bright blue eyes
narrowed.  "Guess that's 'cause you made no secret about bein' up to no
good.  The three of you was skulkin' around my claim like you was after
something' particular."

"Know what?"  Tuck asked.  "We're still after something' particular.

Only this time I think you're gonna show us just where to look."

Maggie didn't need to have it explained to her.  Tuck and Freado were
after Dancer's gold and they were going to get it this time because she
was in the way.  She tried to make eye contact with Dancer, to let him
know that she didn't expect him to give up his gold because of her, but
he refused to look at her.  His brightly burning eyes were steady on
Freado's revolver.  She had to say the words aloud.  "Don't do what
they want on my account, Dancer.  I knew the risks of coming out
here.

I accepted them.  I still do."

"Good woman you got," Freado said.  "All heart, no sense.  Must be how
you got her in the sack."

Dancer's grim, disfigured mouth thinned.  The web of scars on his face
whitened.  "You gonna wait here while I get what you want?"

Tuck laughed.  "Not likely.  You're not gonna skip out on us.  Your
woman's nice, but she's not worth the kinda gold Freado and me figure
you got.  I'll go with you to make sure you give us every bit of what
you got buried on your land."

Dancer Tubbs leaned against one of the porch supports.  "You prepared
to dig it out?"  he asked."  'Cause what I got buried is pretty
deep."

"I think you'll dig it out," Tuck said, patting the rifle in the
scabbard by his saddle.  "Leastways this Remington says you will."

Maggie raised one arm, imploring Dancer.  "You don't have to do this,"
she said.

He ignored her.  "Who's comin' with me?"

Tuck urged his horse forward immediately.  "I am.  Freado'll stay with
your woman, just so you know there's no point in tryin' to come back
without me."

"I'll be bringin' you back," Dancer muttered.  His eyes finally moved
from Freado's gun to settle on Maggie's pale face.  "Or someone just
like you."  His eyes moved past Maggie, not waiting to see if she
understood his meaning, and onto Tuck.  "You gonna make me walk?"  he
asked.  "Or you gonna let me saddle up?  We gotta piece to go to get
what you want."

"You can saddle up," Tuck said.  "You figure nightfall before we get
back?"

"Sounds about right."

Tuck nodded, let Dancer walk off to the stable, and turned to Freado.

His voice was loud enough to carry.  "If you don't see me comin'' cross
that stream by nightfall, kill her."

Maggie saw the break in Dancer's stride and she knew he'd heard the
threat.

Tuck rubbed his jaw with the back of a gloved hand.  "I'll be comin'
back alone," he said, mouthing words above Maggie's head.

Only his partner understood the message this time.

Connor Holiday pulled off his gloves, leaned forward in his saddle, and
patted Tempest on the neck.  "Good climb," he said, praising his
mount.

He looked back over the rocky outcroppings and narrow ridges that
Tempest had managed to negotiate and thought again his horse was half
mountain goat.  "Now we just have to find that cow.

How the hell she got up here is a mystery."  A wide section of the
Double H was spread out below him.  It was impossible not to be drawn
to the sight.

The log ranch house was situated on the gentle curve of the valley's
western slope.  Its verdant setting of pine trees and thick grass
giving the impression of emerald velvet.  The corral, stable, and other
outbuildings were closer to the water source; cattle and horses roamed
the lower hillside freely.  A curving ribbon of water ran across the
property from north to south.  Sunlight glanced off the water, giving
it the reflective quality of a mirror, while a breeze made the aspens
shiver and the hillside glow with color.

Even at his distance from the ranch Connor could make out the activity
of his four hired hands.  Ben was working just outside the forge,
fitting shoes to the horses for the next drive.  Buck and Patrick were
taking turns getting thrown from Connor's newest addition to the stable
and the smoke rising from the ranch house meant that Luke was starting
their dinner.

"Or burning it," Connor said aloud.  Tempest snorted.  Connor patted
him again.  "You miss Woody as much as the rest of us do, don't you,
boy?"  Struck by a surge of wanderlust, the Double H cook had left for
California three weeks earlier.  No one was expecting him to return
anytime soon, if ever.  The four remaining hands and Connor took turns
cooking.  No one did a good job at it because no one wanted it as a
full-time position.  For three weeks they had just been getting by,
tightening their belts as they began losing weight.

More amused than frustrated by the situation, Connor decided he'd let
it go on another week or so before sending Ben to Cannon Mills to hire
a cook.

"Ben's looking just hungry enough that I don't think he'll spend three
days whorin' when I need him back here."  Tempest shifted restlessly.

"Okay, let's go find that cow."  He urged his mount away from the
precipice.

It was a movement far below him that caught his eye.  He halted
Tempest, turned back, and surveyed the valley again.  He didn't see the
rider at first, protected as he was by the shelter of pines, but then
horse and rider darted into the clearing, splashed wildly across the
stream, and rode straight for the corral.  Grazing cattle scattered and
their lowing reverberated throughout the valley, rising to reach Connor
and prick Tempest's ears.

Connor squinted, staring hard at the rider as he jumped down from his
horse and met Buck and Patrick at the corral fence.  It wasn't
possible.  He was just imagining that the rider was familiar.  The
sunlight was deceiving him.  But the longer he stared the more he was
convinced.  He lowered his hat, shading his eyes against the sun's
reflection on the water.  He saw Buck and Patrick raise their right
arms simultaneously and indicate his general location on the
mountainside.  When the stranger turned, Connor knew he hadn't imagined
anything.

Dancer Tubbs had left his claim.  It meant only one thing to Connor:
something had happened to Maggie.

Under Connor's guidance Tempest made the descent recklessly.

The horse was lathered, pushed to the edge of his endurance, by the
time they reached the corral.  Buck and Patrick were no longer alone
with Dancer.  Luke had come out of the ranch house and Ben had joined
them from the forge.  The four hired hands were sitting on the top rail
of the corral watching Connor's brutally paced arrival with equal parts
of interest and concern.  They hadn't been able to learn a thing from
Dancer Tubbs, but they knew the prospector's arrival had something to
do with the reason that Connor was mostly a son of a bitch these
days.

Connor leaped down and confronted the prospector, tension radiating
through him.  "What's happened to Maggie?"

Dancer had been drinking water from a ladle.  He tipped out the undrunk
portion, handed the ladle back to Luke, and wiped his mouth on the
sleeve of his sweat-stained blue-gray jacket.

Connor's fingers curled into his palms, making white-knuckled fists
when Dancer was slow to answer.  "Dammit," he said, "tell me something
before I lay you out, old man."

The prospector wasn't cowed.  "This afternoon two men came lookin' to
steal my gold.  I've seen 'em before, killed one of their kin last
time.  They got to Maggie before they got to me.  One of them, name of
Freado, is holdin' her in my cabin until I get back with the gold.  I
don't figure she's safe ifn' I get back with gold or not and I don't
like my chances of helpin' her alone."

"You said there were two men," Connor said.

Dancer's blue eyes grew slightly colder.  "Other's dead."  He spit.

"He got too greedy for his own good.  Forgot to watch his back."

The prospector's mouth twisted to one side.  "Thing of it is, you look
a little like the one I killed.  Tuck, he was called."

Ben spoke up.  He was a thick-necked man, with hands like hammers,
black from his work in the forge.  He wiped them on his leather
apron.

"He's talking about Steve Tucker.  I've seen him hangin' around Cannon
Mills before.  Dancer's right.  He does look a little like you.

"Did," Connor said.  "He did look a little like me."  He turned back to
Dancer.  "How does that figure in your plans?"  He had no doubt that
Dancer Tubbs had a plan.

"Tuck meant to kill me," Dancer said.  "Never thought for a moment he'd
try anything else.  He's the only one expected back at the cabin.  If
he isn't there by nightfall then Freado's going' to kill Maggie."

There was no need to add that it may have already happened.  He could
see that Connor was aware of that and a lot more besides.

"We need to leave now, then," Connor said tightly.  "Buck, get a fresh
horse for me and one for Dancer."

Dancer stopped Buck when he started to lead his horse away.  "Just a
minute.  That's Tuck's horse.  Connor'll need to ride it back.

Tuck's clothes are in the saddlebag."  He looked at Connor.  "You'll
need to put 'em on.  No sense takin' any chances."

Connor nodded.  He pulled the clothes out and began stripping.

"Buck, get two horses anyway.  Dancer and I'll be able to travel faster
if we're on fresh mounts and Tuck's animal will do better without a
rider.  I'll switch horses just before we reach the cabin."

Buck ran off, his long-legged, loping stride getting him to the stables
quickly.  Patrick pushed up the brim of his dusty black hat, revealing
a fringe of bright red hair.  With the shadow lifted from his face
there was a sprinkling of freckles visible across the bridge of his
nose.  "You want us to come?  Watch your back?"

Connor looked to Dancer.  "Do we need that?"

The prospector shook his head.  "My plan only calls for two.  While
Connor's distractin' I'll be reactin'."

Luke, who rarely smiled, thought that was worth a small grin.  He
dropped from his perch and scooped up Connor's discarded clothes and
tossed them over the corral rail.  "I don't mind being your flank."

Connor pulled on Tuck's shirt.  "Thanks, but not this time, Luke."

Luke nodded, his gray eyes serious.  He saw the tautness of Connor's
jaw and recognized his friend's need to do this thing on his own.

He leaned against the corral and deftly caught Connor's hat as it came
sailing toward him.

Connor put on Tuck's hat, tugged on the brim, and turned to Dancer.

"Is this going to fool him?"

"It don't really matter, does it?  I reckon you'd come anyway.

"You're right."

Dancer studied Connor thoughtfully for a moment.  "Then there's
something else you should know," Dancer said.  "Maggie's pregnant."

In the same breath that Connor was calling Dancer a bastard, he was
drawing back his fist.  Luke intervened, blocking Connor's punch with
his forearm.

Dancer stood his ground, rubbing his jaw as if he'd been hit anyway.

His lopsided grin pulled his face grotesquely and whitened his scars.

"I'm flattered," he said.  His high-pitched laughter crackled.

"Damn me if I ain't flattered."

"What are you saving?"

"Isn't it obvious?"  Luke asked, letting go of Connor's arm.  He looked
at Patrick and Ben, who were nodding.  Dancer was waiting expectantly
for Connor to comprehend what everyone else knew.

Luke grew impatient.  "It's your baby, Connor."

"That's not possible, she.."  Connor didn't finish his sentence.

Buck was coming toward them with the horses.  "Let's go," he said
tightly, strapping on his gun belt.  He gave Dancer Tuck's Remington
rifle.  "Don't give me a reason to regret not using that on you."

He tugged the reins of the bay sharply and didn't look back to see if
Dancer was following.

Maggie rocked slowly.  The floor made a steady creaking sound against
the chair runners that she found soothing.  Throughout the day she had
looked up from her sewing to glance out the window.

On this occasion a firefly glowed.  Then another.  She judged there was
little more than an hour's daylight left.

She was actually surprised to be alive.  Once Tuck and Dancer left she
thought Freado would kill her, in spite of his instructions to the
contrary.  When he didn't she began to hope, and now that twilight was
settling it seemed cruel that he had allowed her that.  Maggie thought
that if it hadn't been for her baby she might have simply begged him to
kill her hours earlier and stop torturing her with the possibility.

Freado jerked his Colt in her direction.  "You want to stop that?"  he
snapped.

Although Maggie's heart was slamming against her breastbone, her
features were composed as she raised her face.  "Stop what?"  she
asked.

"That goddamn rocking!  Stop it or I'll.."  He pulled back the hammer
on his revolver.

Maggie set her feet flat on the floor and the creaking stopped.

"Should I sit somewhere else?"  she asked.  "You told me to sit
here."

"Sit there, only don't rock."

It was virtually impossible to do.  She went back to her sewing but in
a few minutes she was rocking again.  The blast from Freado's gun
propelled Maggie out of the chair.  Wood splintered as a bullet sheared
one of the rocker's curved runners, tipping it to one side.

Maggie's hand went over her heart as she tried to contain the beat.

Her sewing dropped to the floor.  She opened her mouth to call him
every vile name she could think of.

"Save it," he said, putting the Colt away.  "I got a wife, I heard it
before.  Now sit."

Color returned to Maggie's face slowly.  She stooped to pick up the
baby clothes and saw her hands were trembling.  "I have to use the
privy," she said quietly, mustering the threads of her dignity.

"Again?"  His tone indicated complete disgust.

"I'm pregnant," she said.  "I have different needs than you.

"All right," he said sourly.  He pushed away from the table and opened
the back door.  He waved his arm, indicating she should precede him.

"You don't have to come with me," she said.

"I think I do."

And that was that, Maggie thought.  She had made more trips to the
privy than she needed to, hoping that just once he would let her go on
her own.  It hadn't happened yet and it wasn't going to happen this
time.  Freado escorted her to the privy, waited outside while she
relieved herself, and followed her back to the cabin.

"Now sit," he said.

"I want to make some tea," she said, picking up the kettle.

"Then you'll be wantin' another trip outside.  I know how it works."

"Let me make it for you," she said.  Her wide green eyes implored her
captor.  "I need to be busy."

Freado impatiently raked his curly hair with thick fingers.  "All
right," he said.  "Make the damn tea."

"Will you fire up the stove?"

"Oh, for God's sake," he said, frustrated.  "This is why I didn't want
no dinner.  Too much fussin'.  Do it yourself" Instead of returning to
the chair he had occupied most of the day, Freado sat on the narrow bed
where Maggie slept.  He had a good view of the creek through the window
and he could still see Maggie at the stove.  In a little while he lost
interest in Maggie's activities as the fireflies began to blink in
ever-increasing numbers.

Maggie tried to ignore the relentless approach of night as she prepared
Freado's tea.  She listened for the sound of riders instead.

"Here it is," she said, coming toward him with the steaming mug.

Freado held out his hand, palm up, indicating she should stop.

"Just put it on the table," he said.  "I don't want you spillin' it on
me and it's too damn hot to drink right now.

Maggie very nearly screamed her frustration.  Some of the intense
feeling showed on her face.

"D'you think I didn't know you had a plan?"  he asked.  "Now sit,
dammit."

She sat.  The rocker was tilted at an angle that made her back ache.

Maggie swept her sewing from the table onto her lap and tried to clear
her mind of all thought.  When Freado's harsh voice pulled her to the
present she had no idea how much time had elapsed since she sat down.

"Looks like no one's comin'," he said, getting up from the bed.  He
walked to the door, opened it, and leaned against the frame.  "And that
doesn't look good for anyone, does it?  Tuck's either dead or he run
off with the gold himself.  Maybe he 'n Dancer cut a deal and decided
to leave us both in the lurch.  Don't see how it matters to you,
though.  I'm gonna have to kill you either way."

Maggie forgot what she was doing.  She clutched the nightdress she was
stitching and pricked the heel of her hand with the needle.  At her
slight cry, Freado turned away from the door.

"What the hell's wrong with you now?"

Maggie sucked on the injured area and said nothing.

Freado kicked the door shut and sat on the bed again.  "Hell of a thing
to have to do since you ain't done me a moment's harm."  His abrupt
yawn was incongruous with the murderous talk.

It took a great effort of will on Maggie's part not to allow her eyes
to stray to the mug on the table.  She lowered her injured hand slowly
and watched Freado with greater interest.  His eyes seemed vaguely out
of focus and there was a thin line of beaded sweat above his upper
lip.

They heard the approach of a single horse and rider at the same time.

Their heads swiveled in the direction of the window simultaneously.

"I'll be damned.  It's Tuck!"  Freado jumped to his feet.  And promptly
dropped to the floor as if he had been felled by a woodsman's ax.

Maggie didn't hesitate.  Scrambling from the rocker, she grabbed
Freado's gun, drew back the hammer, and held the Colt in a tight
two-handed grip.

Several long minutes passed, then the cabin's front door was pushed
open slowly.

Chapter 11

Connor shouldered the door when it wouldn't open more than eight
inches.  Under his force it budged another two.  Something was braced
at the bottom of the door, holding it in place.  Knowing the risk, he
began to squeeze himself through the opening.

Maggie's extended arms trembled under the weight of the Colt.

Freado's body blocked the door.  She saw a jean-clad leg step inside.

"Stop right there."

For a moment Maggie thought it was her own terrified voice that had
given the order.  The hoarse, raspy quality was exactly as she imagined
her own might be.  Then she realized the voice had come from behind
her, not through her.

"Maggie, put down the gun."

It was Dancer!  She was afraid to turn around, afraid it was some
horrible trick.  She gestured with her gun toward the intruder at the
front door.

"Put the gun down, girl, afore you shoot someone.

Maggie responded to the patience and firmness in Dancer's tone,
dropping the gun beside her on the table just as Connor pushed his way
into the cabin.

"Oh, my God."  Maggie knew it was her voice this time.  She sat slowly,
her legs no longer able to support her, as Connor lowered his gun.  Her
hands moved to rest on her belly, not so much in an attitude of
protection as with the intention of hiding her pregnancy.

Connor's features were rigid.  When he spoke it was as if he were
biting off the words and spitting them out.  "So there is a baby."

His scorn lashed Maggie.  She actually flinched under the cold, steady
stare of his black eyes.  The muscle that worked in his jaw underscored
his tension and anger.

Off to the side Dancer watched the interplay with interest.  He leaned
the Remington against the wall.  "You two ain't fit to be left by
yourselves.  No tellin' what you might say."

"Stay out of this, Dancer," Connor said.

Dancer rubbed his jaw.  "Seems like I'm the one that invited you."

He pointed to the unconscious miscreant on the floor.  "First things
first."  He walked over to Freado and hunkered down.  Placing his hand
on the robber's neck, he searched for a pulse.  "What did you give him,
Maggie?"

Thankful for Dancer's question, she pulled her eyes away from Connor.

It helped to think about what had already happened rather than what was
going to happen.  "Corn poppies," she said.  "In some tea.  He's not
dead, is he?"

"No.  Just out cold."

"I didn't even know he drank the tea.  I let him think I meant to scald
him with it and he made me put it on the table.  I didn't see him take
it.  Is he going to be all right?"

Dancer and Connor exchanged glances.  "Help me get him out of here,
would you, Connor?"

Connor bent and took Freado by the shoulders.  Dancer got the feet.

They lifted him together and moved out the door onto the porch.  "You
want to take care of him?"  Connor asked.  "Or do you want me to?"

"I'll do it," Dancer said.  "Let's get him on his horse.  I don't want
to do it where Maggie can hear the shot."

They slung Freado's body over his saddle and Dancer gave the horse a
hard swat on the rear.  Freado's gelding ambled off in the direction of
the creek.  Dancer mounted his own horse and followed.

Connor returned to the cabin.  Maggie was standing by the window where
she had been watching them.  She turned when Connor came in.  "What's
Dancer going to do?"  she asked.

"Escort Freado off his land."

"Shouldn't we report this to someone?"

"The law, you mean?  Someone like your brother-in-law?"

"Yes."

"There isn't a lawman within fifty miles of here."

"So he goes free."

Connor merely shrugged.  "Do you really want to talk about this?"

Maggie hardly knew what to say.  She shook her head, not certain she
wanted to talk at all.  "Would you like some tea?"  she asked
nervously.  When she saw Connor's mouth lift in an amused, cynical grin
she realized how inane the question was, how it must have seemed to
him.  "Just tea," she said.  "I wouldn't put anything in it."

"Just tea, then."

Maggie went to the wood stove, added some kindling to the glowing
embers in the fire box, and stoked the fire.  "You can have a seat,"
she said.  When he didn't move immediately, she added, "It makes me
uncomfortable with you standing there like that."

Connor removed his hat and tossed it on the bed.  He ran a hand through
his hair.  Pulling out one of the chairs, he straddled it.

"This better?"  he asked.  He noticed that Maggie was worrying her
lower lip as she nodded.  He couldn't guess the number of times he'd
pictured that little fretful, thoughtful gesture in his mind's eye.

"What happened to the rocker?"

Maggie set the kettle on the stove.  "That man Freado shot it."

"Why?"

"He couldn't stand the sound it made when it was rocking."

Connor thought about that and his brows drew together.  "You were
sitting in it when he splintered the runner?"

"Well, yes," she said.  "Otherwise it wouldn't have been making any
noise."

Connor regretted allowing Dancer to mete out Freado's punishment.

He swore feelingly under his breath.  "I should never have let you come
here," he said.

"You couldn't have stopped me."  She stood on tiptoe, stretching to
reach the mugs.  Maggie set them aside while she prepared the tea for
the strainer.  "What happened to the other one?"  she asked.

"How did Dancer get away?"

"Tuck got careless," Connor said.

"He's dead, then."

"Yes."

Maggie was silent as she poured boiling water over the strainer and let
the tea steep.  She watched the liquid change slowly from clear to
caramel color then added a dollop of honey to both mugs.  She carried
Connor's to him and set it on the table, then she went back to the
stove to get hers, choosing to drink it standing up and keep her
distance.  "I'm not sorry Tuck's dead.  He would have killed Dancer."

"But.  . ."  he said.  He could almost hear her thoughts, they were so
clearly expressed in her eyes, in the small vertical between her brows,
in the way her lower lip was once again tucked between her teeth.  "But
you wish Dancer hadn't come for me."

Maggie ducked her head, not able to meet Connor's frank stare.

The evening was still warm but Maggie's hands were cold.  She wrapped
her hands around her mug and lifted the steaming tea toward her face.

"I didn't want you to know," she whispered, anguished.

"That's obvious," he said coldly.  "You would have been willing to lose
your life and the baby's rather than look to me for help.

Thank God Dancer didn't see it the same way."

"I took care of Freado.  We didn't need you."

"You were resourceful and you were lucky and if you hadn't been, you
can be damn sure you would have needed me!"  Connor wasn't aware of
when he had come to his feet, only that he was standing now.  His left
hand was on the top rail of the chair, his fingertips pressed tightly
to the wood.  "How dare you not tell me about my baby!  How dare you
let me think you aborted my child!"

Her voice trembled.  "My baby," she said.  "My child."

"No, dammit!  Ours!"  Seeing Maggie flinch, he visibly reined in his
anger.  His voice was low and terse.  "Of all the words I would have
used to describe you, selfish bitch didn't figure into them until
now."

Maggie gasped at the hard, hurting judgment.  "No," she said softly,
achingly.  "That's not who I am.  I was trying to do right by
everyone.

"Convince me."

It was the arrogant challenge in his tone that set Maggie on edge.

She lifted her face and glared at him.  "I don't have to explain myself
to you."

Connor came around the table.  Maggie darted to the back door, flung it
open, and ran outside.  She veered away from the path that led to the
privy and sprinted toward the hillside and the sheltering pines.  The
full moonlight revealed a fallen log blocking her way and she prepared
to jump.  Her feet rose and didn't touch down again.

Connor caught her as she rose in the air and hauled her against him,
dangling her several inches above the ground.  Maggie had to brace
herself by putting her arms around his neck; his hands were secure on
the small of her back.

"Maggie," he whispered hoarsely.

She burrowed against him, pressing her face into the curve of his
neck.

His breath was warm on her ear as his mouth settled near her temple.

"Maggie," he said again.  "Don't run from me.  Don't ever run from
me."

She tried to shake her head and sucked in a sob instead.  She felt
herself being lowered but her arms didn't move from Connor's neck.

One of his hands left her back and touched her nape, then buried itself
deep in the strands of her hair.  He stroked her, supported her.

He let her soak his shirt with her tears and he absorbed her fear, her
pain, knowing that he had contributed to both.

"I couldn't .  . . couldn't take those pills," she said, her voice
breaking.  "I couldn't get rid of the .... . baby.  I couldn't have
done that."

Connor simply held her.

"But .  . . but you were right .  . . I'm a selfish bi .  . .

bitch.  I didn't~" "No," he said gently.  "I was wrong.  I'm sorry I
said it, Maggie.

I was wrong.

She sniffed inelegantly and smiled against him.  "We never agree on
anything."

He set her away from him.  Moonlight washed her fine-boned features.

Connor rubbed at the tear tracks with the pad of his thumb.

"Let's go inside," he said.

Maggie nodded, sniffed again, and gave Connor an embarrassed, watery
smile.  She let him slip his arm through hers and escort her back to
the cabin.  This time when he pulled out a chair, it was for her.  He
pressed her into it.

"When did you eat last?"  he asked.

"I had something at noon.  I wanted to fix some dinner but Freado
wouldn't let me.  He didn't want the fussing."  She found a
handkerchief tucked in the sleeve of her pale rose overblouse and wiped
her nose.  "It's been a trying day."

One of Connor's dark brows kicked up.  "Only you," he said, his mouth
curving in dry amusement.  He turned away and started searching the
pantry for something for Maggie to eat.

"What does that mean?"

"It means," he said patiently, cracking some eggs in a bowl, "that
you've got a talent for understatement.  You've stared down death most
of the day and you describe it as "trying".  That's not exactly what I
would expect from one of New York's social princesses."

"That isn't who I was."  She picked up his mug and took a sip from
it.

"Neither was any of my sisters.  We were John MacKenzie Worth's
daughters... his bastard daughters.  I never wanted for anything, but
outside my own home I was never wanted anywhere."  Maggie saw Connor's
hand momentarily slow as he beat the eggs.  That small hesitation on
his part made her feel listened to.  "I don't think my life was exactly
as you've imagined."

Connor stopped beating the eggs.  He put a black iron skillet on the
stove and added a bit of bacon grease.  "And how do you think I
imagined your life?"

"Filled with social engagements.  Private schools.  Invitations to the
theatre and skating parties and masked balls."

"Skye talked about all those things."

Maggie sighed.  "At the dinner party," she said.  "I know.  Skye told
me she rattled on about anything she could think of to be sure you knew
she was an empty-headed twit."

"She was convincing."

"That's Skye."  She smiled wistfully, recalling her sister's earnest
description of her behavior that night.  "The truth is, Skye charges
ahead rather fearlessly.  She forces people to take her in or tell her
bluntly that she isn't wanted.  She's had more invitations than the
rest of us combined, but she does it just to make a point, not because
she really cares for it, or believes that she's really accepted.  We
went to the parish's parochial school, not exclusive academies, and
none of us is particularly welcome in certain homes along Fifth Avenue,
even to fill out an odd-numbered dinner party."

"So what did you do?"  Connor added the beaten eggs to the skillet and
stirred them with a wooden spoon.

"I read."

"That's all?"

"Mostly."  Maggie sipped from Connor's mug again.  "Mary Francis left
the house when I was twelve so she was never really a companion.

Michael and Rennie had each other.  Michael wrote a lot and Rennie
talked about trains all the time.  Skye dragged me around when she
could, but mostly I just read."

"Where?"

Most people would have asked what she had read, not where she had read
it.  "In the library, in my room.  Sometimes, when I was trying to get
out of chores, I would slip up to the attic or out on the back porch
roof.  Mama would send my sisters out to hunt me down."

She looked at him curiously.  "Why do you ask?"

"I wondered if you had a tree house," he said.  "With a rope ladder
that you could pull up to keep everyone else away."

Her eyes widened faintly.  "I used to ask Jay Mac for one.  He said no
one would ever hear from me again.

Connor lifted the skillet and spooned the eggs onto a plate.  "He was
probably right."  He put the plate and a fork in front of Maggie.

"Eat up.  Do you want bread?"

She shook her head and picked up the fork.  "Thank you."

Connor sat at the table.  "Why a doctor?"

"It never occurred to me to want to do anything else.  I told you once
I never thought about marrying."

"Children?"

Maggie swallowed hard.  "No," she said softly.  "I never thought about
children."

"So," he said heavily, "you gave in to a single impulse just once in
your life, joined your sister in a game that you would rather have
ignored, and found yourself accosted, prostituted, and.."

"Pregnant," she finished for him.

"With no memory of any of it."

"Little of it," she corrected.

Connor nudged the plate in front of her, encouraging Maggie to eat.

"little?"  he asked.

"I remember some things," she said softly, avoiding his eyes.  "The
sailor.  . . Harlan Porter .  . ."  The way Connor touched her.

The hungry exchange of kisses as his mouth slid over her cheek, across
her jaw, and made a damp line along her throat.  His hands on her
skin.

His palm cupping the underside of her breast.  The heat he infused in
the center of her.  "There was a girl with a broom.

She chased Harlan away."

"That's all?"

"That's all."  She concentrated on her eggs.  "I don't know anything
about your money."

"I wasn't thinking about the money."

Maggie took a bite of food rather than respond to that.  She hoped the
heat in her cheeks hadn't given her away.  "Dancer should be back here
soon.  Do you think something's happened to him?"

"Dancer can take care of himself."  Connor gave a cursory glance out
the window.  "Who knows about the baby, Maggie?"

She should have known better than to think she could have sidetracked
him.  Maggie pushed away her plate and put down her fork, her appetite
gone.  "Dancer."

"Dancer?"  Connor frowned.  "You mean you haven't told anyone else?

Not your mother?  Not Michael?"

"No one.  I didn't want anyone to know.  Did you think I singled you
out because you're the father?"

"It occurred to me."

"Well, I didn't," she answered testily.

"When do you plan to tell your family?"

"I don't know.  Probably when I tell them about our divorce."

Connor looked at her pointedly but refused to be drawn in.  "And when
were you going to tell me?"

Maggie shrugged.

"Maggie?"  he persisted.

"I had no plans to tell you," she admitted impatiently.  She looked at
him sharply.  "Does that satisfy you?  It's what you suspected, isn't
it?"

"It's what I suspected," he said, his tone weary, "but not what I
wanted to hear."

"Then why do you ask me these things?"  she said, exasperated.

"Why do you" She stopped.  The baby kicked her hard under the ribs and
it brought her upright.  Her face softened as she placed her palm over
the spot where she felt the kick.

Connor watched Maggie anxiously.  "Does he hurt you?"

She smiled, shaking her head.  Her expression was shy, her green eyes
veiled by thick lashes.  "Would you like-" He was already leaning
forward in his chair and extending his hand.  She took it and laid it
over her abdomen.  "Wait," she whispered, matching her voice to the awe
of the moment.  "She'll do it again.  There!  Did you feel it?"

Connor nodded but he didn't remove his hand.  "Are you sure it doesn't
hurt?"

"It's mostly surprising."

The baby kicked two more times before Connor withdrew his palm.  "You
look well, Maggie."  What she looked was beautiful.

Her skin glowed, her hair was lustrous, her delicate features
animated.

Her hand, when she had taken it in his, was rough, the pads of her
fingers calloused, but it was the only outward sign he recognized of
any hardships she had endured.  He wanted to cradle her cheek, touch
its softness.  He wanted to place his thumb against her lips, feel the
dampness of her breath as her mouth parted.  "It looks as if everything
about your life agrees with you."

"You mean the pregnancy."

"I mean everything."  He gestured to the cabin.  "This.  What you're
doing here .  . . the work with Dancer.  And yes, I meant the
pregnancy, too."

"I'm not unhappy," she said softly.

He thought it was an odd way of phrasing her satisfaction.  "The baby
must be due in December."

"Just before Christmas."

"Don't you want to be with your sister in Denver?"

"No.  I'm where I want to be.  Dancer will help me with the
delivery."

"He knew about the baby from the very beginning, didn't he?

That's why you were so certain he'd take you in."

She nodded.  "He didn't understand why I wanted to be here.  I'm not
sure he agrees even now, but he wasn't about to turn me out."

Maggie hoped that hadn't changed with Connor's arrival.  She glanced at
the window again, looking for Dancer.  A curtain of moonlight still
draped the surrounding trees.  The prospector was nowhere in sight.

"Do you want me to look for him?"

Maggie was only partially successful in masking her anxiety.

"Would you mind?"

Connor got to his feet.  "This won't take long."  He went to the door
and opened it.  "In the meantime, think about our sleeping arrangements
for tonight, and understand that I'm not bedding down with Dancer
Tubbs."  He shut the door in time to miss the mug Maggie threw at
him.

* * * Dancer Tubbs heard Connor coming when he was still a distant mile
off.  He shot off his gun to guide him, then he rolled on his back
again, groaning as his leg twisted under him.  Freado's body lay a few
feet from him, face down on the rocky ground.  There was no movement
nor any chance there would be now.  The thief's neck was broken and
Dancer had paid for it with a broken bone of his own.

Connor saw the two horses milling around on the hillside before he
caught sight of Dancer.  He urged his mount up the hill.  Stones
shifted beneath its hooves and the horse stumbled.  Connor managed to
stay in the saddle but he proceeded more cautiously.

"What the hell happened to you?"  Connor asked as he rode up to the
prospector.  He dismounted and knelt beside Dancer.

"Got careless myself," he said tightly.  "Shouldn't have expected that
Freado would stay sleepin' forever.  He woke up, realized what was
going' on, and led me a merry chase up this damn hill.  I knocked him
off his horse."

Connor sent Freado a cursory glance.  The odd angle of the man's neck
told its own story.  "Is that how he broke his neck?"

"That's how."

"And what about you?"

"I just fell," he admitted hoarsely.  He flinched when Connor began
examining him.  "Dammit, be careful how you move my leg!"

"I'm going to have to set it" "like hell.  You don't know" Dancer's
intelligible speech vanished as he let loose a string of curses that
nearly heated the air around them.

"All done," Connor said, ignoring the prospector's threats.  "I'll find
some wood for splints."

Dancer had recovered a measure of his dignity by the time they reached
the cabin.  Connor helped him down from the horse and supported him as
they went inside.

"It seems like Dancer's solved our sleeping dilemma," he told Maggie as
she rushed to assist.  They put him on the narrow bed after Maggie
turned down the quilts.  "I have to take care of the horses now."  His
quick exit this time spared him from Maggie's sour look.

Dancer didn't miss it.  He laughed shakily.  "Half expected you two
would have made up or killed each other by now.

"We're too stubborn to do either."  She straightened from the bed.

"White willow tea?"  she asked.  "It will help the pain."

"Hard liquor would help me more.  Pour me some of that 'shine."

"White willow tea it is," she said.

Dancer made a disgusted sound.  "I just had a feelin' that some day I'd
regret teachin' you about healin'."  He propped a pillow under his
head, careful to move slowly, and watched Maggie go about making the
tea.  "He says you sent him out after me, girl."

"I was worried."

The prospector snorted this time.  "You ain't my nursemaid, you know.

Been a long time since someone worried about me."

Maggie kept working at the stove, placing the bark in a jar to steep
once the water was hot.

"Can't say I like it," Dancer said.  "I been takin' care of myself for
more years than you got candles on a cake."

"Do you have a point?"  she asked softly.

"If your husband wants you with him," he said gruffly, "then don't make
me an excuse to stay here.  I ain't no one's excuse for sheer
wrong-headed foolishness."

Maggie's busy hands grew still and she turned away from the stove to
face Dancer.  "Are you telling me to git?"  she asked.  She saw his
puzzled look.  "When you took me in you told me that when you said
"git", I was supposed to git.  Is that what you're telling me now?"

Dancer had to look away from the quiet anxiety in Maggie's eyes.

She wasn't pleading with him, but there was a calm resignation in her
expression that made him feel as if he was betraying her.  "I'm sayin'
what I'm sayin'," he said.  "If Connor says go with him, then don't let
my leg here stop you.  That clear enough?"

It was clear enough.  She returned to her work and slowly let go of the
breath she had been holding.  "How would you take care of yourself?"

"That's my affair."

Maggie wasn't satisfied with the answer but Connor walked into the
cabin.  "Have I interrupted something?"  he asked.

"No," they said simultaneously, for entirely different reasons.

Maggie didn't want to open the discussion to the subject of her
leaving; Dancer didn't want to talk about the fact that he might need
help.

Connor raised one eyebrow as he looked from one to the other.

"Liars," he said without malice.  He kicked out a chair and sat down,
stretching out.  "How's your leg?"  he asked Dancer.

"I've had worse.

"I'm making him something for the pain," Maggie said.

Connor nodded.  His eyes drifted to the loft, then back to Maggie.

He wondered if she had given their sleeping arrangements any more
thought.  As she turned in her work his attention was caught by her
rounded profile, her full breasts, her swollen belly.  He wanted to
feel her against him again, feel the baby move under his hand, touch
her breasts, and know the curve of her against his flesh.  He wanted to
hold her.

She caught his stare, the curious warmth in his usually remote eyes.

She flushed and looked away.  It was because of the baby, she thought,
that he was looking at her with the kind of interest that made her
shaky inside.  It was only because of the baby.

Maggie poured the boiling water into the jar and let the bark steep.

It would be an hour before the tea was ready for Dancer.

She didn't know quite what to do with herself or her hands.  She leaned
back against the stove and crossed her arms in front of her.  Her
posture emphasized the distention of her belly and when Maggie realized
it, her arms quickly dropped to her sides.  "I'm sorry I drank the last
of the tea," she said to Dancer.  "I should have made more right
away."

He brushed the comment aside.  "You didn't know I was going to fall off
my horse.  You needed it for your back."

"Your back?"  asked Connor.  "What's wrong with your back?"

Dancer didn't give Maggie an opportunity to answer.  "It aches her
fierce most days."

"Not fierce," Maggie corrected.  "It just aches."

Connor pointed to the chair opposite him.  "Sit."

"I'm fine."

"Sit."

Shooting Dancer a disgruntled look when he chuckled, Maggie sat.

"There's nothing wrong with my back," she said to Connor.

Connor ignored her and spoke to Dancer instead.  "Has she been working
like a ranch hand all summer?"  he asked.

"More like a field hand," he said.  "She ain't exactly been bustin'
broncs or digging post holes.  Not that I don't think she coulda done
it.  There just ain't no coddlin' her."

Maggie grinned, feeling rather good about Dancer's description.

Her smile faded when she saw Connor's disapproving glance.  "Did you
think I came here to be waited on?"  she asked him.  "Of course I
worked.  I'm not incompetent, incapable, or an invalid."

"Now you got her dander up," Dancer said to Connor.  "And you ain't
even said anything."

"I noticed," Connor said dryly.

Giving them both an impatient look, Maggie left the table and went
outside to the porch.  She sat on the step, leaning one shoulder
against the rough-hewn pine support.  She didn't turn when the door
opened and Connor stepped out.  She felt him just behind her.  He stood
there for a long while before he reached down and touched her
shoulder.

The pressure of his fingers urged her to move down one step.  She did
so without protest and then he was sitting behind her, pulling her
between his splayed legs so her head rested against his chest.

"Better?"  he asked softly.

Surprisingly, it was.  She had thought she wanted to be alone, but she
hadn't, not really.  She didn't think she wanted him so near, but she
had accepted him easily.  "Better," she said.

His fingertips touched the gentle curve of her temple.  He brushed back
a lock of her hair, but once it was out of the way his fingers strayed
back to the spot, stroking her so lightly it was like a breeze against
her skin.  "Dancer says you've learned everything he has to teach you,"
he said.

"He tells me that, too.  I'm not certain I believe him."

Connor heard what she wasn't saying, namely that she wasn't sure she
was ready to leave.  He wasn't going to be drawn into that argument.

He changed the subject instead.  "Have you written your mother?"

Maggie nodded.  "Every day, not that she knows it.  Dancer's only been
to town once since I've been here.  He posted some letters then, but I
have another box full.  Perhaps you could mail them when you go."

"Perhaps I could."

Maggie closed her eyes.  His caress whispered across her cheek.

"I thought a lot about you," he said.  "I didn't think I would, but it
happened anyway.  I wanted you to know that."  The admission was made
reluctantly, as if he was trying to hold back the words and they were
being drawn out by a force more powerful than his will.

"I thought about you, too," she said.

It was the most either one of them was prepared to say.  They fell
silent.  Connor's fingers threaded through her hair.  The back of his
hand brushed the nape of her neck.  His touch raised a tingle across
the surface of her skin.  Maggie turned into him slightly so his
fingers made the same movement again.  He traced the exposed line of
her throat and felt her racing pulse beneath his calloused
fingertips.

He bent his head and touched his lips to the crown of hers.  Her hair
smelled like lavender.  He unwound her braid and released more of the
fragrance.  His hand dropped to her shoulder but the pressure was
light, urging her upward, not holding her down.

When he stood, Maggie came to her feet with him.  He was on the step
above, towering over her, yet she felt no fear, only a sweet yearning
that made her lift her moon-washed face and hold his gaze with her
wide, expressive eyes.

"Come with me, Maggie," he said gently, a shade urgently.

She knew he wasn't talking about tomorrow or forever, he was talking
about what he wanted now.  He was talking about what they both
wanted.

She put her hand in his and let him lead her away from the cabin.

They paused briefly at the stream.  Maggie had waded through it most
every day since she had come to Dancer's.  This time was different.

This time Connor scooped her up and carried her across it and kept on
carrying her, through the curtain of moonlight into the canopy of
pines.

He set her on her feet on a soft bed of fallen needles.  Her arms were
still looped around his neck.  He started to say her name again, this
time in question, but she shook her head slightly and stood on
tiptoe.

Her mouth touched his, answering what he had only asked with his
eyes.

The kiss was sweet and lingering.  Maggie's lips moved over his.

Her tongue traced the line of his upper lip, not seeking entry, merely
tasting.  She felt his hands at the small of her back, holding her to
him, and the way he held her felt like security, not capture.

She kissed the underside of his jaw.  His mouth slid over her temple
and the fragrance of her hair teased him again.  Maggie leaned against
him more heavily when her knees couldn't seem to support her.  He
lowered her to the ground as the kiss between them deepened.  They
knelt at first, too greedy and demanding to break the contact.

Connor's fingers twisted the buttons on Maggie's overblouse and slipped
it over her shoulders.  Her breasts pressed against the thin material
of her camisole.

Maggie broke the kiss and pulled back slightly.  She drew in a shaky
breath as she looked down at herself.  Her uncertain glance was finally
raised in Connor's direction.  He was staring at the shadowed curve of
her breasts and Maggie raised her arms to cover herself.

He stopped her, circling her wrists lightly with his fingers.

"No," he said.  "You're beautiful.  I wish it were the middle of the
afternoon."

Maggie ducked her head, embarrassed.  She watched his hands as they
released her wrists and were raised to the level of her camisole.

His fingers slid along the edge of the material, caressing the high arc
of her breasts.  He twisted a button and the material parted.  He did
it again.  And again.  Her breasts filled his hands.  His thumbs drew
slowly across her nipples.  He heard her tiny gasp.

"Did I hurt you?"  he asked.

Not looking at him, she shook her head.

"Maggie?"

"They're tender," she whispered.

His touch was even lighter this time.  The tip of her breasts stiffened
beneath his thumbs and Maggie's small shudder was one of aching, not
pain.  Connor leaned toward her.  He bent his head and touched his
mouth to her nipple.  Maggie's fingers threaded in his hair, supporting
him even as she held on as she was lowered the rest of the way to the
ground.  The pine needles at her back were an odd sensation, soft yet
abrasive, the very same sensation that Connor's mouth was causing as it
moved over her breast.

His lips slid in the valley between her breasts.  Her racing heart
pulsed against his mouth.  He raised his head and stretched out beside
her, curving one arm under Maggie's neck to cradle her.  He looked at
her for a long moment, his eyes searching her shadowed face, listening
to the sounds of her tremulous breathing.  He lowered his mouth over
hers.  Her lips parted.

Connor's tongue pushed against hers, deepening the kiss as a surge of
carnal hunger swept them both.  His lips pressed.  Hers responded.

They shared the same breath.

His lips touched the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the sensitive skin
just behind her earlobe.  He was drawn again and again back to her
mouth, to lips that were sweet and yielding, to a response that was
eager and searching.  One kiss was not enough.  Each kiss demanded
another.

Connor's mouth touched her closed eyes.  "Look at me, Maggie," he said
hoarsely.

She opened her eyes slowly, shyly.  His breath was warm on her face.

One of his legs was lying over hers and his free hand twisted in her
hair.

"You're not afraid?"  he asked.  He didn't give her time to answer.

"I don't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," she said on a mere thread of sound.  She reached up
to touch his face.  She liked the clean, solid lines of his jaw in the
curve of her palm.  "I want you to know about the first time," she
said.  "There was no force."

He started to open his mouth to speak but she stopped him by placing
her index finger across his lips.  "I was afraid then," she said
quietly.  "Waking up... realizing what I was doing with you...

how much I wanted it .  . . those feelings frightened me .  . but then
. . ."  It was difficult to look at him.  "You didn't force me."

"You remember?"

She said the next words against his mouth.  "I remember that much."

Then she kissed him hungrily.

Their mouths fused with the intense pressure of their need.  This time
it was Maggie who was working the buttons.  She fumbled with the ones
on Connor's vest and shirt and pushed them both off his shoulders.  He
worked them down his arms and flung them to one side.  Maggie caught
the waistband of his jeans as he turned and fumbled with the buttons of
his fly.  She managed three before he placed his hands over hers,
stopping her.

"I want to enjoy this," he said against her mouth.  "If you touch me
now I'll..."  He didn't have to finish.  In spite of her inexperience,
Maggie understood.  Her hands slid slowly up his chest to his
shoulders, rubbing him with the heels of her hands.  "How do you know
so much?"  he asked, nudging her nose with his.

"I read."

He didn't ask her what kind of books, but he bet they were ones she
didn't read where just anyone could catch her.  Connor groaned softly
as her hands slid between them again and his skin retracted at her
touch.  Her mouth followed the path of her hands.  The damp edge of her
tongue made a line down his throat, across his collar bone.  Her teeth
raised his nipples to hard nubs.

They were on their sides again, Maggie's belly pressing against his
hard abdomen.  One of her legs was raised over his as their mouths
worked.  The baby kicked hard enough for Connor to feel it.  He tore
his mouth away from Maggie's.  "My God," he whispered hoarsely, awed
and a little frightened.  She drew his face back to hers.

"It's all right."

"What if I" "You won't."

He kissed her again, this time turning her so she straddled him.

Her breasts spilled toward him.  His hands slipped under her skirt,
along her calves to her hips.  He pulled at her drawers and she helped
him so that while her skirt billowed around her modestly it was her
naked thighs that touched him.  He spread his hands over her hard
belly.  She sighed as he rubbed her stretched and sensitive skin,
desiring in that moment nothing more than to curl against him
contentedly.  Then his hand slipped beneath her parted thighs and he
touched her in another manner, manipulating the delicate bud at the
source of her moist heat.  She sucked in her breath as pleasure seemed
to sear her senses.  The heel of his hand pressed against her.

Deliciously responsive to his touch, she rubbed and rode.  She leaned
forward as his finger probed and penetrated.  First one, then
another.

Maggie closed her eyes, surrendering to sensation.

Her hair slipped forward over her shoulders.  The auburn curtain
surrounded his face.  She was hot against him, moving, shuddering.

Her breath came in short gasps as she sipped the night air.  Then
suddenly she rose up, dislodging his hand, and when he tried tohold her
she avoided his grasp.

"I want more than this," she whispered, her voice husky.  Her hands
slipped to his jeans again, this time reaching under the material.

"No," he said.

She ignored him, releasing his tumescence.

"Maggie."

"Let me."  She had touched him this way before, holding him in her
hand, stroking.  He had made a sound at the back of his throat, the way
he was doing now.  "Come into me," she said.  "just like before."

Connor was no match against her siren's call.  She was innocence
unraveled, and in her feminine heart she was all-desiring.  His hands
curved over her hips, lifting her.  She guided him into her slowly,
drawing out his entrance until he jerked his hips and made her take all
of him.

She cried out, a breathy little sound that Connor didn't mistake for
pain.  His hands moved to her tender breasts, caressing them as she
began to move against him.  She didn't close her eyes this time,
watching his hands instead as they slid across her skin, wishing, as he
did, that more moonlight filtered between the overhanging boughs.

The shadow of his movements and the calloused, slightly abrasive touch
of his fingertips caused ripples of heat to spread through her.

Maggie felt the spiral of mounting pleasure.  Connor's hands slid to
her hips again as his own climax neared, his fingers pressing against
her skin.  She leaned forward, her breath coming in short gasps
again.

He guided her, watching, gauging the rise and intensity of her need,
until he felt himself give way and could only react selfishly, jerking
against her as pleasure spilled out of him, along with his seed.

A moment later, when he touched her intimately, Maggie slipped over the
edge, climaxing hard as joy seemed to shatter her.  She held onto him,
said his name in a ragged, breathy sigh, then collapsed against him.

He turned her so they could stretch out comfortably on the bed of pine
needles, the curve of her buttocks cradled against his groin.

He kissed her neck, nuzzled her.  Maggie pulled at the open throat of
her camisole, trying to cover her breasts.  "No," he said.

"Leave it."  One of his hands cupped the underside of her breast.

"But I have to get back to the cabin."  Her protest wasn't said with
much conviction.  She added rather helplessly, "Dancer's tea."

"There's time," he said.  "We've been gone this long.  He'll
understand."

"He'll know?"  she asked.

Connor smiled.  Their clothes were scattered to kingdom come; what they
still wore was in disarray.  Maggie's lips were swollen from his
kisses, her hair sprinkled with pine needles, and he could still feel
the heat from her flushed body.  "I think he'll know," he said.

"Are you sorry?"

"Not sorry," she said.  "A little embarrassed."  Now that the haze of
desire was fading, Maggie could admit to herself that her embarrassment
ran deep.  "It was like this the first time we were together, wasn't
it?"  Her question wasn't really a question because she felt the answer
in her bones, across the expanse of her skin, as if memory had seeped
to a level below her consciousness.  Connor's nearness, their posture,
was familiar to her.  His hand at her breast was not alarming, but
comforting.

"Very much like this," he said, thinking of the intense desire that had
existed between them.

"If I had been a whore," she said quietly, cautiously, "would you have
come to see me again?"

He hesitated.  The question was much more complicated than she thought
and required something more than a simple yes or no.  His hesitation
cost him a chance to reply.

"I see," she said, starting to rise.

"You're assuming the answer's no," he said.  He reached for her but she
eluded his grasp.  He sat up, righting the fly of his jeans as Maggie
drew her camisole together and began to look around for her
overblouse.

"Yes, I'm assuming that.  Are you telling me I'm wrong?"

"Well then?"  She stood and brushed off her skirt.  The overblouse was
caught in one of the boughs and she yanked it free.

"You're offended," he said.

That gave Maggie pause.  She held the blouse in front of her.

Reason asserted itself slowly.  She sighed and smiled faintly,
derisively, mocking herself.  "I'm sorry.  It was a stupid question.

I shouldn't have asked."

Connor got to his feet and picked up his shirt and vest.  "I wouldn't
have returned because I would have been afraid," he told her.  He
wasn't looking at her but he felt her stillness.  "I was angry that
night restless .  . ."  He remembered his winnings at the poker
table.

"And full of selfish pride.  What I wanted wasn't meant to be
personal.

And I wouldn't have wanted it to be.  I would have stayed away for the
rest of my time in New York."

She opened her mouth to say something but he turned then and looked at
her.  A shaft of moonlight touched his face and his eyes were sharp,
the blackness intense.

"And I would have spent the rest of my life thinking about you."

Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he shrugged into his shirt,
tucking in the tails, then slipped into his vest.  "That's what I would
have done if you'd been a whore," he said.  His voice was harsh as he
began to shrug off his vulnerability.  "I sure as hell wouldn't have
married you."

Maggie flinched a little at his tone.  "You sound as though you still
regret it."

This time his hesitation was purposeful and he didn't bother explaining
it, letting her think what she would.  "Let's go," he said.

She didn't move.  "You got what you wanted out of this marriage," she
reminded him.

"Didn't you?"  he asked.  "You got your escort west.  You've learned
what Dancer could teach you.  Or was there something else you wanted
that I don't know about?"

"Yes," she said, her chin rising slightly.  "But I got that, too."

She began to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her, not
touching her, just blocking her path.  "I wanted a name for my baby."

This time when she moved around him he didn't try to stop her.

Connor followed Maggie to the cabin, but at a slower pace.  By the time
he arrived she was serving Dancer the white willow tea.  The prospector
was pale, sweat beading the unscarred portion of his face.

Maggie's own face was devoid of expression as she pointed to the wash
basin.  She made her wishes known with a brief gesture.

Connor crossed the cabin and wet a cloth, returning to the bed to give
it to her.

"He's fevered," she said.

"Ain't nothin'," Dancer said as she wiped his brow.  "It's got to be
expected with a break like mine."

"I shouldn't have left you," she said.  "It won't happen again."

"Now, girl, don't go sayin' things like that."

"I mean it, Dancer.  I'm not leaving you."  She removed the empty mug
from his hands and placed it on the table.  When Dancer was lying
comfortably again she began to bathe his face.

Connor brought the wash basin to her, then went to the loft and began
arranging the bedclothes.  He called down to Dancer.  "Do you have
extra blankets up here?  Maggie steals the covers."

"In the trunk," Dancer said, grinning lopsidedly at Maggie.

'just throw them down here," she said, glancing toward the loft.

"I'll sleep on the floor."

Connor peered over the edge.  "Like hell," he said pleasantly and
returned to his work.  Opening the trunk, he found a stack of
blankets.

He pulled out two and snapped them over the mattress.

Dancer's bed was nothing more than a straw-filled tick spread out over
the floor, but Connor smoothed it out, tucked in the blankets, and
plumped the goose feather pillows.  It was when he started to shut the
trunk lid that an envelope caught his eye.

He recognized it immediately.  It was addressed to Maggie and her name
was scrawled in his handwriting.  He didn't have to open it to know
what it contained.  Nearly two months ago he'd sent Buck to Dancer's to
deliver the divorce documents for Maggie's signature.

He thought the papers had gone on to Denver by now.

He opened the envelope and pulled out the papers.  There was only one
signature on any of them: his.  He slipped the documents back inside
and put the folded envelope in his rear pocket.  It was something
they'd have to discuss but he doubted she was any more prepared to talk
about it now than he.

Connor leaned over the loft again.  He saw that Dancer was sleeping and
Maggie had moved to the broken rocker.  "Turn back the lamps, Maggie.

It's time to come to bed.  I want to get to the Double H before noon
tomorrow."

"I'm not going to stop you," she said.

"No, but Dancer's going to hold us up a little."

"Us?"

He nodded.  "You and me.  We're leaving in the morning."  He made a
circling motion with his finger.  "All three of us.  And if you want to
discuss it, you'll do it up here.  I'm going to bed."

Chapter 12

Connor held the ladder steady as Maggie climbed to the loft.  He helped
her over the edge.  "You managed that rather gracefully," he said.

"Don't lie.  I'm as big as a cow and twice as clumsy."  She crawled
onto the mattress, dragging her nightshift with her.  "I can't get up
and down that ladder all night long," she told him.  "You'll have to
see to Dancer when he needs more of the tea."

"Precisely what I had in mind.  You need your rest."  He fiddled with
the loft's single oil lamp, adjusting the wick until there was only a
suggestion of a flame.  Darkness gave Maggie the privacy she craved.

"Do you want help with your buttons?"  he asked.

"No," she said shortly.  "You undressed me once tonight.  That was
enough."

"You'll understand if I think otherwise."

She didn't understand.  "I thought you didn't want anything else to do
with me," she said stiffly.

"I never said that."

Maggie started to argue but an abrupt, wide yawn took the wind out of
her sails.

"Bedtime," Connor said, pulling off his shirt.  He turned back the lamp
the rest of the way and crawled onto the mattress.  The straw
crackled.

Maggie finished putting on her nightshift and followed him.

She turned on her side, drawing her legs upward in a position that was
comfortable for her in her pregnant state.  When Connor curled against
her, fitting his contours to hers, she didn't push him away.

His chest and legs were actually a welcome support against her back and
thighs.

"The tea has already been separated into doses," she told him, stifling
another yawn.  "You can give it to Dancer cold every four hours.  It's
on the table beside him."

"I'll take care of it."

"Don't break your leg going up and down the ladder."

He chuckled, his breath ruffling her hair.  "You sure are bossy."

He made the point with a certain amount of affection.

"I'm not going anywhere with you in the morning."

This time he didn't respond.  He slipped his arm around her and closed
his eyes.  He felt her stiffen, then relax.  In minutes they were both
racing toward pleasant dreams.

By noon the following day Maggie found herself on a horse headed in the
direction of the Double H. She hardly knew how it had come to pass.

The best explanation she could have offered was that Connor Holiday
simply didn't take no for an answer.  Throughout the morning he had
chosen to ignore her rather than discuss it.  He simply began packing
supplies and clothing on Dancer's mule and their mounts.  Since they
had no wagon for Dancer, he built a travois and hitched it to the
prospector's horse.  Dancer, confined to the bed, kept asking Maggie to
fetch his shotgun so he could kill the bastard.

She noticed Connor had the good sense to watch her out of the corner of
his eye as if she could be tempted to do it.  There were moments when
she thought it would have served him right.

She supposed she could have dug in her heels and absolutely refused to
leave but Connor's high-handed tactics made it unwise.

After he had everything packed, he picked Dancer up and carried him to
the travois.  Maggie, if she was really going to take care of the
prospector until his leg mended, had little choice but to follow.

Her herbs and medicines might have been another sticking point, but
Connor had carefully packed all of the jars and bottles she had
collected and prepared with Dancer's help.  He had even gone to the
garden to take fresh plants.  Connor promised to send one of his hands
the following day for the items they couldn't take with them.

Maggie noticed that he had everything very well planned, a fact she
mentioned several times.  Connor was right to note that her observation
was more suspicious than complimentary.  He merely responded with an
enigmatic smile that suited his dark and distant expression.

They followed the stream north, veering left each time it forked.

Connor stopped frequently, as much for Maggie's comfort as Dancer's,
and he kept the pace slow.  Though he had said he wanted to reach the
Double H by noon, Maggie realized he had only used that to move them
along.  Except for the acknowledgement that she and Dancer needed to
rest, Maggie thought her husband approached their journey with the same
single-mindedness he might have had for a cattle drive.

It was the middle of the afternoon by the time they arrived at the
threshold of the valley.  Connor held his horse and let Maggie draw up
to his side.  He said nothing.  His ranch would rise or fall in her
estimation on its own merit.

Maggie had no expectations concerning the Double H. She had never
thought she would see it and, in truth, had avoided thinking about
it.

Now, standing at the gateway to the valley, she understood that
anything she could have imagined would not have been grand enough for
what confronted her.  It quite simply took her breath away.

The colors of the earth were rich, the colors of the sky, bright.

Hues of green defined as emerald, jade, and pine shifted and blended
when the wind chased a shadow across the hillside.  Blue and white were
the only colors in the sky.  There was no hint of gray at the edge of
the puffed clouds or on the horizon.  In the distance, peaks rose
sharply, their white caps glinting in the sunshine.  Where the stream
widened and water rushed over stones and fallen logs, diamond droplets
sprayed in all directions.

The ranch house spread out over the land as if it were part of the
land.  It didn't rise up with the majesty of the surrounding mountains,
but held to the earth with its stone foundation and pine walls.

Cattle and horses ignored the boundaries of the corral and were
scattered throughout the valley.  A rider moving along the western rim
saw them and waved.  Connor raised his hand in acknowledgement.

"That's Luke," he told Maggie.

She barely heard him.  "It's nothing like Dancer's place," she said,
her voice awed.

Connor smiled, but it was Dancer himself who answered.  "Hell, girl,
Connor's privy is bigger than my cabin."

It was an exaggeration, but from what Maggie could see, not much of
one.  "Is all this yours?"  she asked Connor.

"It is now," he said, pride and satisfaction mingling in his tone.

"My grandfather came out here when Pike was exploring the Louisiana
Purchase in '06.  He was the youngest man on the expedition.

He broke away to marry one of the Indian guides and against everyone's
advice, decided to make this his home.  Most of what he learned about
ranching my grandmother taught him.  They captured wild horses in the
canyons to begin their stud.  They farmed for their daily existence and
traded with the Indians for supplies.  There was no market for what
they were doing.  He did it because there was pleasure in it, he said,
and he suspected that some day the rest of civilization would find him
again, and then he'd be ready."

Connor's hand swept the valley.  "He was still out here forty years
later when Fremont came through to map the territory.  My grandmother
was dead by then but he had three sons and a daughter to help him run
the ranch."

Maggie was doing some mental calculations.  "Your father was part of
Fremont's group, wasn't he?"

Connor nodded.  "My uncles took off when the Fremont expedition moved
on, but Rushton stayed behind.  He married my mother the same year and
I was born a few years after that."

"Just about the time gold was discovered in California."

"That's right."  His smile changed to a grin.  "Civilization didn't
exactly catch up with Old Sam Hart then, but it sure did move through
here.  This land has one of the best passes through the Park Range."

"Which is why Rennie was interested in it for Northeast Rail."

Dancer snorted, drawing attention to himself on the travois.

"Y'all got the rest of your life to jaw about family history.  As for
me, damned if I ain't tired bein' dragged behind a bad-mannered horse
what swats me with his tail every twenty feet.  Can't even see what
you're talkin' about, only see where we been.  Ain't the same thing,"
he grumbled.  "Ain't the same thing at all."

"I guess we should be moving along," Connor said, winking at Maggie.

He saw that she was trying to hide a smile behind her hand.

He thought it was a good sign that they were starting their trek across
Holiday land sharing something like laughter.

By the time they reached the ranch house Luke had left the ridge to
join the other hands in greeting them.  Connor helped Maggie down from
her horse and made the introductions.  He noticed all the men
studiously avoided looking at his wife's swollen abdomen as if they
thought he still hadn't accepted the idea of fatherhood.

Maggie leaned on Connor for support as he led her up the porch steps
and into the house.  In spite of the frequent stops, her legs weren't
too steady on solid ground.  Just inside the door, Connor actually
picked her up.  "But I want to look around," she protested.

Behind her she could hear Dancer grumbling more loudly as Ben and Buck
tried to help him off the travois.

"You can look around," Connor said, "but you'll do it like this."

"If you're going to order me around, we're not going to get along."

"I'll risk it," he said dryly.

Maggie noticed he was smirking.  The half-grin transformed his face,
making him seem more mischievous than dangerous, and on top of that,
more handsome than he had any right to be.  She simply stared at him.

"Something wrong?"  he asked.

She blinked.  "No," she said rather breathily.  "Lead on."

His grin deepened.  "All right.  Through here is the parlor."  He
stepped through a wide archway leading from the hall.  Fringed area
rugs were scattered on the hardwood floor.  The furniture was pine,
plain and serviceable, but crafted by skilled hands.  Overstuffed
cushions, covered in fabrics woven in the same colors as the valley,
were placed on the furniture frames to make comfortable seats.  The
fireplace had a thick wooden mantel set into the stone and there were
photographs in handmade frames crowding the surface.

Connor stepped out of the room and crossed the hallway.  "This is my
study," he said.  He turned slowly so she could see the built-in
shelves lined with leather bound books.  "In my grandfather's day this
was a bedroom and the parlor was a kitchen.  Even when my mother was a
little girl there weren't enough books west of the Mississippi to fill
shelves like these.  Most of them began arriving after the gold rush.

Travelers would leave one or two as payment for a night's lodging on
our land.  Later, after my father took off for New York, he'd send a
crate of books for Christmas or my birthday.  When Old Sam was alive we
kept them in the attic because he didn't like much of anything Rushton
did.  I converted this bedroom into a study after my grandfather
died."

He drew back out of the room and continued down the hall, showing her
the bedroom that Dancer would use, the dining room, kitchen, and at the
rear of the house, the large bedroom where Connor slept.  "This used to
be several small bedrooms but I didn't need them all so Ben helped me
take out the walls."

Maggie wished he had left them up.  "I didn't expect your house would
be so large."

"This ranch house has been changing since my grandfather settled here
and laid the first stones.  Every few years something gets added or
altered."  Connor carried Maggie over to the large bed and set her on
the colorful quilt.  "Old Sam used to say his wanderlust vanished the
moment he saw this valley.  He planted himself here and never thought
about living anywhere else."  He sat on the edge of the bed and took
Maggie's straw hat from her hands, placing it on a chair.

"Is there anything I can get you?"

She shook her head.  "I'm fine."

"Then I'm going to help unload our bags while you nap."

"I'm not tired," she said.

"Liar.  You were practically asleep in the saddle."  He reached for the
light cotton blanket folded at the foot of the bed.  "Lie down and I'll
put this over you."

She did as he suggested, thinking she was entirely too compliant.

She supposed it was because she was tired.  "We still have a lot to
talk about, Connor."

"But we don't have to do it right now."  After he covered her, he
leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

"And you're entirely too familiar."

This time he placed his palm over her abdomen and patted lightly.

"I'm your husband."

"That's one of the things we have to talk about."

It seemed to Connor that it was as good a time to leave as any.

"I'll wake you for dinner," he said and got out of the room before
Maggie could object.

As it happened Maggie was up in time to prepare dinner.  No one
suggested that she do it; in fact, the kitchen was empty when she
started, but no one asked her to stop.  Connor, when he first came upon
her, looked as if he might tell her to go back to resting, then he
lifted the lid to the stew pot, sniffed, and seemed to think better of
it.  Maggie noticed that soon after Connor left the kitchen there was a
veritable parade of ranch hands through the back door.

They came on different pretexts.  Ben showed her a burn on his finger
from a shower of sparks in the forge.  Patrick limped in to sit at the
kitchen table while he shook a few stones loose from his boot.

Buck said he was looking for the hat he'd left behind when he helped
bring in Dancer's belongings.  Luke asked for a drink of water from the
pump.

Maggie saw to each of their needs, enjoying the brief chance for
conversation.  She also noticed, however, that to a man they sidled up
to the stove and lingered next to the stew pot, taking in the aroma of
carrots, onions, potatoes, and meat simmering in its own juices.

Luke stayed long enough to help her cut out the biscuits and get the
oven ready.

When the kitchen got too warm for comfort, Maggie joined Dancer on the
front porch.  Connor had taken a cot outside and let the prospector
stretch out on it.  It was, in Dancer's words, better than bein' cooped
up like some damn chicken.

"Is there anything I can get you?"  she asked before she sat down.

Dancer merely pointed to the porch step and gave her a firm look.

She sat.  Her eyes were drawn to the corral where Connor was leaning
against the top rail talking to Buck and Patrick.  A stallion the color
of smoke was pacing off the length of the corral, shooting nervous
glances in the direction of the men.  "What are they doing?"  she
asked.

"Decidin' whose turn it is to take a fall," said Dancer, chuckling.

"Buck's gone down twice and Patrick just kissed the dirt for the third
time.  Can't say when I've had a better time doin' nothin' but watchin'
a couple of fools try to outsmart an ornery animal."

"If they're smart they'll get Connor to take a turn," she said dryly.

Dancer's gleeful, high-pitched laughter gave the horse a start and the
three men glanced in the direction of the porch.  "You'd like that,
wouldn't you," he asked, slapping his good leg.

Smiling, Maggie waved at the men and said through her teeth, "I'd very
much like to see Connor Holiday take a good swift kick in the-" "Looks
like you'll get the chance," Dancer said gleefully.  "There he goes
now.

Maggie's smile vanished.  She sat up straighter, perching on the edge
of the step as Connor approached the stallion.  She could see that he
was talking to the horse but couldn't hear what he was saying.

Not that it mattered, she thought, because she knew Connor's tone

was more important than his actual words.  It was easy to imagine the
gentle, calming cadence of his voice.  She knew first hand how soothing
it could be.  It was a little galling to realize he probably practiced
that whiskey-soft cadence breaking mares.  It was something to remember
the next time she heard those same tones being whispered near her
ear.

"I hope that horse pitches him over the fence," she told Dancer.

He chuckled at her lie-even in profile he could see the anxiety in
Maggie's face.

Maggie watched as Buck helped steady the skittish animal while Connor
mounted.  The ranch hand managed to clear a safe distance before the
stallion tried to unseat its rider.  Connor used only one hand to hold
on, balancing himself with the other.  His body met the rise and fall
of the horse's frantic attempts to throw him.

Buck and Patrick yelled encouragement.  Dancer whooped his enjoyment.

Maggie simply held her breath.

The stallion snorted and bucked, kicking up dust and clumps of dirt.

Connor's hat fell on the ground and was trampled.  Buck and Patrick
vaulted the corral as the horse charged the fence then ran the
perimeter of the rails.  Connor swayed in the saddle, bounced and
jolted by the stallion's arching, but managed to stay in his seat.

"Damn me if his teeth ain't rattled," Dancer said.

Maggie came to her feet as Connor was dipped dangerously to one side.

He righted himself momentarily, took the next attempt to throw him
nearly standing in the stirrups, then was pitched head over heels as
the stallion abruptly ground to a halt.  Maggie was already running in
the direction of the corral as Connor made his ignominious somersault
from the saddle.  Patrick opened the gate for her.

Maggie dropped to her knees beside Connor as he was trying to pick
himself up.  "Don't you dare move," she said, placing her hand at the
center of his back.

Groaning, Connor obligingly collapsed again.  He felt her hands moving
along his shoulders and arms, at the back of his neck, then along his
legs.  He knew nothing was broken but he let Maggie discover that for
herself.  Connor tucked one gloved hand under his cheek and stole a
glance in Maggie's direction.  She was worrying her lower lip, her face
pale.  Connor realized she wasn't merely concerned, she was scared.

"I'm probably going to live," he told her, trying to inject a note of
humor.

Maggie sat back on her haunches and glared at him.  "No, you're not,"
she said stiffly.  "I'm going to kill you."  Behind her, one of the
hands snickered.  She ignored him, getting to her feet.  She brushed
herself off, turned her back on Connor, and marched off in the
direction of the house.

Watching her go, Connor sat up slowly.  He took the trampled hat that
Buck handed him and beat it against his thigh, shaking off the dust and
making a half-hearted attempt at reshaping it.

"Whooo-eee," Buck said under his breath.  "Look at her go.  She sure is
mad at you."

Connor didn't look at all bothered.  He was actually grinning.  "I
know."

"You had your face in the sod that time," Patrick said.

The stallion had ambled to the far corner of the corral.  Connor's
glance was a mixture of gratefulness and respect.  He got up, shook
himself out, and dared a quick look toward the house.  The screen door
was swinging closed behind Maggie.  "This time I think it was worth
it," he said.  In a sweeping motion he placed his hat back on his head
and jerked his thumb toward the stallion.  "Your turn."

Patrick rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, frowning.  "Bet she
doesn't come runnin' to check my bones," he grumbled.

Buck laughed but Connor said seriously, "You better hope she
doesn't."

Patrick shook his head and walked off in the direction of the stallion,
muttering, "Hard to tell which one of them has it worst."

Maggie was subdued at dinner.  The conversation went on around her and
she only listened with half an ear as Buck and Patrick regaled everyone
with a recounting of Connor's fall and Patrick's subsequent success
with the stallion.  She was complimented several times on her stew and
biscuits and she accepted the accolades rather absent-mindedly, her
thoughts clearly elsewhere.

When the men pushed their chairs away from the table and stretched,
Maggie began to clear.

"Luke and Buck will do it," Connor said, stopping her by placing a hand
lightly on her wrist.

"I don't mind," she said.

He shook his head.  "It's their turn."

Luke was already on his feet, pulling Buck up with him.  "Connor's
right.  It's our turn."

Maggie looked at the two men skeptically.  Buck didn't seem to know
anything about it being his turn.  His sudden enthusiasm appeared to
have something to do with Luke's elbow in his ribs.

Maggie surprised herself by not calling attention to that fact.

"Excuse me, then," she said quietly.  Connor's hand slipped from her
wrist and Maggie left the kitchen.

She settled in Connor's study.  The clatter and laughter from the
kitchen was subdued as she closed the door, ceasing to exist once she
was alone with her thoughts.

It occurred to her that she could love him.  The thought both thrilled
and frightened her and turned her stomach inside out.  She felt weak
and trembly and mocked herself for both.  She told herself to be
sensible, that she had no real understanding of her own feelings and
could not hope to know Connor's.  There was no indication that he
returned any finer feeling at all and, Maggie realized with sudden
insight, it probably didn't matter.  Whatever she felt, Maggie knew it
wasn't conditional, dependent upon what he thought about her or what
feelings he might have for her.

Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw a movement on the porch.  She
looked up from the unopened book in her lap and watched Connor cut
across the front yard and head toward the stable.  She set aside her
book and went to the window.  After a few minutes she saw him leave on
his horse and suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt a wave of incredible
loneliness.

Maggie laid her hand on her abdomen, smoothing her smock over the curve
of her belly.  She stroked absently, watching Connor ride across the
valley until he disappeared into the forest of pines, turning away long
after she lost sight of him.

Night had fallen by the time Connor returned.  The hands had gone to
the bunk house and Dancer had retired to his room.  Maggie was in the
kitchen heating water at the stove.  A copper-lined hip bath had been
pulled close to the pump but in spite of its nearness to the source,
and in spite of Maggie's caution, puddles of water dotted the floor.

Connor was too surprised to say anything immediately.  Then he was too
intrigued.  He stood in the doorway and watched, waiting for Maggie to
notice him.  Steam from the boiling water had flushed her face and
created a rosy sheen across her cheeks and brow.  Tendrils of hair
curled damply at the nape of her neck and her temples.  Her skin was
glowing.  She was humming softly to herself, a lullaby, he thought, and
her mouth was curved in a tender smile.  He wondered if she was
thinking about the baby, then decided she couldn't be.

She wouldn't have been prepared to lift another kettle filled with hot
water if that were the case.

Maggie wrapped a towel around the handle of the kettle and got ready to
swing it toward the hip bath.

"Don't you dare," Connor said.

Maggie nearly scalded herself as she dropped the towel and bumped the
stove with her hip.  She placed the back of one hand against her
forehead and offered Connor a faint smile.  "You scared me," she
said.

"I saw you headed this way but I didn't hear you come in.

"What do you think you're doing?"  he asked.

Maggie's smile faltered, reflecting her embarrassment.  "I thought it
was obvious.  I'm preparing a bath."

"That much is obvious," he said dryly.  "What I want to know is why
you're doing it alone."

"Then that's what you should have asked," she said primly.  She picked
up the towel and wrapped it around the handle again.  Before she could
lift the kettle Connor was beside her and taking it from her hands.

"For God's sake, let me do that.  You'll hurt yourself."  He poured the
water in the bath.  "You should be more careful with the baby."

Maggie was tempted to drown him.  Instead she took the empty kettle and
placed it in the sink.  "I'm fine," she said, rounding on him, hands on
her hips.  "And the baby's fine.  A little hard work hasn't hurt either
one of us."  She brushed past him.  "I'm going to bed."

"What about your bath?"  he asked.

'My bath?"  she asked, pausing in the doorway.  "I drew that for you.

Connor recognized a parting shot when he heard one.  He didn't attempt
to call her back or follow her.  He was managing, with disturbing
frequency, to rile Maggie.  It was not entirely intended.

Shaking his head ruefully, Connor stripped off his clothes and tossed
them on the floor.  He sank into the tub slowly, drawing his knees
toward his chest.  Water lapped against the sides.  He scooped a few
handfuls of hot water and sluiced his shoulders, then he dipped his
head in the water, thoroughly wetting his dark hair and shook off the
excess with the natural abandon of a soaked puppy.

From the doorway, Maggie laughed.

"I thought you were going to bed," Connor said, looking up in
surprise.

He raked his wet hair with his fingers and gave her a sheepish grin.

"I was, then I remembered you didn't have any towels."  She placed two
on the table where Connor could reach them and started to go.  She
stopped when she felt Connor grab a handful of her dress and tug.

Maggie looked over her shoulder.  "Yes?"

"Are you still mad at me?"  he asked.

"Irritated," she said.  "Annoyed.  Frustrated."

"But mad?"  His tone was hopeful.

"No," she said after a moment, sighing slightly.  "Not mad."  As far as
Maggie was concerned it wasn't a good sign.  In the space of a single
evening, indeed, in the span of a few hours, she had gone from
concluding that she could love him, to the realization that she
probably did love him.

Connor's fist opened.  He dropped the skirt of Maggie's gown.  "I don't
suppose you might consider scrubbing my back?"

"I might," she said, "if you don't think it will hurt the baby."

Connor winced, understanding at last what he'd done to arch her back.

"I'm sorry," he offered belatedly.

Maggie shrugged.  She knelt beside the tub and took the brush and soap
he handed her.

"I really am sorry," he repeated.

She began to lather his back as he leaned forward.  "I wouldn't do
anything to harm my baby," she said softly.  "I didn't think I would
have to say that to you.  I thought you would know that now."

"I'm not used to it yet," he said.  "The idea of you having this baby,
it's still new to me.  You've had a lot of time to become accustomed to
it.  I've only known since yesterday."

Perhaps it was asking a lot, she thought, for Connor to accept that she
meant to be a mother, that she had always meant to be one.  She had
done quite a bit to make him think differently and she quietly admitted
as much to him.

"Why?"  he asked.

Maggie's scrubbing slowed.  "I didn't know you," she said.  "And I
didn't know what you would do.  You may have wanted to marry me for all
the wrong reasons.

Turning his head a little, Connor gave Maggie a dry, skeptical look.

"Do you think we married for all the right ones?"

She tapped him lightly on the back with the scrub brush, just hard
enough to let him know what she thought of his comment.  "You know what
I mean," she said.  "The marriage would have been because of the baby
and there would have been no agreement to end it."  She didn't mention
that he hadn't sent the divorce papers to her.

He didn't mention that she hadn't signed the papers he'd sent.

Maggie began scrubbing again.  "You were right when you called me
selfish," she said.  "I didn't want anyone to stand in the way of me
becoming a doctor.  That included my family and my baby and, most
especially, you."

"And now?"

It was a moment before she answered.  "Now I'm here.  I still don't
know what it means."

Connor reached behind him and took the brush from her hands.

He twisted in the tub so he could see her better.  "What do you want it
to mean?"

Show some courage, she told herself.  Tell him that you're thinking you
might want to be his wife, that your insides are all fluttery with the
possibility of loving him.  Maggie's eyes dropped away from his and she
shrugged.  She called herself a coward.

Connor let the silence stretch between them.  Finally he said, "It's
all right, Maggie.  I don't know what it should mean either."

Not sparing him a glance, she nodded.

He touched the back of her hand which was resting on the tub rim.

"Go on to bed," he said.  "I'll only be a few minutes."

Maggie felt awkward as she got to her feet.  She dropped the soap back
in the water.

"Thank you for the bath," he said as she turned to go.

"I thought you might be sore from your fall."

"I was."

She hesitated.  "I made a liniment."  She pointed to a brown bottle on
the table.  "I gave some to Buck and Patrick but I saved enough for
you.  It would be better if you put it on while you're still warm from
your bath."

"Thank you.  I will."  He watched her go, then leaned back in the tub,
stretching as much as he was able.  For a moment, he thought, Maggie
looked as if she might offer to put the liniment on him herself.

Connor closed his eyes, smiling.  It was a notion worth pursuing.

Once she was in the bedroom, Maggie quickly changed into her
nightshift.  She turned back the bedside oil lamp until only a flicker
remained, then climbed in bed and pulled the quilt and comforter up to
her neck.

"I know you're not asleep," Connor said as he came into the room.  He
was carrying the liniment and had one towel hitched around his waist.

The other was rolled and hanging from his neck to catch water dripping
from his hair.  When Maggie didn't open her eyes he approached the bed
more quietly.  She didn't stir.

"Maggie?"  he inquired softly.  There was no response.  "I'll be
damned."  She really had fallen asleep.

His smile rueful, Connor sat on the edge of the bed and uncorked the
bottle of liniment.  Expecting an odor strong enough to make him
flinch, he was pleasantly surprised by Maggie's concoction.  He rubbed
it on his arms and shoulders, then his legs.  It burned pleasantly into
his skin.  He rubbed a little into the back of his neck, taking his
time in the hopes that Maggie would wake and offer to help.

Thinking about her hands on his naked flesh made it a difficult idea to
abandon.  He kept glancing over his shoulder to see if he could catch
her playing possum.

Sighing, Connor stoppered the bottle and set it aside.  He dried his
hair more thoroughly, then lifted the covers and slid into bed beside
Maggie.  Yanking at the towel around his waist, he pitched it in the
direction of a chair, then extinguished the oil lamp.  Connor gave
Maggie a small nudge and she obligingly turned in her sleep, presenting
him with her back.  He curved his body against hers, spoon fashion, and
groaned softly as she snuggled into him.

He fell asleep even while he was thinking it was going to be a long,
torturous night.

In the course of any given day over the next four weeks, Maggie found
herself watching Connor.  Her eyes welcomed him as he approached the
house at meal times and followed him when he left to do chores.  She
was discovering that she liked the way he walked, liked the confidence
in his long-legged stride and the manner in which he sprinted up the
porch steps to be the first one in the door for dinner.

He was a leaner, too, she noticed.  He leaned against the corral rails,
as if he were indifferent to what was going on.  He leaned in doorways,
the whip-cord, muscular strength of him postured casually in a frame of
light.  He leaned against the kitchen table, one hip resting on the
edge, his legs stretched out before him, while he nursed the last mug
of coffee after breakfast.  At night, when everyone had gathered on the
front porch to trade stories or listen to Ben play his harmonica,
Connor leaned against the rough-hewn supporting columns and tapped his
foot lightly against the floor.

Maggie liked to watch him ride.  Sometimes she would walk outside for
no other reason than to catch a glimpse of Connor and Tempest weaving
in and out of the trees on the mountainside.

Sometimes horse and rider would tear across the valley with the wild
unpredictability of the wind itself, Connor bending forward in the
saddle, urging Tempest on, man and animal becoming a singular blur in
the sunlight or as dusk fell.

He was a hard worker.  Most mornings he was the first one up and often
the last one in bed.  He inspected the fences, counted the herd,
rescued trapped cows, pitched hay, tended the late fall garden, and
mucked out the stalls.  There was nothing his hired hands did that he
wasn't willing to do beside them.  He had responsibility for everyone
and everything and he took it all seriously, going over the accounts,
seeing to the safety of his men, planning improvements for the ranch.

She learned he liked the smell of bacon frying but rarely ate more than
a single strip, but he could put away half a dozen pancakes before the
coffee was brewed.  He liked his potatoes mashed, strawberry jam on his
bread, and roast beef well done.  He could eat two apple dumplings but
passed on rhubarb pie.  He seldom added salt at the table but Maggie
could barely keep enough pepper ground to suit him.

At night he slept beside her, their bodies touching but never joined.

Sometimes she'd wake in the middle of the night and discover he was
gone.  She would find him in the study, reading.  He always invited her
to join him but she never did, respecting the peace he had been
searching for.

His dark eyes, when they rested on her, were no longer entirely remote
or completely unreadable.  She began to know the flicker that signaled
amusement, the warmth that meant humor.  She knew when he was
suspicious, when he was worried, and when he had his temper on a short
leash.  She loved to hear him laugh.

And she wished he would kiss her.

Maggie was sitting at the table, arms raised and elbows on the edge,
supporting her chin on the back of her hands.  Flour dotted her fingers
and cheeks and dusted her hair where she had pushed it back at the
temples.  The pie crust in the pan in front of her was fluted on only
one side, forgotten as she stared off into space.

She didn't so much as blink as the back door opened and closed and
Connor stepped into the kitchen.

"Maggie?"

At the sound of her name, her elbows slipped off the table's edge, her
head jerked, and her chin fell.  Her cheeks filled with color at having
been caught daydreaming.  The deeper hue was the result of what she had
been dreaming.  "I wish you wouldn't sneak up on me, Connor."

His eyes widened a bit and one side of his mouth rose in a quirky
grin.

"I said your name three times."

"Oh," she said, deflated.  "Well, what did you want?"

"Luke says there's a storm heading this way.  He's not usually wrong
about these things."

Maggie nodded.  She appreciated the warning though she wished she'd
been able to keep her fear of thunderstorms a secret.  "I'll be fine,"
she said.  "You can go back to whatever you were doing."

When he didn't move, she asked, "Is there something else?  Are you
afraid the stream's going to flood?"

Connor rested one hip on the edge of the table and brushed a dusting of
flour from Maggie's hair with his fingertips.  "It's not that kind of
storm," he said.  "Snow's coming.  Lots of it, according to Luke."

"Lots of it?"  she asked hopefully.  "You mean three or four inches?"

He found her eagerness amusing and naive.  "I mean three or four
feet."

Maggie's brows came together as her eyes darted to the window.

The sky was solidly gray and the wind was picking up.  She had been so
wrapped in her own thoughts that she hadn't even noticed the change.

"Feet?"

He laughed.  "Yes," he said, tapping the end of her nose.  "The miracle
is that it's waited this long.  Or did you think we were pulling your
leg about winter starting in October?"

Since she'd been at the ranch for nearly a month and since the only
snow she'd seen had been on the mountain peaks, Maggie had thought
exactly that.  "Tomorrow's November first," she said.

Connor pretended to wipe his brow.  "Thank God we beat the deadline
then."  He had expected Maggie to smile.  When she didn't, and
continued to stare gravely out the window, he asked, "What's wrong?  I
can almost guarantee there won't be any thunder or lightning."

She tore her eyes away from the gathering clouds.  "It isn't that," she
said, shaking her head.  "I supposed I've just finally realized that
I'm going to have my baby here.  Dancer's hobbling around so well these
days that I thought we might leave soon."

"Leave?"  Connor had straightened a little at Maggie's reference to the
baby as hers, but her next sentence made him stiffen.  "What are you
talking about?  Where did you get the idea that I'd let you leave?"

She started at that, her eyes glittering.  "Where did you get the idea
that you could stop me?"

The combatants were squared off as Dancer limped into the kitchen on
his single crutch.  "Never mind me," he said, "I can see there's a
storm brewin' here, too."  He turned to go back to the parlor.

"Don't go," Connor said.  "I have to head back outside and help round
up the cattle."  He gave Maggie a significant look.  "Our discussion
isn't over."

* * * Snow started falling just before noon.  It came down in small,
stinging flakes that swirled across the valley in powerful eddies and
obscured the view of the corral from the house.  After only two hours
pm there were four inches on the ground and drifts that rose sharply
toward the porch.  Dancer watched the storm's raging from the parlor
window.  Maggie paced the length of the house from the kitchen to the
front door, peeking out the windows in the bedrooms and study.

Luke and Ben were the first to return from securing strays in the
northern end of the property.  They were cold and wet with snow, their
eyebrows and lashes white enough to make them look like old men, but
they only stayed inside long enough to warm their hands around a mug of
coffee.  They ran rope lines from the ranch house to the bunk house and
from there to the privy to keep anyone from straying too far.  They
equipped the stable and smoke house with a similar lifeline.

Buck and Patrick stumbled in later, clumps of snow dropping from their
boots and pantlegs as they stomped around the kitchen trying to get
warm.  A snow drift had already reached the kitchen windowsill and they
took turns sweeping off the porches and steps for Maggie's benefit.

Connor was the last to arrive at the house, only a short time before
dinner and only minutes before Luke and Buck were preparing to leave in
search of him.  He brushed snow from the shoulders of his coat before
he shrugged out of it.  "Everyone in?"  he asked Luke.

"You're the last," Luke said, taking off his own coat and hanging it on
a peg beside Connor's.  "We were getting worried."

Connor's eyes immediately searched out Maggie.  She was taking a pie
out of the oven.  If Luke was including her among the worried, he had
clearly mistaken the situation.  "Tempest and I ran into a wolf pack,"
he said, taking off his hat.  "They followed us for a while, trying to
get at the stragglers I was bringing in."

Maggie set the apple pie on the window sill to cool.  "Ben, would you
stir the bean soup?"  she asked.  "I'm going to lie down."  She left
the kitchen before anyone could ask about her health.

In her bedroom Maggie took off her shoes and curled in the middle of
the bed.  When Connor tiptoed in almost an hour later she was still
lying in the same position, dry-eyed and wakeful, hugging a pillow to
her middle.

Connor put his boots down inside the door and padded over to the bed.

"Ben wants you to know that dinner's ready," he said.  "He's pretty
proud he didn't burn your soup.

"Tell everyone to go ahead without me," she said dully.  "I'm not very
hungry."

His eyes drifted over her, searching for the cause of her
listlessness.

"All right," he said finally.  He left the room, ate his dinner in
silence, and managed to make everyone feel unwelcome at the table.  The
hired hands retreated to the bunkhouse and Dancer cleared the dishes.

Connor pushed away from the table sharply, his favorite dessert largely
uneaten.  "I'm going to have it out with Maggie," he said.

Dancer shrugged.  "Ain't none of my business."

"In case it gets loud, see that it stays that way."  He couldn't prove
it but he thought the prospector was grinning.

Maggie was sitting up when Connor returned to the bedroom.

The pillow she'd been hugging was now supporting the small of her
back.

She looked quite regal sitting in the center of the bed, her chin
thrust forward, her dark red hair coiled smoothly at the back of her
head.  "You'd better shut the door," she said coolly.  "I don't want
the others to hear us."

At first Connor thought she had overheard his comment to Dancer about
having it out, then he realized that she had come to the same decision
independently.  "Dancer's cleaning up in the kitchen," he said.  "He
can't hear us.  The others all went back to the bunk house."  He pushed
the room's sole chair closer to the bed and sat down, propping his feet
on the iron rail frame.  "Do you want to start?"  he asked.  "Or shall
I?"

She lost her confidence momentarily.  "You have something to say?"

He nodded.  The change in Maggie's expression let him know that she had
been preparing her speech while he was eating dinner.

"quite a few things, actually, but you go ahead.  I think you've given
it more thought and there's no telling what I'm liable to blurt out."

"Very well, then," she said, feigning composure if not precisely
recovering it.  "I think we should make some different arrangements in
our living situation.  I'm not prepared to share this bed or this
bedroom another night, and since I can't live in the bunk house with
the others, and neither of us wants to put Dancer out of his bed, then
you'll have to go.

"I see," he said slowly.  "And this new arrangement would be because
.

. ."  He let his voice trail off as he lifted one dark eyebrow in
question.  When she didn't answer, but only looked away, he asked,
"Because of the baby?"

Her head jerked around and she looked at him sharply.  "The baby?  Why
do you think everything has to do with the baby?"

He opened his mouth to answer but she cut him off.

"You don't see me at all anymore, do you?  Just me."  She pointed to
herself.  "Separate from this baby.  You're afraid if I work too hard
or walk too far or sleep too much or sleep too little, I'll hurt the
baby.

It's never just about me."  Tears sparkled in her eyes and she brushed
them away impatiently, angry with herself for not being able to keep
them back.  "I am selfish," she said, swallowing a sob.  "Sometimes
"Sometimes I want it to be just about me."

"It's always about you," he said quietly.

Not certain she had heard him right, she stilled in the middle of
wiping away her tears.  "What?"

"It's always about you," he repeated.  "I just didn't know any other
way to say it."  He dropped his feet off the iron bed rails and leaned
forward in his chair.  "Do you really think I don't see you except for
the child you're carrying?"  He shook his head, not really believing
it.  "I watch you all the time.  I know how many brush strokes you give
your hair at night.  I know that when you're thinking or anxious or
uncertain, you pull in your lower lip and worry it between your
teeth.

I see the smile you have for Luke in the morning when you serve up his
eggs and the patience you have for Dancer when he's being clumsy on his
crutch.  You're gentle with Buck when he's not quick to get the joke.

"Sometimes I just like to watch your hands when you're talking," he
said, smiling faintly.  In his mind's eye he could see the graceful
turn of her palm as she gestured.  "Sometimes I just like to listen to
your voice."  He shrugged.  "I know the arch of your brow, the way your
chin comes up when you're angry, and the set of your jaw when you're
determined.  I know every curve of your body and I remember the ones
that were there before this baby.  Whatever you think, it's not true
that I don't notice you."

The words spilled out of her before she knew she was going to say
them.

"But you don't want me anymore."

Connor's eyes narrowed a fraction.  "Where do you get that idea?"

His voice was husky.  "Every night since I brought you to this ranch
I've slept with you against me.  I have to leave our bed in the middle
of the night because sometimes I wake up wanting you so bad I'm shaking
with it."

Outside the wind was whistling through the valley, bending the aspen
and bowing the pines.  The windows rattled in their frames as shards of
snow pelted the house.  In contrast to nature's sounds, Maggie's tone
was hushed.  "Then why don't you reach for me?"  she asked, struggling
to hold his glance.  "I would let you.  I did at Dancer's."

"I know," he said quietly, partly on a sigh.  "But I don't want it to
be about need any longer."

"What are you saying?  I don't understand."

"Don't you know?"  he asked.  "The next time I reach for you I want it
to be about love."

Chapter 13

"Love?"  Maggie asked.

"You don't need me to explain that, do you?"

She shook her head.  "You need to know whether or not you can love me,"
she said softly.

Connor's head tilted to one side, his eyes narrowing slightly as he
considered her.  "You have the oddest way of looking at things
sometimes," he said.  His observation was casual, not critical.  "I
wasn't talking about my feelings at all," he went on.  "I was referring
to yours.  I don't know what to make of you, Maggie.  When you didn't
sign the divorce papers I" "Didn't sign?"  she asked, bewildered.  "How
could I?  You didn't send them to Dancer's."

It was like a fist closing over his heart, an icy fist.  "I sent them,"
he said tersely.

"Oh."  There was a hollowness in the center of her that kept expanding,
as if she were filling up with emptiness.  "I thought perhaps you had
changed your mind."

"We had an agreement," he said, getting to his feet.  "I thought
perhaps you had changed yours."  Connor crossed the room to the chest
of drawers and rooted through two of the middle ones.  He pulled out
the divorce documents and brought them over to the bed.

He handed them to Maggie.  "I suppose Dancer has something to answer
for," he said.  "I found them in a trunk in Dancer's loft when I was
looking for blankets.  I thought you'd put them there.  Seems I was
wrong.  Looks like he decided to keep them from you.

Maggie glanced over the papers, her emotions numb.  The handwriting
blurred in front of her as she blinked back tears.  The only other time
she had seen Connor's signature was on their marriage certificate.

That seemed painfully ironic now.  "It's all in order, isn't it?"

"Appears that way."

"You never mentioned that you had these," she said.

"You never mentioned that you missed them."

Maggie smoothed the papers in her lap.  The movement helped to hide her
trembling hands.  "I told Dancer once that you'd honor our agreement.

He was probably hiding these from me even then."

"I suppose he has his own ideas about how things should be."

She forced a smile, though the edges of it were sad.  "I suppose he
does," she said.  "It's a good thing we can think for ourselves."

Connor nodded.  He watched Maggie finger the edges of the papers, her
head bowed.  "Maggie?"

"Hmmm?"  She didn't look at him.

"What are you going to do?"

She stared at his signature.  He had intended to divorce her, just as
she'd asked.  He hadn't had any second thoughts, never reconsidered it
as she'd begun to believe he had.  "I guess I need a pen," she
whispered.

Connor hesitated a moment, then he turned on his heel and left the
room, returning a minute later.  He handed her the pen and placed the
inkwell on the bedside table.

"I should have something to write on."

There was a book on the dresser.  Connor got it for her and slid it on
her lap and under the papers.

Maggie twisted the pen in her fingers.  She reached for the inkwell,
pulled the glass stopper, and dipped her pen.  "Signing this right now
doesn't mean we're divorced," she said.  It was difficult to push the
words past the lump in her throat.

"No, it doesn't."

She looked out.  Night had turned the window into a black mirror.

Her own reflection was all she saw but beyond her shimmering shape she
knew nature was drawing a white curtain over the valley.  "It's not as
if we can take them to queen's Point tomorrow."

"Probably not until spring."

"And you said it would take another six months after these were
returned to the lawyer."

"That's right."  Connor sat down on the edge of the bed.  He reached
for Maggie's chin, cupping it gently in his thumb and forefinger, and
lifted.  "So what are you saying?"

What was she saying, she wondered.  She stared at him mutely, trying to
read the expression in his reflective eyes.

"If I took back those papers now," he said, "you would always wonder if
it was because of the baby."

"Wouldn't it be?"

He shook his head.  "It would be because my signature on those
documents represents the only promise I ever made that I regret."

His hand dropped away from her chin, but he held her eyes.  "And I
regretted it before I knew you were still carrying my... our child.

I regretted it when it was just about you.

"But you're giving me these papers now."

"I thought you'd already made your choice about what to do with them.

You hadn't.  This has to be your decision, Maggie.  The terms were
yours."

A droplet of ink splattered on the signature page, a dark blue
exploding star.  Maggie stared at it for a long time before she lowered
the pen to the paper.

Connor watched her hand, a certain tightness in his chest.  He was not
aware he was holding his breath.

Maggie's focus moved from the line where she was supposed to sign to
the place where Connor had put his name.  "I don't think I knew your
middle name was Hart," she said.  Then she very deliberately used her
pen to obliterate all evidence of his signature.

She looked up at him.  "I've made my decision."

He took the papers from her, crumpled them in his hands, and pitched
them into the far corner of the room.  "And I've made mine."

Maggie put the pen and inkwell aside.  Her tentative, shyly offered
smile brightened her face.

Connor leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.  Her breath
was soft, sweet.  His face was very close to her when he said, "I
figure this means I can keep my bed."

The dark centers of her eyes widened.  Her lips parted.  "I figure it
does," she said softly.

L

"Anything else you want to say to me?"  he asked.  He kissed the corner
of her mouth, then the sensitive spot just below her ear.

"Before I kiss you within an inch of your life?"

She liked the sound of that.  One of his hands was already at her
throat, fingering the buttons of her white overblouse.  His fingers
slipped inside and touched her skin, skimming the neckline of her
chemise.  Her flesh tingled with the light passing of his hands.

"I love you?"  she asked.  "Is that what you want to hear?"

"Is that what you want to say?"

Her breath caught as the damp edge of Connor's tongue touched her
ear.

"It's what I want to say," she said.  His mouth pressed gently against
her neck.  "I love you."

He felt her words vibrate against his lips.  She said it again, more
loudly this time and he pressed his mouth tightly to her skin as if he
could absorb the words and the feeling.  After a moment he raised his
head.  He touched her cheek with the back of his hand.  "I didn't want
to leave you at Dancer's," he said.

"I know."

He shook his head.  "Not because I didn't think you'd survive it."  he
told her.  "Because I loved you then."

Maggie's hands slid up his chest and slipped around his neck.  She drew
him closer and this time it was her mouth that closed over his.

Their lips pressed, clung.  Maggie's fingers threaded in the hair at
Connor's nape.  She tugged gently, lightly scraping the back of his
head with her nails, and absorbed the shudder of his body as he leaned
into her.  The pillow was removed from the small of her back and flung
aside as Maggie was pressed to the mattress.  Connor stretched out
beside her and pulled at the buttons on her blouse.

It parted over her breasts and belly.

He raised his head, breaking the kiss.  His mouth touched her again,
this time on her jaw, then below it, then along the vulnerable line of
her throat.  She arched her neck.  He placed a kiss in the hollow and
felt the vibration of her satisfaction.  His mouth went lower, tracing
a damp line down her breastbone.  The faint stirring of her heart
increased.  His teeth captured the lace edging of her chemise.

He tugged.  His fingers pushed at the straps and eased them over her
shoulders.  He stopped short of revealing her breasts.

His lips wandered over the thin cotton fabric.  The material was taut
over her hardened nipples.  His tongue dampened one.  He worried it
between his lips.  Maggie moaned softly.

Then he heard the breath catch at the back of her throat.  It wasn't
the sound of pleasure; it was the sound of pain.  He lifted his head
and swore softly.  "I hurt you."

She shook her head, but she was biting her lower lip.

Connor raised himself on one elbow.  "Don't lie to me," he said.

"Not about this."

Maggie touched his face.  "No," she said, willing him to believe her.

"You really didn't."  Her slight smile was self-mocking.

"The baby moved.  She's sitting on my spine."  The smile vanished as
she winced.  "And taking my breath away."

Connor helped her sit up.  He rolled off the bed, found the pillow and
stuffed it behind Maggie's back again.  "Better?"  he asked.

She hardly knew how to answer.  It was true she could breathe again.

And the discomfort was gone.  But she was miserably frustrated.  She
looked down at herself, her open blouse, the damp circle on her chemise
where her nipple was outlined, then at the swell of her belly.

Connor sat beside her again.  "Maggie?"

"There must be something wrong with me," she said.

He had to strain to hear her, she spoke so quietly.  His own fear rose
and showed in the set of his jaw and the tiny muscle working in his
taut cheek.  Was she ill?  Was it the baby?  "What do you mean
"something's wrong with you?"

"Look at me," she said mournfully.

He was.  He couldn't help himself.  She drew his attention even when
she didn't mean to.  He was tantalized by her fragrance as she passed
and intrigued when sunlight glinted in her hair.  He knew she was
approaching when she was still a room away and recognized by her sigh
if she was frustrated or wistful.  "I like looking at you," he said.

"Is there something particular" Her tone was distressed.  "I'm
pregnant."

Connor's instinct was to laugh but some good sense told him that it
wouldn't have been appreciated.  His response maintained the gravity he
believed the situation required.  "Yes, you are."

Maggie continued to stare down at her abdomen.  "I'm so ripe I'm ready
to burst and I've still got two months and it doesn't seem like I
should want you so very much, but I do, so then I wonder if there's
something wrong with me that I like it when you touch me, even now that
I'm so... so..  well, you can see how I am, and then I wonder if there
was something wrong with me then, at Mrs. Hall's, I mean, when I was
sleeping next to you and dreaming that I was touching you and then
finding out that I was and not stopping because I liked it."  She took
a deep breath and risked a glance at Connor.

He stared at her, fascinated.

She sighed.  "So I'm very much afraid I might like it too much, that
maybe I am a whore because no decent woman would have stayed in bed
with you at that brothel and I did."  Her voice dropped to a husky
whisper.  "And I did it twice."

Connor touched Maggie under the chin.  He leaned his forehead against
hers.  "We're going to sort this all out," he said softly.

"But not right now.

"Not now?"  she asked a little breathily.

He shook his head.  "Right now we're going to make love."

"We are?"

"It's what we both want."

She nodded, the movement a trifle uncertain.  "But "There's nothing
wrong with either of us for wanting it."

"There's not?"

He smiled.  His lips brushed hers as he spoke.  "I'll show you."

Maggie gave herself up to him.  His mouth closed over hers and Maggie
returned the kiss fully.  She felt his fingers nudge the neckline of
her chemise lower, then lower still, until her breasts were bared.

His palms covered her, stroking gently, raising the flush of heat just
beneath her skin.  His thumbs spiraled toward her nipples and passed
lightly across the hardened tips.  This time her indrawn breath was
pleasure's gasp.

Connor eased Maggie down on the bed, this time on her side.  He reached
for the bedside lamp and blew out the flame.

"Thank you," Maggie said quietly as Connor stretched out at her back,
curving his body to her contours.

"I would have a hundred lamps in here," he said.  "All of them lit."

He brushed aside a lock of hair at Maggie's nape and kissed her warm
skin.  "You're beautiful."  His mouth moved along her bare shoulder.

"We have too many clothes on," he said softly.

"Mmmm," she hummed her pleasure, pushing back against him so he cradled
her bottom with his groin.  She could feel the taut ridge of his fly
against her.  "Too many clothes."

Neither of them was moved to do anything about it right then.

Connor continued to nuzzle Maggie's neck.  His arm slipped under hers
and curved beneath her breasts.  He teased the nipples with his
fingertips.  The barrier of their clothes was deliciously
frustrating.

Up to a point.

Without a word passing between them they knew when that point had been
reached.  Maggie pushed at her own clothing while Connor released the
buttons on his fly.  Her skirt was swept to the foot of the bed.  His
jeans caught the arm of the chair when they were tossed.

His shirt and her chemise tangled as they were pitched in unison.

Her drawers slipped over one side of the bed.  His went to the other.

They came together, curved again on their sides, exertion and
excitement making them breathe a little harder, racing their hearts.

Connor's hand slipped between her legs.  The heat of her surrounded
him.  She was damp.  His fingers stroked her intimately.

She moved against him, her breath catching as his touch radiated fire
that flushed her skin.  Reaching behind her, she caressed his hip and
thigh.  She felt him shudder.  His breath was warm against her skin.

He came into her from behind, torturing her with the slowness of his
entry, stopping her even when she would have pushed against him and
taken all of him quickly.  She felt filled with him, his body flush to
her, his chest against her back, the backs of her thighs soft in
contrast to the hardness of his.

His first movements were cautious, a slow rocking rhythm that tested
the limits of pleasure.  The tiny sounds she made at the back of her
throat hinted that it was too much and not yet enough.  He whispered in
her ear, low and husky, and asked her what she wanted.

She didn't answer; she couldn't answer.  Words failed her, but she
showed him with her body, with movements that were bolder than his.

Excitement built in both of them.  They moved in unison, opposing
forces with a single goal.  He encouraged her in raspy tones that
vibrated his chest against her back.  Blood rushed in her ears and made
a roaring sound that accompanied the slamming of her own heart.  She
said his name in low, throaty tones that made him want to bury himself
in her.

The insistent caress of his hand brought her to the edge.  Tension was
coiled in every part of her.  "Connor," she whispered, beginning to
arch.  "Please."

He touched her again, driving into her.  She gasped, then shuddered,
reaching down to hold his hand against her.  She felt him withdraw
slightly, then fill her again.  His rhythm quickened and his stroking
became more shallow.  She tightened around him as she climaxed, the
moist center of her holding him a heartbeat longer before he moved
again.  His free arm slipped under her.  She was secured to him, joined
by his arms, by the tangle of their legs, and in the moment by their
desire.

Connor buried his face against her neck as his climax brought him up
against her hard.  It seemed to go on forever, the release and ripple
of tension, the suspension of time as pure sensation flooded through
him.

His hold on her relaxed slightly, but he didn't let her go.  "If you
loved me any better," he whispered, "it would kill me."  Then on a
wishful, youthful note, he added, "But if I could pick the way I want
to die .  .

Her elbow came back and caught him gently in the ribs.  His exaggerated
groan mingled with her husky laughter.  She snuggled against him,
liking the weight and strength of him at her back.

His breath parted strands of her auburn hair.  "There's nothing wrong
with you," he said softly.  "Not a thing."

"I'm not~" "Not a thing," he repeated.  "Except maybe that you argue
with me."

She smiled at that.

He eased out of her and brought the quilt over their bodies as he took
up the spooning position again.  His arm curved around her.

"We'll talk about it later."

"All right," she said.  She closed her eyes, stifling a yawn with the
back of her hand.

They fell asleep together.

Denver Ethan Stone was shrugging out of his coat as he walked in the
door of his home.  Snowflakes dusted the foyer rug briefly, then
melted.

He hung up his hat and coat, listening for a sound that would indicate
the whereabouts of his wife.  He heard the oven door close in the
kitchen and started in that direction.  Two steps forward and he was
tripping over a package that had been placed as an obstacle in his
path.

"Michael," he yelled, catching himself on the banister spindles before
he pitched to the floor.  "Are you trying to kill me with this
thing?"

She appeared at the end of the hallway.  She had a potholder in each
hand and her mouth was set seriously.  "I just put Madison to bed," she
said.  "Please don't shout."  She disappeared again.

The package was large enough to have held a pair of boots and just
about as heavy.  Ethan nudged it to one side and continued on his way
to the kitchen.  "Something smells good," he said, sidling up to his
wife as she worked at the stove.  He tried to lift the lid on one of
the pots but Michael tapped his fingers with a wooden spoon.  A dab of
brown gravy fell on his knuckles.  He sucked it off and pondered for a
moment.  "Tastes good, too."

Michael's mouth pursed to one side as she gave him a skeptical look.

He leaned over and stole a kiss.  Michael's lips parted briefly in
surprise.  The kiss lingered a moment longer than it might have
otherwise.  "That tastes better," he said, grinning.

"You're incorrigible."

"And I'm late."

"That, too."  Michael pointed to the plates and silverware on the
table.  "If you'll set, I'll serve."

Ethan laid out the plates and utensils.  "Jeb Morgan was drunk again
tonight.  His wife asked me to lock him up."

Michael looked her husband over, making certain he was still all of a
piece.  "No bruises this time.  Jeb must be getting docile."

Ethan grinned.  "Maybe I'm getting more agile."

Serving up the meat and potatoes, Michael's glance was gently
disbelieving.  "You just tripped over a package the size of a small
stump for the third time this week," she reminded him.

He sat down and helped himself to the basket of bread.  "If you
wouldn't keep putting it in my way."

Michael set the gravy boat and a bowl of succotash on the table.

She sat down and bowed her head.  Ethan joined her in prayer.

When the brief grace was over, she lifted her head and without missing
a beat said, "One would think that a federally appointed marshal,
especially one who's college educated, would have sense enough to know
that when the same package appears in his way on three different
occasions, his wife is trying to tell him to do something with it."

Ethan served himself some of the vegetables and passed the bowl to
Michael.  "what am I supposed to do with it?"

At first Michael looked at him as if she couldn't believe her ears.

Then she merely shook her head, sighing.  "I told you what to do with
it before I started putting it in your way.

He looked at her blankly.

Michael pointed upward.  "To the attic," she said.  "I want you to take
it to the attic."

"I'll do it right after dinner."  He took a bite of roast beef.

"What's in it?"

"You really ought to act a little abashed when you ask that question,"
she said.  "You're making it quite clear that you didn't hear anything
I was saying to you last Monday night."

"What was I doing?"  he asked.

"Reading the paper."

"Perhaps I was reading one of your articles," he said hopefully, trying
to extricate himself from the doghouse.

"I didn't have an article in the News that day."  She patted the back
of his hand.  "But that was a good try."

"Thank you."  He speared a small, buttered chunk of potato.  "So the
package contains .

"A black leather bag," she said.  "Mother is sending it to Maggie but
she wasn't sure of the best way to get it to the Double H."

"We can send it on to Queen's Point."

"I thought of that, but then I got to thinking that the weather was too
uncertain this time of year.  You did notice, I suppose, that it's
snowing this evening."

'jeb Morgan slammed me with a few snowballs when I tried to take him
in," he told her dryly.  "I noticed."

"Then you realize that Maggie's probably snowed in at the ranch.

That package is likely to sit in some storage closet at the station
until spring.  I'll feel better if it's here."

"What's in the bag?"

Michael shrugged.  "Mama didn't say and I didn't peek.  It looks a
little like a doctor's medical bag."

Ethan's dark brows furrowed.  "Medical bag?  I thought Maggie had put
doctoring behind her."

For a moment Michael stared out the kitchen window as if she could see
past the curtain of night and falling snow, as if she could see her
sister, and more importantly, as if she could see into her sister's
mind.  "Maggie was always the guarded one," she said softly, looking
back at her husband.  Her emerald eyes only hinted at the depth of her
concern.  "But I keep thinking that she hasn't given up the idea
completely."

Maggie slipped out of bed and put on her nightgown and robe.  It was
still relatively early in the evening and her growling stomach reminded
her she hadn't had any dinner.  She stepped on Connor's thick socks
lying on the floor and put them on.  They felt comfortable and warm.

Slipping quietly out of the bedroom, Maggie padded to the kitchen.

The house was silent.  Sometime while she and Connor were napping,
Dancer had retired to his own room.  The wind had stopped whistling
overhead but snow was still falling.  A quick look out the back door
revealed that the steps were once again obliterated and a small drift
seemed to be crawling inexorably toward the door itself.

Maggie was familiar enough with the kitchen that she didn't bother
lighting a lamp.  She thought wistfully of home, of how surprised Mrs.
Cavanaugh would be that she had learned her way around a kitchen.

Home, she thought.  This is my home.

She was not aware she had spoken aloud until Connor said from the
doorway, "That sounds a little bit like a revelation."

Maggie gave a small start.  She paused in picking up a loaf of bread
and glanced over her shoulder.  "I suppose it is.  A happy one,
though."  She placed the bread on the table.  "Would you like something
to eat?"  she asked, searching for a knife.

Connor pulled out a chair and sat down.  "Nothing for me."

She sliced through the bread.  When she skirted the table to get the
butter, Connor captured her and brought her down on his lap.  "I'm too
heavy for you," she said, trying to scoot off his thighs.

Laughing, he held her still.  "My saddle weighs more than you.

"But you sit on that."

"I also toss it around.  Anyway, I'd sit on your lap if you had one."

Both of his large hands flattened over her belly.  His fingers spread
out.  Maggie's stomach rumbled.  "I was hoping the baby would move," he
said.  "Not you."

"The baby," she said tartly, "is weak with hunger.  Just like her
mother."

Connor set Maggie on her feet again and let her get the butter.

"Then feed that boy."

She managed to elude him on her return to the table, taking the chair
across from him.  "Our baby is a girl," she said.

"How do you know that?"  he asked suspiciously.

"I don't know it," she said.  "Not with I'll-bet-my-last-two-bits
certainty.  I just have a feeling."

"Then feed our daughter," he said.  "I'll bank on your feeling."

Maggie put a dollop of sweet butter on her bread and spread it out.

"You won't mind if it's a girl?"

"No.  Did you think I would?"

She hesitated.  "I don't know," she said softly.  "I don't really know
what you think about things like that.  . . about girls growing up to
be women and wanting to do things men usually do.  Some men think girls
are mostly useless."  Even though she couldn't see his eyes in the
darkness, she could feel him watching her closely.

"Useless except for taking to bed and bearing children," he said.

"Is that what you meant?"

"Something like that."

"You're right," he said after a moment's thought.  "You really don't
know what I'd think."  She had every right to question him, every right
to be contemptuous.  "I haven't done anything to make you realize I'm
not one of those men."

Maggie said nothing.

"My mother ran this ranch.  She worked beside my grandfather and my
uncles and for a while she worked beside my father.  When they were all
gone she did it alone.  She worked harder than any two hands she ever
hired.  She could rope and brand and shoot and she wasn't much bigger
than you are.  This ranch was in her blood and keeping it going was her
dream.  I suppose I never gave much thought to what women could or
couldn't do, not at least until I spent some time in the east."  He
paused.  The deep rasp of emotion was in his voice when he spoke
again.

"So no," he said, "I don't mind at all if we have a daughter, and if
she wants to run this ranch someday, I'll have kept it going for her.

And if she decides she wants to be a doctor, like her mother, then
we'll figure out a way to make that happen, too."

Maggie's eyes glistened with tears.  She left her chair, came around
the table, and simply let Connor sweep her up in his embrace.  She
rested her head against his shoulder.  "I'm not a doctor."  she said.

"Yet."

And the way he said it, Maggie almost believed it could still happen.

She kissed him on the jaw, then the mouth.  The kiss deepened,
lingered.

He pulled away reluctantly.  "I thought you were hungry.  "I am.  But I
don't want the bread anymore.

Connor came to his feet, bringing Maggie with him.  He carried her into
the bedroom and they made love this time with their hands and mouths,
touching and tasting with fingers and tongues.  It was the contrast of
textures that they enjoyed in their loving, the gentle abrasiveness of
his hands in the silky lengths of her hair, the rough pad of his thumb
sweeping across her tender skin.  There was a soft spot at the nape of
her neck, that when he lifted her hair and kissed her there, she
shivered.  She felt his skin leap just beneath her fingertips in
anticipation of her touch.

His flesh was warm, her hands were cool.  She thought he tasted both
salty and sweet.  He thought of the wild scent of musk when he pressed
his mouth between her breasts.

It was an exploration, a discovery.  This time there was time.  She
found him curiously exotic: the planes and angles of him so different
from her, the width of his bones, the inherent strength, the dark hair
that arrowed down from his flat belly, the dimples at the base of his
spine that seemed incongruent with his maleness.  Riding had given him
thighs like steel but he was ticklish at the back of his knees.

He liked her fingers combing through his hair, liked her teeth tugging
on his earlobe, liked her mouth at the curve of his shoulder, sipping
his skin.  He liked her mouth elsewhere as well.

It was satisfying, this exchange, this sharing.  Pleasure was mutual
but they took it in turns.  She brought him to a climax first, then his
attention was all for her.

She wasn't ticklish anywhere, but there was a sound that she made at
the back of her throat when he kissed the soft inner skin of her
elbow.

She liked the hot suck of his mouth on her breast, the touch of his
hand on her inner thigh, the whisper of his breath near her ear.

Engulfed in his, her hands were small.  His tongue teased her
fingertips as he kissed them one by one.  His mouth pressed in the palm
of her hand.  His mouth pressed her elsewhere as well.

They lay together then, facing each other this time, their knees drawn
upward and touching.  Beneath the quilt their hands were clasped,
fingers intertwined.

"The first time we met," Connor said, "you sat up in a whore's bed and
looked as if you were expecting me.  Do you remember that?"

"No," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand gently.  "I've thought about it now and then.  It
stays there, in my mind, a niggling thought that won't go away.  You
were shy, but trusting, and knowing later what you went through that
night with the sailor and Harlan Porter, it's struck me as odd that you
would offer me, another stranger, trust so easily."

Maggie wished she could remember.  "I don't know why I did," she
said.

What she did remember was the way she had turned to him in that bed,
the way she had touched him with no invitation on his part, only a
deeply buried need on hers.  "You had every right to think I was a
whore."

"And you had every right to think I was a doctor," he said.

The knot in her middle unwound a little.  The notion that she might
have mistaken Connor Holiday for a physician tickled her fancy.  She
grinned, laughing huskily at the back of her throat.

"Your bedside manner is not precisely ethical," she said.  Her laughter
faded.  "You're serious, aren't you?"

"You were sick and had been badly used by Porter.  Mrs. Hall said she
was going to send for a physician.  I walked in carrying a leather
satchel" "Filled with money."

"That could have been confused for a medical bag," he said.  "I don't
know what was in your mind, Maggie, but I know there's nothing wrong
with you.  There never was.  Your curiosity was as natural as your
desire.  But the next time I saw you I set out to make you feel coarse
and ashamed because it was easier than admitting I felt either of those
things myself.  It was easier to hide behind the fury about losing my
fortune than to admit I may have hurt you that night, easier to call
you a whore than to believe I may have taken you against your will.

Your virgin's blood was on the sheets, on me, and I still found it more
convenient to think you'd played a cheap whore's trick on me than
accept the evidence in front of my eyes."

Connor pulled her hand closer to his chest.  His voice was soft,
earnest.  "I was wrong about you," he said.  "I was always wrong.

I know why you didn't tell me the truth about the baby.  You have a
mother's instinct for protecting her young and you had no good reason
to suppose that I'd make anything but the worst kind of husband and
father."

"Connor," Maggie said gently.  "You don't have" "No," he said.  "I want
to tell you these things.  This summer, when you were at Dancer's, I
came to realize that if I had treated you differently you might not
have aborted our baby.  When Dancer came here looking for help and told
me you were pregnant I accused him of being the father."

Maggie gaped at him.  "You didn't."

"I did," he said, sighing.  "Then I saw you again and my best
intentions fled.  There was a bandit at your feet, you were pointing a
gun at me, your eyes were consigning me to the lowest circle of hell,
and you were still wearing your wedding band.  I couldn't think
straight."

"I wasn't thinking very clearly myself," she admitted.

Connor stroked the back of her hand with his thumb.  "I wasn't sorry
when Dancer broke his leg.  It gave me the excuse I'd been wanting.  I
couldn't get you back to the Double H fast enough."  He stretched his
legs and insinuated one of them under Maggie's calves.

"I'd found the unsigned divorce papers.  They gave me reason to
hope."

He chuckled.  "False hope, as it turned out."

"It turned out just fine," she said.  "Although it's not precisely
comforting to discover Dancer Tubbs is as meddlesome as my father."

She thought a moment.  "Rushton had a hand in this as well, you
know."

"I know," he said.  "That's why I'm here and he's there.

Everybody's happier that way."

* * * Beryl cinched her satin wrapper more securely about her waist.

She stepped in from the balcony outside her room and shut the French
doors quickly.  A dervish of dried leaves followed her inside.

She kicked at them.

"I don't see why we can't go to the Double H," she said.  Her lower lip
was thrust forward in a way that she knew was still attractive.

She'd practiced the expression in front of the mirror.  Or at least to
Denver."

"Homesick?"  Rushton asked.  He didn't look up from the newspaper he
was reading in bed so Beryl's expression was lost on him.

"Yes," she said.  "Homesick.  Exactly that.  I miss the mountains and
the sky.  I haven't seen my mother in nearly two years."

"You couldn't wait to get away from there.  As I recall, your mother
was included in the things you despised about Denver."

Beryl sat on the edge of the bed.  Her pale blue eyes flashed.  She
yanked the Chronicle away from Rushton and threw it on the floor.

"At least have the courtesy to look at me when we're talking," she
snapped.

Rushton looked up politely, his dark eyes unfathomable.  His voice was
cool and patient.  "Anger doesn't really suit you, Beryl.  Your cheeks
flush quite unattractively."

"Damn you, Rush."  Beryl pushed at a lock of dark hair that had fallen
over her shoulder.  "I don't want to talk about the way I look."

There was a flash of something in his eyes that hinted at his
amusement.  "That would be a first," he said dryly.  Rushton wasn't
disappointed as Beryl rose to the bait instantly.  He reached for her
hand, holding on when she would have jerked it away.  He pulled her
closer so she was sitting beside him and tucked her arm under his.

"All right," he said soothingly.  "All right.  Tell me again what you
have in mind."

Beryl laid her head on her husband's shoulder.  The wide lapels of her
dressing gown gaped, revealing the perfect roundness of one breast.

She didn't cover herself.  "We haven't been back to Colorado.

We never even talk about going.  I love New York, Rushton, but I have
family in Denver that I haven't seen since I married you."

"I thought that's the way you wanted it," he said.

"I did..  "I do...I don't know."

"You rarely write to your mother."

"I don't like to write.  It doesn't mean that I don't want to see
her."

She rubbed his arm with the palm of her hand.  "You don't write to
Connor and I know you'd like to see him again."

"You know that, do you?"

"Credit me with some sense," she said.  "You may not get along with him
for more than two minutes, but I don't think for one of those minutes
that you wouldn't like it to be different.  Don't you wonder how he and
Mary Margaret are faring?  Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"I know how Maggie's doing," he said.  "She writes to her parents.

Jay Mac told me he and Moira received a stack of letters just a few
weeks ago.  Some of them date back to the middle of the summer.

"No one at the Double H must be going to town much to post them."

That's what Rushton had thought, too.  At first.  Jay Mac had let his
friend read Maggie's letters and Rushton found them curiously lacking
in detail in regard to the Double H. In some cases, when description
was supplied, it was just plain wrong.  His daughter-in-law's letters
were also lacking information about his son.  Maggie never wrote about
the things that Connor did on the ranch that might have interested her
parents.  She never mentioned any odd bit of laughter that may have
passed between them.  She never sought her mother's advice about an
argument.  If Maggie were to be believed it was the most idyllic
marriage on the face of the earth.

Which made Rushton Holiday wonder if it existed at all.

He had said nothing to Jay Mac.  He didn't want interference from that
quarter.  But he had been curious and now he listened to Beryl with
more interest than she might have believed.  "Tomorrow's the first of
November," he said idly.

"Hmmm.  The Double H is probably buried in drifts."

"Probably."  He let silence settle between them for a moment.  "I could
leave the mills later in the winter."

"Christmas?"  she asked hopefully.

"No.  Later than that.  February, maybe."

Beryl raised her head and looked at her husband.  She made a small
moue.  "But that's so long from now.  And we still couldn't get to the
Double H."

"I wasn't thinking so much of the ranch," he said, "as I was of your
desire to see your mother.  The train should make it quite easily to
Denver.  We'll stay with Grace until the spring thaw clears the
passes.

Beryl almost wailed, "But that could be March, even April."

"I know, dear," Rushton said solicitously, his eyes grave.  "But I
can't get away any earlier.  And this way you'll have all the time you
need to spend with your mother."  He saw Beryl blanch slightly but he
managed to temper his smile.  "Why don't you do something with the
lamps, Beryl?"  he asked, brushing his lips against her forehead.

"You've gotten what you want."  His hand slipped inside the gap in her
dressing gown and cupped her breast.  "Now it's my turn."

She moaned softly when his mouth covered hers.

Maggie sat up in bed as Connor brought the feast to her.  He showed her
the tray, teasing her with the contents before he set it on the side
table.  Her mouth watered from the smell of silver dollar pancakes and
bacon, hot honeyed tea and warm muffins.

"I can't eat all of that," she protested.  However, her eyes followed
the tray hungrily.

Watching her, he laughed.  "I'll finish off what you can't, though I
don't think I'll get much."  He gave her a fork and the plate of
pancakes and bacon.  She tucked into it while he pressed a napkin into
the neckline of her chemise.  It was a pleasure to watch her eat with
such relish.  He said as much to her.

Maggie spoke around a mouthful of food, surprised by his observation.

"I eat all the time," she said.  "I'm as big as" "As a woman carrying a
child ought to be."

She swallowed, smiling.  "You're very gallant.  But I like it."

"Then I'll do it more often."

Biting off the end of a crisp strip of bacon, Maggie was moved to add,
"You're also a very good cook."

He grinned.  "You're not going to get me to say I'll cook more often.

Before you came to the ranch we hadn't had a decent meal here in
weeks.

No one wanted the job permanently."

"It's a job?"  she asked innocently.  "I hadn't realized.  There's no
wages."

Connor's smile faded.  "You're right," he said.  "We haven't been
fair."

"It's not as if I could help out here in any other way," she told
him.

"Really, I haven't minded."

"No matter what it looks like, I didn't bring you to the Double H to
cook."

"I'm not a good rider.  And I don't know anything about roping and
branding.  The truth is, I don't think I want to learn.  What I know
about cooking, I learned from Dancer.  He's been keeping a low profile
around here, playing up his injury, but when no one else is around he's
the one giving me direction in the kitchen.  So you see, Connor, I'm
something of a fraud."

He took one of the pancakes, rolled it up so it looked like a cigar and
dipped it in some syrup.  "Imagine that," he said.  "I wonder if Dancer
would want to stick around after his leg's healed?"

"Why don't you ask him?  He's settled in here more comfortably than I
would have thought.  Ben and the others have been very kind and no one
stares at him.  He can't get back to his cabin now anyway, especially
not with the snow, and he wouldn't leave before the baby's born.  He
might like hiring on as the Double H cook, at least until he can return
to his mines."

"I'll talk to him."

Maggie reached for her mug of tea.  "I suspect I'll be a lady of
leisure again," she said, sighing.

"Somehow I don't think that will happen.  You'll be plenty busy until
the baby's born, then you'll be busier."

Three days before Christmas Maggie's thoughts drifted back to Connor's
words.  He'd been right, of course.  Work on the ranch didn't stop just
because the valley was blanketed with snow.  The men still worked long
hours feeding the cattle, clearing the stables, smoking meat, and
forging tools for the spring.  When wolves threatened the herd they
went out to run them off.  They hunted and fished and practiced rope
tricks in the corral.

Maggie's days had been equally full.  She washed and ironed and mended
clothes, chores that were not entirely unsatisfying once they were
actually completed.  She made things for the baby.  She no longer did
the daily cooking but no one tried to stop her from baking.

When Buck was laid low with coughing and chest pains it was Maggie, not
Dancer, who tended him.  Pressing garlic cloves in a tablespoon of
honey, she made him take the mixture four times a day to loosen the
congestion in his chest.  She prepared chamomile tea for him at bedtime
and added an extract she'd made from wild cherry bark.

Maggie sanded and repainted a cradle she'd found in the attic.  She
worked sporadically on a new quilt for their bedroom and let Ben teach
her how to play the harmonica.  She read a little in the evenings,
sometimes sharing the space in front of the fireplace with Connor.  She
usually fell asleep with the open book on the floor beside her.  She
liked it when Connor carried her to bed.

Now, remembering his words about staying busy, she wished he was around
to carry her to bed.  She straightened slowly, tightly gripping the jar
she was holding as another pain struck her lower back.

When the pain faded Maggie returned the jar to its place on the pantry
shelf.  The task of rearranging the contents suddenly faded in
importance.

Maggie backed out of the pantry and looked around the kitchen.

Dancer wasn't there.  She opened the back door, wincing as another
pain, a cramp this time, took her by surprise.  "Dancer?"  There was no
answer.  She wondered where he had hobbled.  Shrugging, she returned
inside.

She went to the bedroom and stripped the bed of its good sheets and
quilts and replaced them with three old sheets she found in the linen
closet.  She chose two books from Connor's study that she had been
meaning to read and set them on the bedside table.  She stood in front
of the wardrobe for several minutes, debating about the nightshift she
wanted to wear.  She finally chose one with a narrow band of lace on
the neckline and laid it out at the foot of the bed.  She started to
unbutton her gown.  Her water broke when she sat down in the chair to
remove her shoes.  The cramp that followed took her breath away.  It
was all very interesting, she thought, as long as she could think about
what was happening to her and not have to feel it.  She padded back to
the linen closet, found some towels, and began to clean up.

Connor discovered Maggie on her hands and knees in their bedroom.

She had a towel in each hand and her chemise was stained dark with
water.  Most interesting to him, however, was the silly smile on her
face when she glanced over her shoulder to look at him.

"I'm sure there's an explanation," he said casually, leaning against
the door jamb.  "Did you overturn a bucket in here?"

Her smile widened.  "Do you see a bucket?"

It took him a moment to take her meaning.  "Oh, my God."  He didn't
hesitate after that.  Scooping Maggie up, he put her beside the bed,
stripped off her chemise and drawers and helped her wriggle into her
nightgown.  He waited until she crawled into bed and was comfortable
before he left to find Dancer.

"She's got hours yet," Dancer told him after he'd examined Maggie.

"She's reading now."  He stepped into the hallway outside the bedroom
and shut the door.  He saw the worry creasing Connor's brow and shook
his head, scratching the whiskerless side of his scarred face.  "Ain't
no cause to look like that," he said.

"You delivered foals before.  It don't happen all at once."

The waiting was interminable.  Connor stayed with Maggie until

Dancer threw him out, then he waited in the parlor, taking turns pacing
the floor with Luke, Ben, Buck, and Patrick, looking toward the hallway
expectantly each time the door to Maggie's room opened.

Her cries were the hardest for them to bear.  When Connor wasn't pacing
he was slumped in one of the armchairs trying not to hear her sporadic
cries of pain.  Buck was pale.  Ben and Patrick knocked back shots of
whiskey.  Luke, usually stoic, actually winced.

Then there was the cry that was unfamiliar, yet known to all of them.

Connor came to his feet, shot from his chair like a cannonball.

Buck's face was flushed again with color.  Ben and Patrick began
pouring drinks for everyone and Luke's handsome features were creased
by a grin.

When Dancer appeared on the threshold Connor didn't wait to hear what
he had to say.  He rushed past the prospector to get to Maggie.

She was sitting up in the middle of the bed.  Her hair was damp and
dark around her forehead and temples.  There were shadows just beneath
her lowered lashes and her complexion was pale, but when she raised her
face her eyes were bright and her smile was simply radiant.

She raised her cradled arms as Connor approached the bed.  "I want to
name her Meredith," she said.  "Mary after my sisters and Edith after
your mother."

"Meredith," he repeated softly, reverently.  He looked down at his
daughter.  There was a sheen of tears in his eyes.  "I like it."

Chapter 14

Meredith Dancer Holiday was six weeks old when the weather broke long
enough to forge a pass out of the valley.  The hired hands, all a
little stir crazy, drew cards for the privilege of making the trip to
queen's Point.  Luke and Buck won.  Dancer decided to take the
opportunity to make sure his cabin was still standing and he followed
the others.  Except for Meredith's lusty mealtime cries, the ranch
house seemed oddly quiet after the trio's departure.

That was why Maggie was surprised when she heard footsteps pound across
the front porch and then the door open and slam shut.

She stopped rocking and Meredith was dislodged from her breast.

The baby gave a mewling cry and began rooting again.  Maggie held her
protectively as the door to their bedroom was flung open.

Patrick stood in the doorway, clutching his hat in his hand.  He sucked
in air in great gulps and stuttered as he tried to speak and catch his
breath at the same time.  His freckles stood out even on his flushed
face.  "There's been an accident, Mag.  You've got to do something.

Connor's bringin' Ben now.  He said to get Dancer's bed ready and then
you'd know what to do."

Maggie didn't know what had happened, let alone what to do.  She stood
up, turning modestly to remove Meredith from her breast, and covered
herself.  She ignored her baby's wail though she felt her breast leak
immediately.  Cradling Meredith, she shooed Patrick out of her way and
made him follow her to Dancer's vacated room.

"Help me make up this bed," she said.  "I can't do it with only one
free arm.  And tell me what happened."

Patrick grabbed the sheets and snapped them over the bed, tucking in
the corners while he spoke.  "Something popped in the forge and shot a
ball of fire at Ben.  Connor tackled him when he came runnin' out, put
him right down in the snow, but he's burned bad."

Maggie closed her eyes a moment and thought of Dancer's face.

Her stomach turned over.  "Help Connor get Ben in here," she told

Patrick with more calm than she felt.  "He didn't mean for you to
dawdle with me."  She realized she could have saved her breath.

Patrick was off like a shot at her first command.

Maggie put Meredith in her cradle and carried it to the kitchen.

The baby was still squalling but Maggie pretended she didn't hear.

She set a kettle of water on the stove, fired the kindling, then began
searching her pantry for dried elder flowers, leaves, and berries.

She was putting out what she needed when she heard the front door open
again.  She met the men in the hallway.  Ben was supported between
Connor and Patrick.  His large, barrel-chested body sagged and his head
lolled forward.  The odor of burned clothing, hair, and skin could be
smelled in the air.  Patrick kicked the door shut with his heel.

Maggie pointed to the bedroom.  "Take him in there.  Try to get some of
his clothes off but don't pull them where they're burned to his
skin."

They disappeared into the room.  She went to the parlor, retrieved a
pair of scissors from her sewing basket, and gave them to Connor.  His
hands, she noticed, were steadier than Patrick's and fear had settled
over him with a rigid calmness that was helpful in a crisis.

"Cut his clothes where you have to," she said.  "Patrick, get the hip
bath and bring it here.  Fill it a quarter full.  Cool water.

Don't bother to heat it.  And you might find some bandages, too!"  She
had to call after him.  He was quick to respond to the first order and
barely heard the second.

Maggie gave Ben a cursory glance.  His condition wouldn't be clear to
her until Connor removed most of his clothes.  She could see that his
left leg was badly burned, mostly from the knee to his ankle.

The leather apron he'd worn protected his chest, groin, and thighs from
injury, but both his arms were scorched.  "I'm going to make a wash for
his skin from elder leaves," she told Connor.  "It will take a little
time.  When Patrick gets back here with the water, use it to soak the
threads of clothes sticking to Ben's skin."  She thought Connor
blanched.  "Or I can do it," she offered.

"No," he said tersely.  "I'll manage."

She hesitated, saw that he was determined, and nodded.  "All right."

Meredith was sleeping fitfully when Maggie returned to the kitchen.

Maggie rocked the cradle with her toe while she prepared the wash.  By
the time she was finished Meredith was deeply asleep.

The wash had to cool before she could apply it to Ben's burned flesh.

She used the time to prepare a variety of teas that would ease Ben's
pain as well as help him sleep.

"You've done well," she told Connor when she returned to the bedroom.

He moved off the bed to make space for her.  A sheet covered Ben's
unburned middle and left his arms and most of his legs free for her
inspection.  She picked up the sponge that Connor had been using and
dipped it in a pan of cool water.  She cleaned the burns carefully,
looking for bits of thread that might cause infection later.  In spite
of her cautious ministrations, Ben jerked and groaned under her
touch.

"Give him some of the white willow tea, Connor.  It's in the blue
spongeware mug."  She returned to cleaning the burns.  "You're lucky,
Ben," she said gently.  "These aren't nearly as bad as Patrick
described to me."

"Probably told you I looked like a damn fireball," he growled.  The
effort to talk made him cough and the coughing shook him on the bed.

He groaned again in pain.

"Don't say another word.  Use your energy to drink what Connor's giving
you."

Connor listened to the quiet authority in his wife's voice and saw Ben
obey.  Over the course of the next week Connor heard it again and again
and saw the effect of her unassuming confidence in Ben's gradual
recovery.  He watched her sit at Ben's bedside, comforting her patient
with her presence, holding the unburned palm of his hand when Ben could
do nothing but cry in agony.  She changed his bandages, cleaned his
wounds, and applied the cool and soothing elder wash to his raw
flesh.

She prepared garlic balms for infection and brewed cups of poppy and
white willow tea.  Sometimes she sat with him alone.  Other times she
breast-fed Meredith at his bedside.

She was available to Ben at any time.  She spooned broth to him when he
couldn't manage himself, read to him while she cradled Meredith in her
arms.  She bathed him, combed his hair, and shaved his broad and craggy
face.

At night she fell into bed, into Connor's arms, exhausted.  He liked
those times.  He liked having her close, all to himself.  Knowing how
rare they were and rare they were likely to be, Connor counted those
moments as precious and savored them.

After watching Maggie at Ben's side, healing with her skill and her
will, the one thing borne home to Connor was that his wife didn't
belong at the Double H.

"Dancer would be proud of you," he told her as she was readying for
bed.  Connor was already lying on the edge of the mattress, his head
propped up by an elbow.  His eyes drifted from his wife to the nearby
cradle where his daughter was sleeping soundly, her tiny bottom pushed
in the air.  At eight weeks Meredith was getting too big for the
cradle.  He and Patrick were working on a crib for her.

It was still in the barn where they were hiding it as a surprise for
Maggie, too.  Ben's accident had given them more chores and less time
for finishing the crib.

Maggie knelt beside the cradle as she closed the last button on her
cotton nightshift.  She touched the cap of Meredith's downy head.

Her daughter's hair was even darker than Connor's.  She stroked it
lovingly, curling the ends between two fingers.  "In a way I'm glad
Dancer wasn't here," she said.  "I think it would have been hard for
him to see Ben's burns."  She stood slowly, stretching as she yawned.

The front of her nightshift was pulled tautly across her breasts.

"But I missed him, too.  I was afraid I wasn't doing it right."

Connor found himself staring at Maggie's chest.  The full shape of her
breasts was perfectly revealed through the thin cotton.  The lamp at
her back made a silhouette of her narrow waist and hips.  Ben's
injuries had put a damper on more than just getting the crib
completed.

Maggie had only just healed from childbirth when the accident
happened.

In the weeks since then it seemed either she was too tired or he was.

Connor Holiday hadn't made love to his wife since before their baby was
born.  His body was reminding him of that in a most natural and
elemental way.

He rolled on his stomach as Maggie climbed into bed.  The pressure on
his groin kept him from seizing her on the spot.  "I think you do most
everything right," he said huskily.

She smiled.  "Do you?  I like it that you told me."  She reached for
the oil lamp but Connor's hand on her wrist stopped her.

"Not tonight," he said.

Maggie turned to look at him.  His eyes simply burned into her.

"I've never made love to you in the light," he said.  "This time I want
to see."

It occurred to Maggie to tell him it wasn't decent, but in fact, she
thought it was a very decent thing to do.  She leaned toward him.

"What if you don't like what you see?"  she whispered.

"Not possible," he whispered back.

Maggie sat up and picked up the hem of her nightshift.  In one sweeping
motion she pulled it off and let it flutter to the floor behind her.

He liked what he saw very, very much.  She was giving him a bold,
almost defiant look that he suspected was more bravado than brave.

He smiled, reached for her hand, and held it.  His thumb passed lightly
back and forth over the soft underside of her wrist.  He felt her pulse
race.

The tilt of her chin drew his eye to the length of her throat, the
hollow, then the defining line of her collarbones.  Her shoulders were
drawn back, emphasizing the shape of her breasts.  Under his gaze a
rosy flush spread across her skin.  Her nipples seemed to become a
darker shade of coral.

His eyes drifted lower, along the inward curve of her waist, the
flatness of her abdomen, then the flair of her hips.  He released her
wrist and let his hand drift along her naked thigh from hip to knee.

His palm curved to her contours.  She didn't move, yet he could feel
her trembling.

"Shouldn't you .  . ."  she whispered.

His voice was even huskier than hers.  "Shouldn't I what?"

"Shouldn't you take off your .  .

Since she didn't seem capable of completing a sentence, Connor helped
her.  He lifted the sheet covering him to the waist.

Maggie's eyes widened slightly.  He was already naked.  He was also
aroused.  "You were pretty sure of me," she said.

"Let's just say I was hopeful."

Laughing, Maggie yanked back the covers and subjected him to the same
scrutiny that had just fired her senses.  She took in the breadth of
his shoulders, the smooth expanse of his chest, the flat plane of his
belly.  And then she studied his erection.  "Oh my," she said softly.

He pulled her toward him then rolled so that Maggie was trapped beneath
his body.  He rested his weight on his forearms.  "I'll take that as a
compliment."

"You should."

Then his mouth was closing over hers.  He kissed her deeply,
hungrily.

She accepted the sweep of his tongue and pushed against him with her
own.  Her thighs were parted by his knee.  She lifted her hips.

"Help me," he said.

She did.  Her hand closed over him intimately.  He eased into her.

She was already wet for him.  Their eyes locked, held.  Joined, they
didn't move.

The centers of her green eyes widened, darkened.  His were like liquid
onyx.  Their breath mingled, hot and sweet.

They kissed again, slowly.  Mouths fused.  Tongues working the same
rhythm their bodies would.  Her thighs cradled him.  She pressed
against his hips, wrapped her legs around him, securing his body.  Then
the kiss broke.  His lips grazed her chin.  She arched her neck.  His
mouth touched her throat, sipped her skin.  She caught her breath and
trapped a sound of pleasure.

He moved.  Hips rising and falling, pressing deeply into her.  Her arms
were raised.  Hands alighted on his shoulders.  Fingertips moved across
his skin like a whisper.  She rubbed against him, her breasts flush to
his chest, nipples abraded pleasurably by the heat and hardness of
flesh.  Her thumbnail traced the length of his spine.

He shuddered, groaned, buried his face in the curve of her neck.  She
smiled.

He bit her skin lightly.  Her smile vanished.  She touched the dimples
at the base of his spine.  He moved against her, hard this time.  Her
hand swept across his back.  Her fingers twisted in the hair at his
nape.  His face lifted.  He nudged her nose with his.  He kissed her
cheek, kissed the spot just below her ear, kissed her feathered
brows.

I und on' en ing ae9s 'so nda 1 all tirce fly I, brows.

She arched, pressing into him.  Tension held her still for a moment.

Pleasure was a drawn-out sensation, pulling her tautly, lifting her.

They moved together, slowly at first, catching a rhythm that satisfied
and prolonged their mutual pleasure.  There was a tightness in his
chest as excitement rose with such intensity that it threatened to take
the breath from his body.  He held her closely, surrounding her,
protecting her.  She cried out, saying his name as she shuddered
against him.  His body seemed to absorb her pleasure until it was his
own.  He groaned softly, whispered her name against her skin.

Their bodies were flushed and warm.  Neither of them wanted to move so
they didn't.

"We started this way," she said, her voice husky, amused.

"So we did."

His weight was comfortable on her for a moment.  She closed her eyes
and simply felt him all around her.  "I like this."

He kissed the corner of her mouth then moved off her, sliding onto his
side beside her.  He propped himself on one elbow and looked down at
her.  Her eyes were still closed, a faint smile on her lips.  Her
cheeks were flushed, her mouth slightly swollen from the pressure of
his kisses.  Her skin was smooth, the crease that was sometimes between
her brows had vanished.  The shadows beneath her eyes were caused by
the fan of her dark lashes.

The tightness in his chest was back again; this time it was the sense
of loving her that overwhelmed him.  Tears touched his eyes.  He
blinked them back.

She seemed to know.  She opened her eyes and asked, "What is it?"

"Nothing."

She was quiet, watching him, searching his face.  She reached for him,
cupping the side of his face with her palm.  His dark eyes were neither
remote nor cold.  She felt drawn into them.  They seared her and
sheltered her, and it did not seem strange to Maggie that they could do
both.  For an instant she was touched by his soul.

"I love you," she whispered.  Her hand dropped away, drifted across his
chest, fell back to the mattress between them.

His throat closed on him.  He touched her hand, drew her fingers
between his.  He said nothing; she didn't seem to expect that he
would.

They shared the silence.

Maggie snuggled closer.  Connor drew up the sheet and comforter.

The baby stirred for a moment, mewling softly, then sighed and slept.

Connor reached for the lamp and blew out the flame.  Maggie rested her
head in the crook of his shoulder.

As they slept, snow started to fall.

The passes were blocked again by morning.  Maggie served pancakes at
breakfast.  Patrick had stumbled through drifts up to his hips to get
eggs from the hen house.  Batter bubbled on a greased iron skillet as
she laid the first stack of flapjacks on the table.

Connor speared three with his fork before passing the plate to
Patrick.

"Save some for Ben," Connor cautioned as Patrick began to sweep most of
the cakes onto his plate.

"I've already served Ben," Maggie said.  She turned back to the griddle
and flipped two more pancakes.  She glanced toward the window.  The ice
flowers on the panes were slowly melting.  "Buck and Luke aren't going
to make it back, are they?"

"Not today," Patrick said.  "Probably not this week."

"Dancer?"

Connor shook his head.  "He'll be fine at his cabin until the weather
breaks."  He was cradling Meredith in the crook of his arm.

He gave her a little bounce and she made a happy sound, not quite a
laugh, but something that made every adult in the room smile.

"Don't you dare feed her a pancake," Maggie warned as Connor teased
their daughter with a forkful of food.

"I wouldn't."  Instead he put down his fork and stuck his forefinger in
the honey jar.  He let Meredith suck on the tip, which she did
greedily.  Connor looked at Maggie as if to say, Is this what it feels
like?

She merely blushed.  Connor laughed.

Meredith and Patrick, each interested in their breakfast, were
oblivious.

As the winter weeks passed it was the small moments that she held close
to her heart: the laughter they exchanged, the smiles that were
intimate and the ones that were open.  She saw Connor with Meredith on
his knee, watching her intently as she made tiny bubbles between her
dewy lips.  His hand engulfed their daughter's head when he cradled
her.  Sometimes he buried his face against her little belly, blowing
gently or making smacking noises, and Meredith would smile and
giggle.

Maggie remembered when she and Connor went sledding, and he bundled her
up in layers of blankets until she was just a shapeless mound.  Tempest
pulled them on the long sled into the trees and they made a splendid
run down the hillside until they tumbled into a snow bank.  Sun glinted
sharply off the snow and off Maggie's hair, as threads of copper
captured the light.  Connor stole a kiss as she made an angel in the
snow.  "Your hair's like a flame," he said and pulled her to her
feet.

In the evenings they sat in front of the fire, sharing a blanket with
Meredith.  They talked to her as if she could understand.  Maggie
consulted her about the garden she was planning.  Connor spoke of her
first horse.  There was a moment, as they were discussing her future,
that she wrinkled her nose and grimaced, and they both laughed until
they cried.  "She suspects we're like Jay Mac," Maggie said, wiping her
eyes.  But Maggie admitted in her heart that John MacKenzie Worth had
done all right by her.

She remembered other things: Connor's and Patrick's presentation of
Meredith's crib; Ben's move back to the bunk house; the snowball battle
that left Connor defending his fort alone when Maggie surrendered to a
fit of laughter that left her quite useless as a helpmate.

Maggie remembered the nights when she lay beside him, comforted by his
closeness, by the shelter of his arms, and he talked to her in that
low, whiskey-soft voice.

Living in the moment, she wove a tapestry of memories that winter.

Denver Mary Michael Stone and Mary Renee Sullivan sat on either end of
the sofa like a matched pair of bookends.  Beryl Holiday was seated
across from them.  When Beryl's eyes lowered to lift her teacup the
twin sisters exchanged identical, frustrated glances.  When Beryl
looked up again they were flashing perfectly beautiful smiles.

"It was kind of you and Rushton to make a point to visit us during your
stay," Michael said.  Michael, like her twin, wished she were still in
the dining room with her husband.  Conversation there was not likely to
be so tedious or difficult.  Several times she had heard laughter
coming from that room as Ethan, Jarret, and Rushton traded stories.

"Rushton thought we should," Beryl said.

There was an uncomfortable silence.  Rennie tried to help her twin.  "I
was happy to learn I was going to meet you," she said.

'Jarret and I are only in Denver for the week, then we're heading for
New York.  We've been working on a project for Northeast Rail all
autumn and most of the winter."

Beryl's pale blue eyes flickered.  "I didn't realize you had been out
here so long.  I suppose I thought when you didn't get the Double H
land, you would have gone home."

"We were in California," Rennie said.  "But I'm still interested in the
Double H tract, not that I think for a moment that Connor would sell
it.

"Certainly not now," Beryl said.  Her light laughter was brittle.

"Not when he paid for it so dearly himself."

"You mean the wedding?"  Rennie said, her hackles rising.  "Connor
Holiday should count himself fortunate that my sister was agreeable."

Michael's humor was not any better than Rennie's but seeing her
sister's temper flare helped her keep her own in check.  "Connor and
Maggie were here soon after their marriage.  They were quite happy."

She didn't dare look at Rennie, who had already heard a different
version of the visit.  "It's hard to say who got the best of the
bargain.  More tea?"

Beryl held out her cup as Michael poured.  "You'll understand if I
think it was Maggie."

Rennie smiled sweetly.  "I'm certain it's your position as his
step-mother that prompts such allegiance."  Out of the corner of her
eye she saw Michael nearly choke on her tea.  "After all, you chose his
father over him."  Rennie stood, put her cup down on the end table, and
excused herself.

Michael could have cheerfully throttled her sister but she wouldn't
apologize for her.  She picked up the threads of conversation as if
nothing untoward had happened.  "I heard Rushton mention that you'll be
going to queen's Point in two more days."

The mottled color in Beryl's cheeks faded as she recovered her
composure.  "That's right."  Now that Rennie was out of the room she
found it easier to speak.  All through dinner she couldn't forget that
Rennie Sullivan was responsible for bringing Connor and Maggie
together.  It was Rennie's interest in the Double H, her ofihand
comments to Jay Mac about Connor, that had ultimately shaped events.

"The passes should all be cleared by now.  I swear I saw a daffodil
yesterday."

Michael forced a smile.  "I shouldn't wonder that Maggie's feeling in
need of some company by now.  Ethan and I have talked about going
out.

We'd love to see the ranch.  And frankly, now that Maggie's this close,
I miss her more than ever."

"The Double H is beautiful," Beryl said.  "But I'm certain Rennie's
told you that."

Michael could hear it in Beryl's voice again, the certain dislike of
her sister.  She kept her own tone carefully level.  "Since Ethan and I
can't leave anytime soon, I wonder if you and Rushton might do me a
favor?"

Beryl set her cup in its saucer.  She fingered the amethyst earring on
her right ear, tilting her head to one side.  "I'd be happy to, if I
can."

"Maggie had to leave some of her belongings here.  We have a few
trunks, some valises, and" she laughed, "a package from my mother
that's been gathering dust in the upstairs hallway all winter.

Ethan's promised to take it to the attic once or twice a week since it
arrived but it never happens.  Now he's going to feel vindicated for
his laziness."  She smiled.  "That's if you and Rushton are willing to
take some of the things with you."

Beryl couldn't think of a good reason to object but she was working on
it when Michael continued.

"I'll sort through everything, of course.  I don't want to burden you
unnecessarily.  The physician's bag will have to go.  Mama wouldn't
have sent it if she didn't think Maggie would want it."

"Physician's bag?"  asked Beryl.  "Your sister isn't a doctor."

"No, she isn't."  Michael shrugged.  She didn't want to share Maggie's
dream with this woman.  "Actually I'm not certain that's what the
satchel is at all.  I never opened it."

"Black leather?"  Beryl asked.  She indicated a twenty-inch span with
her hands.  "About this big?"

"That's right.  Just like a doctor would carry."

"I owned a bag like that once," Beryl said slowly, thoughtfully.

She remembered lending it to Connor and never seeing it again.  She was
careful to keep excitement out of her voice.  "I kept odds and ends in
it, for traveling purposes.  Combs, brushes, perfumes.  The sort of
thing you don't want to be without."

"Maybe that's all it has in it," Michael said, although she was
doubtful.  Maggie would consider it frivolous to carry those things
close by.  "More likely it has books in it.  Maggie's always reading.

I know there are books in some of the trunks.  I plan to make certain
she gets those."

Beryl didn't care about the books.  "Of course we'll take whatever you
like," she said.  "Rushton won't object, I'm sure."

Maggie rushed to the front door and flung it open.  She raised Meredith
from her hip to the crook of her arm.  "Look there!"  she said
excitedly, pointing to the southern end of the valley.  "It's
Dancer!"

Maggie called to Connor at the corral.  She saw him look off in the
direction she was pointing, then take off his hat and wave it, hailing
the prospector as he approached.

Maggie jogged down the steps and across the yard.  Patches of snow
dotted her path like white lily pads and she skirted them.

Connor came outside the corral to meet her, scooping Meredith out of
Maggie's arms and holding her up even higher.

Dancer brought his horse right up to the welcoming trio as Patrick and
Ben ran from the stable to greet him.  "You all sure are a sight," he
said, grinning widely.  He leaned over in his saddle and tickled
Meredith under the chin.  "Ain't afraid of your old Uncle Dancer, are
you?  Look at her!"  His laughter cackled.  "She ain't afraid of this
ugly face.  Not a lick afraid."

"Of course she's not afraid," Maggie said.  "Why would she be?

She knows you love her."

Dancer dismounted.  "Didn't say nothin' about lovin' her," he said
gruffly.  "Damn fool notion."  He jumped around a little, shaking the
dust off his clothes and the stiffness out of his bones.  He tipped
back his hat and gave Maggie a thorough looking over.  "I can see you
ain't come to any harm."

She supposed it was as affectionate a greeting as she was likely to
get.  On impulse she put her arms around Dancer and gave him a hug.

"I've missed you," she whispered against his twisted and scarred ear.

"We all have."  Maggie stepped back quickly before he became too
uncomfortable.  "I see your leg's not giving you a moment's worry.

"That's a fact."  He held out his hand to Patrick, shook it, then got a
good look at Ben's scarred forearms.  "What the hell happened to you?" 
he asked bluntly.

"Accident in the forge," Ben said.  His thick neck reddened slightly
and his face took on the same ruddy hue.  Dancer was the last person he
had expected to call attention to his scars.

"Ain't near as bad as mine," Dancer said.  "Maggie take care of you?"

"Day and night."

"She ought to be a doctor, just like she wants."  He took Meredith from
Connor.  "In case anyone cares what I think."  He sauntered off in the
direction of the house, cooing and chatting to the baby.

Smiling, Maggie looped her arm in Connor's and leaned against him.

"It's good to have him back, isn't it?  I really thought he might not
come."

Connor motioned to Patrick to take care of Dancer's horse and Ben
followed.  "Hmmm?"  he asked, realizing Maggie was waiting for an
answer to a question he hadn't heard.

"What's wrong?"  she asked, looking up at him.  His features were
drawn, the edge of his jaw cleanly defined.  His eyes had a faraway
look.

"Nothing."  She should be a doctor, he thought.  He looked down at her,
smiled, and kissed her lightly on the lips.  "Nothing," he repeated.

"It's good to have Dancer back, isn't it?"

Maggie pretended she hadn't asked him the same question, pretended she
believed there was nothing wrong.  She squeezed his arm to her side
more tightly, feeling desperate for a moment, as if he had slipped away
from her.  "Yes," she said.  "And I'm going to bake something special
to celebrate.  A pound cake perhaps.  Dancer's partial to pound
cake."

Connor's hand slipped in hers, their fingers intertwining.  She would
make a cake, he thought.  With her healing hands, his wife would make a
cake.  He wondered if he could get her to leave the valley, then he
wondered if he could let her leave.

* * * Queen's Point Beryl stayed in the background while Rushton
oversaw the loading of the wagon.  Luke and Buck pushed the last trunk
on and leaned against the buckboard to catch their breath.

"Damnable piece of luck running into them," Buck muttered under his
breath.

"Rush isn't so bad," Luke said.  "She's a piece of work though.

Stay clear of her if you know what's good for you."

"Like I said, we should've left yesterday."

"You were busy yesterday, remember?"  Luke asked.  One of his dark
brows kicked up and he gave Buck a rare half-smile.  "Blonde.

Brown eyes.  About five foot two."

"Don't know how tall she was," Buck said, grinning.  "I never seen her
standin' up."

Luke gave a short bark of laughter and pushed away from the wagon.  He
saw a black bag on the wooden sidewalk and bent at the waist to scoop
it up.  "Missed one."

Beryl stepped forward.  Her leather boots tapped lightly on the walk,
her dark brown split riding skirt swung gently about her legs.

"Don't bother with that," she said.  "I'll take it with me."

Luke put the case in her hands.  He moved out of her way or she would
have brushed against him.  He turned to Rushton.  "We're ready to go,
sir.  Both wagons are loaded.  Do you want Buck and me to each drive
one or do you want to take a team yourself?"

Rushton's obsidian eyes narrowed slightly.  There was a faint lift to
one corner of his mouth.  In that moment he looked very much like his
son.  "I'm not unfamiliar with driving a team," he said.

Luke knew about Rushton's stables in New York.  Connor had told him
about his father's matched driving teams.  "Pardon me, sir," he said
politely, "but this isn't Central Park."

"Have you ever been to Central Park?"  asked Rushton.

Luke gave his hat a slight tip with his forefinger, conceding the point
to Rushton.  "I'll be responsible for the wagon with our supplies and
Maggie's extras," he said, "if you'll take the one with your trunks and
bags."

Rushton nodded.  "Beryl?  Do want to ride in the wagon?"

She shook her head.  "I'll take the bay mare.  At least for a little
while."  She looked to her husband for a leg up.

"Here, let me have that bag.  You haven't let it out of your sight."

She smiled coyly and gave her head a little toss.  Ringlets of dark
hair swept easily past her shoulder.  "A lady can't be without her
combs, Rushton, even in this wilderness."

He laughed, shaking his head, and helped her step into the stirrup.

"You look lovely as always.  Fresh as a daisy."

Beryl wrinkled her nose at him.  It was not an attractive expression.

"I'm not a daisy," she said.  "Daisies are common."  She missed
Rushton's low chuckle as he turned away and motioned to the others that
he was prepared to start.  Beryl gave the mare a kick and moved ahead
of the group.  She held the black bag in front of her and from time to
time she twisted the catch.  She'd oiled it so it would unlock easily
and from time to time she'd do just that, easing the bag open so she
could look inside.

From time to time, she'd smile.

Maggie carried Meredith in a sling on her back as she picked spring
wildflowers.  A clearing among the trees on the hillside was proving to
be particularly abundant.  The sunny patch of high grass and flowers
was also invitingly warm.  Maggie took off her straw bonnet, let it
drop to the ground, and placed her collection of flowers inside the
crown.  She raised her face and let it be bathed in sunshine.

"Oh, Meredith, this is a day to be enjoyed.  Have you ever seen such a
sky?"

She took off the sling and laid it out like a blanket, putting the baby
down.  She sat beside her and stroked her daughter's hair.  At three
and a half months, Meredith was more recognizable as an individual in
her own right.  She squealed with excitement, chortled, and cooed.

She made eyes at her father when he approached.  She batted at things
that were put in her way and when she got something in her tiny fist
she held on stubbornly.

Lying on the blanket in the sunshine, Meredith turned her head in all
directions, trying not to miss anything.  Maggie unbuttoned her blouse,
lifted Meredith to her breast, and let her daughter suckle.

"That's what you were really looking for," she said as Meredith sipped
daintly.  Maggie watched her lovingly, slightly awed by her ability to
care for such a fragile life.

Connor came upon them sitting in the patch of sunlight.  A light breeze
ruffled Maggie's unbound hair while nothing stirred on Meredith's
protected head.  Maggie's features were serene.  The merest smile
touched her mouth as she looked fondly at her daughter.  Her dark
lashes were lowered, her brow untroubled.  It was a profoundly private
moment and Connor respected it, staying at a distance, content to have
been part of it in his own way.

He never knew what alerted Maggie to his presence.  He didn't think
he'd made any sound or movement, but suddenly he was aware of her
looking in his direction and the smile on her face was for him this
time and it beckoned.

Connor stepped out of the sheltering pines into the clearing.  His
long-legged stride brought him quickly to Maggie's side.  He was
carrying a large wicker basket and a blanket over his arm.

Hunkering down beside her, he kissed her, lingering on the mouth.

"What was that for?"  she asked, aware her heart was beating rapidly in
her breast.

He laughed softly.  "Does it have to be for something in particular?

I saw a beautiful woman sitting in the sunshine and I wanted to kiss
her."

Maggie ducked her head at his compliment, embarrassed by it.

She stroked her breast with her forefinger, helping Meredith take the
milk.

"I mean it, Maggie," he said, lifting her chin toward him.  "You are
beautiful."  Her smile certainly was.  He could never get enough of
it.

He dropped the basket and blanket and kissed her again.

Meredith was jostled from her food source and made certain her parents
knew about it.

Connor pulled back, grinning.  "Brat," he said.  He guided Meredith
back to Maggie's nipple.  "She doesn't want to share today."

"You're incorrigible," Maggie admonished.

He shrugged, unabashed.  Picking up the blanket, he unfolded it and
snapped it sharply over the grass.  He helped Maggie move onto it,
careful not to disrupt Meredith this time.  "Dancer said you took off
in this direction.  He thought you might enjoy a picnic."

"That was thoughtful of him.  And even more thoughtful to send you with
the basket."  She stroked her daughter's soft cheek.

"Meredith and I wouldn't have liked it so much with just anyone.

'She gave Connor a sidelong glance.

"All right," he said.  "It was my idea.  Are you satisfied?"

"I don't know why you pretended it wasn't.  It's a lovely idea."

He rolled his dark eyes and the hard, handsome lines of his face were
suddenly boyish.  "Maybe because you'd say it was lovely."

"Well, I won't tell anyone else, so your reputation won't suffer.

Now show me what's in that basket."

Connor knelt on the blanket and opened the basket's lid.  He pulled out
cold fried chicken, thick slices of ham, baked beans, half a loaf of
fresh-baked bread, and preserves.

Maggie's mouth watered as Connor made a plate for her, cutting the ham
and chicken so it was finger food.  She put Meredith at her shoulder
and patted her soundly on the back.  "Don't you think Luke and Buck
will be back soon?"  she asked.  "I'm getting anxious to have material
for some more clothes for Meredith and I know Dancer wants to restock
the pantry."

Connor put some strawberry preserves on a slice of bread.  "I wouldn't
be surprised if they're back this week.  There'll be mail for you from
queen's Point."

She nodded.  "Letters that have been sitting there all winter.

It's the one thing I can't get used to."

"I didn't realize it bothered you."

"It didn't when I was trying to avoid my family, but now I want them to
know everything that's happening.  You realize, of course, when Mama
and Jay Mac learn about Meredith, they'll descend on us."

"Maybe I should reconsider Rennie's offer for that tract of land."

Maggie didn't try to hide her surprise.  Her eyes widened and her mouth
gaped slightly.  "You're not serious."

"Not the land she wanted initially.  I wouldn't sell that, but I might
think about letting Northeast Rail lease a back tract that Rennie once
considered for an alternate route."

Connor shrugged.  "The Double H has different needs than it did
before.

Maybe we can't remain isolated out here.  If there was a track on the
property we'd be connected to queen's Point and Cannon Mills would be
connected to us.  Denver wouldn't seem like the other side of the earth
to you."

"It doesn't," she protested.

He wasn't listening.  "We wouldn't have to drive the herd so far and I
wouldn't have to be gone for weeks from the property.  It never
mattered before, but now .  . . with Meredith .  . ."  His voice
trailed off thoughtfully.

"You grew up here without the rails.  So did your mother."

"It was a different time," he said philosophically.  "There are more
choices now.  And I'm thinking of you, too.  You shouldn't have to wait
half the winter for the things you want, not if there's another way."

He looked at her and saw her face was ashen and that her eyes were wet
with tears.  "What's wrong, Maggie?"

"I don't want you to do these things for me," she said.  "I don't want
the valley to change because I came here.  Meredith doesn't want it
either."

He smiled faintly.  "You can't speak for Meredith."

"Don't make fun of me, Connor.  You know what I mean.  You fought
Rennie and Jay Mac because you were so opposed to having this valley
cut by a rail line.  You did whatever it took to keep your land just as
it was meant to be.  You sacrificed" He cut her off.  "What did I
sacrifice, Maggie?"  he asked softly.

"Loneliness?  Dawn to dusk work with no one to make me smile at the end
of the day?  That's all I gave up."  He put down his plate.

"You gave me back this land.  You gave me a daughter and you gave up
your dreams.  You're the one who made the sacrifice."

Though she didn't agree, she didn't know what she could say to make him
see it differently.  She wanted him to understand that she knew how he
felt about the land, that she respected and admired his reverence for
the space and the silence.  She didn't want it altered on her
account.

Connor picked up a small chunk of ham on Maggie's plate and fed it to
her.  "Eat," he said, brooking no argument.  "You'll need your strength
for what I have in mind."

Meredith belched loudly.

"That's what your daughter thinks of your suggestions," Maggie said.

"It's the middle of the afternoon!"

"So?"

Under Connor's darkly searching glance, Maggie's objections were never
voiced.  "Incorrigible," she said affectionately.

His eyes dropped to her uncovered breast as she lowered Meredith onto
her lap.  "Encourageable," he said.

Maggie smiled and drew her blouse modestly over her breast.  "In good
time," she said.  "Take your daughter and let me eat."  She handed
Meredith over.

Connor lay back on the blanket and allowed the baby to sprawl across
his chest.  Maggie dangled a sliver of tender chicken above his
mouth.

He took it with the enthusiasm of a fledgling chick.  "I could get used
to this," he said.

"Don't choke."  She began to eat from her own plate.  "And don't get
used to it."  Maggie let the silence fall over them.  It made things
seem close and comfortable.  Gradually sounds from beyond the clearing
made themselves heard.  There was the sweet song of robins and the cry
of the kingbird.  A flutter in the trees high above them signaled a
golden eagle taking flight.  Squirrels moved in the underbrush.  A pine
cone was shaken loose and dropped to the ground.  An intermittent
breeze would shift the grasses, feathering them so a dozen different
hues of green shimmered in the sunshine.

Maggie finished her meal and put her plate back in the basket.

Meredith was sleeping soundly, comforted by the gentle rise and fall of
Connor's chest and the steady beat of his heart.  He was sleeping,
too.

Maggie's smile was indulgent as she stretched out beside him and
snuggled.

It was the rifle shot that woke them.  Connor caught Meredith as he
bolted upright.  Startled by the sudden movement, the baby let out a
wail.  He handed her to Maggie and got to his feet, looking toward the
ranch house in the hope of seeing what had prompted the shot.

"I can't see anything from here," he said.  "But it can't be an
emergency or they would have fired again.  I'm going further up the
hill to the ridge.  I'll be able to see over the trees there.  Why
don't you gather up everything?  I'll be right back."

Maggie packed the basket, bouncing Meredith in one arm.  The baby's
wail calmed to a whimper.  "I know, dear heart, you want changing and
you want your papa," she said soothingly.  "And you'll get everything
you want in just a little while."  Maggie returned her daughter to the
sling and fitted it over her shoulders.  Meredith's fingers tugged hard
on Maggie's unbound hair until Maggie pulled it out of the way.  She
picked up the blanket, the flowers, and her bonnet and waited for
Connor's return.

"I thought you said it wasn't an emergency," she said as soon as she
saw his face.  His expression was grave, his dark eyes distant.

"What's happened?"

"Buck and Luke are back."

That was hardly cause for the hard cast to his features.  "Surely
that's good news," she said.

For Maggie's sake he forced a smile.  It merely set his mouth in a grim
line.  "They didn't come alone.  We have visitors."

"Guests!  But that's wonderful."

"Beryl and my father."

Maggie's jaw clamped shut.  She stared at him mutely for a moment.

"Beryl," she said tonelessly.

"My father," he said.

But Maggie didn't mind seeing Rushton again.  If not for his wife, she
would have looked forward to his visit, in spite of Connor's
apprehension.  "It'll be all right," she said, as much for her sake as
his own.

Connor said nothing.  He picked up the picnic basket and led the way
down the hill.

They met Luke and Buck first, unloading the wagons at the rear of the
ranch house.

Connor looked over the trunks still on the wagon and imagined what had
already been taken in.  "I suppose this means they intend to stay
awhile."

"Can't say as to that," Buck said.  "They didn't offer and I didn't
ask."

Connor held out his hand.  "Good to have you back, Buck.  You too,
Luke.  We didn't expect you'd be gone so long."

Luke swung a sack of flour off the bed of the wagon and tossed it
toward Ben who was standing by the door.  "We tried two different times
to get back.  There was a landslide in Jelly's Pass.  The horses could
have made it but not the wagons.  We thought about getting mules, then
figured what the hell, we'd wait for the miners to blast the route
open.  Besides that, Buck here was in love."

Maggie laughed.  "Were you, Buck?"

He jammed his hat down over his forehead and applied himself to his
work.

"I don't think he wants to talk about it," Connor said.

Luke hefted another trunk onto the porch where it was picked up by Ben
and Patrick.  "Some of these trunks are yours, Maggie.  Your sister
sent them along with Rush and Beryl."

Maggie gave Connor's sleeve a tug.  "We should go inside.  They're
waiting."

Before Connor could object, there was a scream from inside the house.

Seconds later, Dancer came stomping out the back door carrying his
belongings in a blanket.  "Hell," he said disgustedly, "I was plannin'
to move to the bunk house anyway."  He jerked his head toward the
house, his look contemptuous, and marched off the porch.

Maggie was embarrassed for Beryl's poor manners, but Connor's
expression was thunderous.  "Connor, wait," she called after him as he
started up the steps.  "She was just frightened by Dancer.  She wasn't
expecting him."

"Then she should damn well wait for an invitation next time."  He
caught the sack of sugar Buck tossed him and headed into the house.

Maggie looked at Luke and Buck, sighed, and followed her husband.

Inside, Ben and Patrick pointed down the hallway and toward the guest
bedroom.  She thought she heard them mention fainting as they passed in
the kitchen.  She could just imagine the scene Beryl might have made.

"Poor Dancer," she whispered.

They came upon Rushton and Beryl in the guest bedroom.  Beryl was lying
down.  Rushton was sitting on one of the trunks that made the room an
obstacle course.

"Father," Connor said.  His greeting consisted of that single word and
a terse nod.  "Beryl."

"Who was that man?"  Beryl asked weakly from the bed.

Watching from the doorway, Maggie noticed Connor's stepmother looked
quite beautiful with her chestnut hair splashed over the pillow and her
pale eyes beseeching.  Maggie felt like a voyeur; no one had noted her
presence.  Meredith, still slung on her back, was being blissfully
quiet for once.

"Dancer Tubbs," Connor said.  "And he was our guest."

Rushton cleared his throat as Beryl opened her mouth to take exception
to Connor's answer as well as his tone.  "I think what my son is saying
is that Mr.  Tubbs was invited to use this room and we were not."

Connor didn't respond, confirming his father's interpretation without
saying a word.

Meredith chose that moment to make certain she wasn't ignored any
longer.

Chapter 15

Maggie was aware of every eye turned in her direction.  She offered her
smile tentatively as she brought the sling around and unfastened it.

Cradling Meredith, Maggie turned and held her daughter so Beryl and
Rushton could see.  "Say hello to your grandfather, Meredith," she
said.

Rushton was on his fret immediately, stepping over bags and around
trunks to get to his granddaughter.  "May I?"  he asked.

Maggie didn't hesitate.  His dark eyes had lost their distant look as
he looked down on the baby.  So much like Connor, she thought, and they
don't even realize it.  "Here," she said, lifting the baby.

"Take her."

Rushton accepted the flailing bundle with the ease of someone used to
holding babies.  "She looks like Connor," he said.  "Same hair, same
eyes."  Meredith wailed suddenly.  "Same lungs."

Over Rushton's shoulder, Maggie saw Connor's reluctant smile.

"I think so, too," she said.  "She's beautiful."

"Babies all look alike," Beryl said.  "I can't tell one from the
other."

Rushton carried Meredith over to the bed.  "That's because you haven't
tried."  He sat on the edge and showed the baby to Beryl.

When Beryl sat up and leaned forward Meredith grabbed a handful of
chestnut hair and tried to get it into her mouth.

"Oooh, the little----.

"Beryl," Rushton said firmly.  "She doesn't know any better."

Connor came over and helped extricate Beryl.  "I think she's wet," he
said.  "Maggie?  Do you want to" "I'll take her," Rushton said, getting
up.  He walked back to Maggie.  "Show me where you change her."

Maggie led him into the hallway.  "We moved her crib back into our room
when Dancer returned," she said.  "It's just as well with you being
here now."

"I know you had no warning," he said.  "And I apologize for that."

"Really," said Maggie.  "There's no need."

He shook his head, flashing the iron gray threads of hair at his
temples momentarily.  "There's every need.  We could have stayed in
Denver a few weeks longer, at least until we could get word to you
about wanting to visit.  I think I knew that Connor wouldn't want us
here no matter what the circumstance.  Frankly, I depended on you."

"Then I'm happy you did," she said.  Maggie was careful not to
compromise her sincerity by mentioning Beryl's name.  She laid out the
changing blanket on the bed.  "You can put her down now.  She can't
roll from her back to her front yet; she'll be fine."

Rushton laid the baby down.  "What did I hear you say her name was?"

"Meredith.  Mary and Edith.  Names from both sides of the family."

"Meredith," he repeated softly.  "I like it."

She saw that Rushton was obviously touched.  "That's exactly what
Connor said when I told him."  She stripped off the baby's wet diaper
and dropped it in a pail of water.  "Would you get me that basket over
there on the dresser?  I like to put a little cornstarch on her
bottom."  Maggie fussed over the baby while Rushton watched.

She could hear voices coming from the other bedroom but she tried not
to pay any attention.  Rushton helped by keeping up a steady stream of
nonsense chatter.  Maggie was certain that if shareholders in his steel
company heard him they would be moved to sell their stocks
immediately.

"You're angry, aren't you?"  Beryl asked.

He didn't answer her directly.  "Whose idea was this, Beryl?  Tell me
that.  Yours or my father's?"

"You are angry."  Looking up at him, she coyly nibbled on the tip of
one nail.  "I suppose we thought of it together," she told him.

"I wanted to see my mother in Denver.  It would have been foolish to
have come so far and not taken a little more time and effort to see the
Double H again."

"You never liked the Double H."

"I liked it better than Denver."

"You hated Denver."

"That's what I mean."  Beryl sat up further and put her legs over the
side of the bed.  She saw Connor's sour look when her gown didn't
immediately fall over her knees and calves.  "You used to like looking
at my legs," she said, righting her petticoats modestly.

"There's still nothing wrong with them."

Connor looked at the sea of baggage around him.  "It looks like you
brought everything."

"Don't be silly.  We left a lot of things with my mother."

"Then you do plan on leaving sometime."  Under his breath, he added, "I
wondered."

Beryl stood.  Looking in the mirror across the room, she fiddled with
her hair.  "It looks as if you recovered from your aversion to your
wife," she said.  "I seem to recall something about separate bedrooms
at the St. Mark."  She gave him a sidelong glance.  "Or maybe the baby
isn't yours?"

Connor didn't offer a response.  "Anything in here belong to Maggie?" 
he asked.  "Luke said you brought some of her things from Michael's."

Beryl looked around.  She saw the black leather case sitting behind one
of the trunks, out of Connor's line of vision.  "It's all mine.

He shook his head.  "Amazing," he said softly, taking a step toward the
door.  He was brought up short as Beryl slipped her arm through his.

She stood on tiptoe, falling against him as he turned.  "No kiss,
Connor?"  she asked breathily.  "You must really hate me for marrying
your father."

He didn't hate her.  He just didn't give a damn.  Even while the words
were forming in his head he realized he'd held onto them too long.

Beryl was pressing her mouth firmly against his.  He reached for her
waist to push her away.  Out in the hallway he heard Maggie's soft
tread and his daughter's gurgling.  He managed to wrench Beryl free
before Maggie turned the corner into the room.

Maggie saw nothing but the step Connor took away from Beryl and the
look of guilty pleasure on Beryl's face.  "I came to see if Beryl needs
anything," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

She couldn't look at Connor, though she could tell he was trying to
meet her eye.  "Rushton's going to take the baby while I start
dinner."

Rushton appeared in that moment and scooped Meredith out of her
mother's arms.

"He's going to be absolutely silly about that child, isn't he?"

Beryl said as Rushton disappeared again.

"I'll see to dinner," Maggie said.

"I'll come with you," Connor said, following her.

When she was alone Beryl sat on one of the trunks.  She smiled to
herself.  Rushton might have been oblivious, but she was certain Maggie
had seen enough.

"I don't need any help," Maggie told Connor once they were in the
kitchen.  "Go talk to your father in the parlor."

"There's time enough for that," he said.  "Right now I want to talk to
you."

Maggie opened the trap door to the root cellar and climbed down.

"I'm listening," she said, her tone conveying quite the opposite.

She filled a basket with potatoes and carrots and carried it up.

Connor wasn't around when she reached the top.  "Good," she said
succinctly, satisfied and miserable at the same time.

With Dancer Tubbs in the bunk house, the hired hands were happy to eat
there.  Maggie served dinner for the family at the round oak table in
the small dining room.  There was a roast, carrots and potatoes, fresh
rolls, and thanks to Luke and Buck's timely return with sugar and
spices, there were sand tarts baking in the oven for dessert.

Meredith was sleeping when they sat down and Maggie realized belatedly
how much the presence of the baby would have buffered the tension.  It
was just as well, she thought.  It wasn't fair to Meredith.

"How is your mother, Beryl?"  Connor asked rather stiffly as he passed
the roast platter.

"She's doing well.  She has a touch of bursitis in her shoulder that
she likes to complain about."

"That can be very painful," Maggie said quietly.  "Has she seen a
doctor?"

"She doesn't like doctors," Beryl said, an edge to her tone.  "She
likes to complain."

Rushton spoke up.  "Grace doesn't think anything she's gotten from the
physician has been very helpful."  He ignored the look Beryl shot at
him.  "Do you know something that may work?  Luke and Buck were saying
on the way here that you know quite a bit about healing."

"White willow tea may relieve some of the pain.  Perhaps as little as a
cup a day might be helpful.  I could give you some of the bark to take
to her.  It's no trouble."

Beryl snorted.  "I'm not giving my mother the bark from some tree.

I don't hold to Indian remedies.  When I get back to New York I'm going
to send her some of that tonic they advertise in the Herald."

"It's likely to be alcohol with a few flavorings," Maggie said.

"Most of those tonics aren't effective."

"She's my mother," Beryl said.

Maggie cut her carrots carefully, calling on her patience.  "Of
course," she said.  "I'm sorry.  You're right."

Rushton passed the rolls to his wife.  "Here," he said.  "Put one of
these in your mouth."  When she looked at him, startled by what she
thought she heard, he merely smiled at her, his eyes giving away
nothing.  "They're delicious."

For the second time that day Maggie caught Connor smiling at something
his father had said.  She speared one of her carefully sliced
carrots.

"I haven't had time to read any of my letters.  Tell me about my mother
and father.  Are they well?"

Rushton obliged Maggie's interest, filling her in on most every
encounter he'd had with Jay Mac and Moira since the marriage.  He
watched the play of expression on Maggie's delicate features.  Her eyes
and mouth registered a myriad of emotion.  She was amused, content,
pleased, and wistful.  And throughout his storytelling he was aware he
was not the only one observing her.  When his eyes darted in his son's
direction he saw that the expression there was watchful, but carefully
neutral, shielding his thoughts in a way Maggie could not.

"I had the opportunity to read some of your letters home," Rushton said
with off-handed charm.  "I hope you don't mind that Jay Mac shared
them."

"Of course not."  She busied her hands with buttering a slice of bread,
desperate to remember what she had written that might prove
embarrassing.  Too late she realized that it was what she hadn't
written that was going to cause her discomfort.

"You never mentioned a grandchild was on the way."

Maggie couldn't help looking uncomfortable.  She was.  She could feel
Beryl's scrutiny.

Connor answered for her.  "Maggie didn't want Moira to worry and I
didn't want Jay Mac descending on us before the baby was born.  Both of
those things were bound to happen and neither was particularly
desirable.  The letters heralding Meredith's coming have all been
sent.

There'll be one waiting for you in New York."

"I see," said Rushton.  He chewed thoughtfully.  On his right he saw
Beryl's fingertips tap on the table as she counted out the months from
marriage to birth.  He lightly placed his foot on hers, caught her eye,
and cautioned her against speaking her thoughts aloud.

"Would anyone like more potatoes?"  Maggie asked, thrusting the bowl in
Connor's direction.  Her cheeks flamed when she heard her own voice
crack with nervousness.  It didn't even help that no one looked in her
direction or commented.  She gave up the bowl and applied herself to
her own meal, scarcely tasting what she ate.

Rushton steered the conversation to other topics and, to ease Maggie's
discomfort, Connor contributed more than he would have under different
circumstances.

Later that evening after Rushton and Beryl had gone to bed, Maggie
joined Connor on the front porch.  Wordlessly, he took her hand and led
her away from the house and toward the stream.  There was a perch of
rocks on one embankment and they sat there, Maggie secured in the
cradle of Connor's body, her knees drawn toward her chest, his arms
folded around her.  The night was unseasonably warm and the breeze that
lifted strands of Maggie's hair also carried the fragrance of it to
Connor's senses.  He breathed deeply and rubbed his chin back and forth
against the crown of her head.

"You were talking to him tonight," she said softly.  Her hands covered
his.  Her thumbs passed across the back of his hands.

"Really talking to him."

"What?"

"At dinner," she said.

Connor thought about it a moment.  He had been trying to save the
situation, make it less uncomfortable for Maggie, and somehow he and
Rushton had actually exchanged ideas for the better part of thirty
minutes without coming to verbal blows.  "I suppose I was," he said,
then added a little defensively, "What about it?"

"It was nice."

He grunted softly.

"It was nice," she whispered, smiling.  "And I liked the way you came
to my rescue.  Rushton, too, for that matter."

"My father started it," he said.  "If he hadn't brought up the letters
you wouldn't have been embarrassed."

"I think that was just simple curiosity on his part.  He wasn't
purposely trying to make me uncomfortable."

Connor didn't say anything for a moment.  "Why do you defend him?"  he
asked finally.

"Is that what I was doing?  I hadn't realized."

He wished he could see her face.  There was something a bit too
innocent in her tone.  "You like him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said.  "I do."  She paused a beat.  "What is it that stands
between the two of you?  Beryl?"

"God, no," Connor said feelingly.

There was something comforting in knowing that.  Maggie snuggled
closer.  "Then what?"

Moonlight was reflected on the surface of the water.  Ribbons of blue
and white light rippled and curled as the water rushed over rocks and a
single fish leaped for the light.  At Maggie's back there was a
stillness about Connor.  His chin had stopped moving in her hair.  His
arms held her but no more tightly than they had a moment before.  His
breathing was quiet.

"He killed her," he said at last.

The words simply hung there.  There was no edge of bitterness, no
accusation in the tone, only the flat conviction of truth.

"Connor?"  She turned her head and looked up at him.  There was a
certain tautness along his shadowed jaw.  She touched him there.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he killed her," he said.  "He left the Double H in the middle
of the night, skulked out of here like some damn cattle rustler, and
never looked back.  My mother wasn't the same after that.  She was
buried fifteen years later, but she died that night.  It's hard to
forgive him for that."

Maggie felt as if her heart were being squeezed.  "How old were you?"

He shrugged.

"How old?"  she repeated.

"Seven," he said, then added in a voice that seemed almost that young
with its raw pain, "I watched him leave."

"Oh, Connor," she said softly.

"I don't want your pity."

"I'm not offering it."

Connor wasn't so certain.  He started to move away but Maggie held onto
his arms and kept him close.

"No," she said.  "Don't go.  I want you to know what I'm offering isn't
pity."  She hesitated, searching for the right words.

"I'm listening," he said.

"I suppose I do feel sorry for the little boy who lost his mother and
father on the same night, but I keep thinking that he was onyl seven
and he can't have possibly known what took place between his
parents."

"You're wrong," Connor said.  "You're forgetting I had my
grandfather.

He told me what my mother never would: that Rushton left with silver in
his saddle bag."

"Silver?  But what" "Old Sam struck a vein on the land years ago.  He
never did anything about it.  Just kept the silver in a few jars in the
root cellar.

When he saw that my father wasn't satisfied with life here, when
Rushton kept pushing my mother to leave, Old Sam offered him the
money.

My father took it and ran.  It was enough for him to buy his way into
the steel business.  He parlayed it into a fortune while my mother
worked herself into an early grave.  That's what I know."

Maggie was silent for a moment, then she said, "I'll only say it this
one time, Connor: you still don't know what was between your parents,
and if you don't speak to your father about it now, you never will."

This time it was Maggie who moved.  She released herself from Connor's
arms and stood.  She touched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Good night."  Maggie walked back to the ranch house and didn't look
back until she reached the porch.  Connor was still sitting on the
throne of rocks, staring at the moon's reflection, surrounded by the
space and silence.

The next morning after breakfast, Maggie found a few minutes for
herself and her daughter.  The hands were working on rebuilding some
fences, Dancer was preparing the afternoon meal, and Connor had taken
Rushton and Beryl on a tour of the property.  Maggie and Meredith
shared the braided oval rug in the parlor and played with a cloth ball
and wooden rattle that Ben had fashioned for the baby.

The wicker laundry basket beside them tumbled as Maggie rolled Meredith
onto her stomach, then onto her back.  The baby laughed and kicked her
chubby legs when she was buried in a mound of clothes.  Things
scattered and a three-legged stool was overturned in their energetic
play.  Maggie blew kisses against her baby's smooth belly.  Meredith
giggled, puckered her lips, and made incoherent sputtering sounds.

Maggie's thick hair was loosened from its pins and tickled Meredith
with its curling ends.

"This is very touching," Beryl said from the parlor's entrance.

Her voice suggested otherwise.  She came into the parlor, kicking aside
some of the clothes that lay strewn in her path, and sat in one of the
chairs.  "Please, go on.  Don't let me stop you.

Maggie sat up and made an attempt to straighten her hair.  She
reanchored the pins and smoothed the crown.  "I thought you were with
Connor and Rushton," she said.  Ignoring Meredith's whimper, Maggie
began tossing clothes back into the wicker hamper.

"They were going farther than I wanted," she said, shrugging.

"I've ridden most everywhere on the property anyway.  There wasn't
anything I wanted to see."

Maggie was sure Beryl might have thought differently if she'd been
alone with Connor, but she decided not to say so.  "I'm going to do
some washing," she said.  "Perhaps you would watch Meredith for a
while?"

Beryl glanced at the baby, who was quietly sucking on the rattle.

She didn't answer Maggie's question.  Instead she asked one of her
own.

"How long were you Connor's whore before he married you?"

Maggie's breath was simply expelled from her lungs.  Her brows arched
toward her hairline.  Her knuckles whitened around the clothes she
clutched.  "How long were you Connor's whore before you married his
father?"

Beryl's slow smile was feral.  Her pale blue eyes saluted Maggie's
comeback.  "Touche'."  She pushed at a lock of her dark hair, curling a
tendril around her forefinger.  "Let's just say that I never seriously
worked the profession the way you did."

Maggie schooled her features.  "I don't know what you mean," she
said.

Beryl pointed to Meredith.  "Is she Connor's child?"

"Your question's insulting."

"I'm sorry," she said coolly.  "I don't know how to pose it in any
other manner.  Is she?"

"You only have to look at her to know the truth."

"Which is not precisely an answer."  She sighed.  "Poor Connor.

He wonders, you know."

Maggie's shoulders stiffened and her chin came up.  She felt like a
fish with Beryl dangling the bait.  In spite of that knowledge she
couldn't help herself.  She bit.  "How do you know that?"

Beryl's oval face was tilted to one side momentarily.  The expression
in her eyes was pitying, the set of her mouth soft.

"How could I possibly know if he didn't tell me?"  she asked quietly.

"Oh, he wants to believe she's his.  That's what makes it such an agony
for him.

He wishes he could be certain he was the only man you had, but .  .

Her voice trailed off She studied Maggie's pale features.  "When you
work as a lady of the evening for Mrs. Hall, you're bound to have more
than one partner."

Maggie's heart slammed in her chest.  Beryl's revelation stunned her.

"How do you~" Beryl's dark brows rose again.  "I've said it before.

How could I know if Connor didn't tell me?"

Maggie wondered if she couldn't believe it, or if she didn't want to
believe it.  "When?"  she snapped.  "You haven't been here but a
moment."

"You keep forgetting," Beryl replied calmly, "that my relationship with
Connor goes back several years.  I think I know when something's
troubling him.  I spoke to him last night."

"I was with him last night."

"I know you were," she said.  "For a while.  I saw you from my bedroom
window.  You left him sitting alone by the stream.  I went out after
you came in.  We talked for a long time."

Maggie remembered waking when Connor came to bed.  She had no idea what
time it was when he joined her but she had been sleeping hard.  He had
warmed himself against her, sliding his cold hands along the curve of
her hip and waist, teasing her until she poked him in the ribs.  "You
talked to him about Meredith?"  she asked.

"I asked about him," she said.  "He told me about Meredith."

"He actually told you about Mrs.  Hall's?"

"He actually did."  She smiled gently.  "But you're beginning to
realize the truth in that, aren't you?  I really couldn't know
otherwise.

Maggie couldn't think of an alternative explanation.  She pitched the
last of the clothes into the basket, added Meredith on top, and stood,
scooping the basket under her arm.  "I don't think I want to spend any
more time alone with you, Beryl.  If Connor told you these things then
I'm certain he meant them to be held in confidence."

She laughed lightly.  "Oh, I'm quite certain he didn't.  Connor knows
me as well as I know him.  He told me because he knew I'd ask.

Is the baby his, Maggie?"

She started to walk out of the room.

"Don't you want me to watch Meredith?"  asked Beryl.

"Go to hell."

Beryl's smile rose slowly and smugly.

Rushton looked over the valley from the rocky ledge that he shared with
his son.  "You've done right by Edie's dreams," he said.

His gaze turned from the breadth of the homestead laid out before him
to Connor.  "You love it the same way she did."

"What do you know about her dreams?"  he asked.  "Or about what I
love?

You weren't around long enough to know either one of us."  It came out
in the rapid fire of a machine gun burst and Connor regretted all of it
immediately.  "Never mind," he said tersely.

"It's Maggie's fault.  She got me thinking."  He started to go but
Rushton reached over and grabbed Tempest's reins.  The horse pawed the
ground nervously.  Stones from the ledge slipped over the hillside,
skittering and bouncing along the rocky incline.  "Are you trying to
kill me?"  he demanded, taking his mount under control.

"No," Rushton said calmly, "I'm trying to make you listen.  Just this
once, hear me out."

Connor sat in the saddle stonily.  He didn't move.

"That old man poisoned you against me," he said.  "He couldn't stand
the thought of his grandson leaving this valley the way his sons did.

He pinned every hope he had on Edie, forced her to take up the
commitment he had to this ranch and this land."  When he saw Connor
wasn't bolting, Rushton's tone became less earnest, less bent on
convincing.  "The thing of it was, your mother loved this place.

For Edie, living here and loving it was as natural as breathing.

Perhaps it was because she was a woman that your grandfather didn't
trust her.  Perhaps it was because he had already had three sons
leave."  He was quiet a moment.  "Or perhaps it was because I
represented a threat to him, someone from the outside who had elected
to stay.  Old Sam certainly didn't trust me.  He thought I might give
Edie notions about leaving, fill her head with what the city had to
offer.  Your grandfather never saw me as Edie's anchor here.

He was sure I was going to take her away."

"You asked her to leave," Connor said.  "I know.  I heard you talking
about it.  So Old Sam was right."

"I asked Edie to leave more than a dozen times," Rushton admitted
without shame.  "But never once until she told me to go.

Connor's head jerked to the side.  He stared at his father's chiseled
profile.  Rushton's mouth was grimly set, the edge of his jaw, hard.

But the profile couldn't hide the glimmer of something wet at the
corner of Rushton's eye.  "My mother told you to go?"  said Connor.

Rushton nodded once.

"You're lying."  Connor spurred his horse around and left his father
alone on the ledge.

Dinner that evening was a silent affair.  Beryl offered a few
conversation gambits but no one was interested.  Meredith seemed to
sense the tension and grew cranky as the meal progressed.  Almost
relieved for the excuse, Maggie left the table with her daughter and
retired to the bedroom.  Rushton went to the bunk house a few minutes
later, ostensibly to play poker with the hands.  Beryl began clearing
the table.  Connor walked out to the corral.

"Thought you might be out here," Dancer said as he approached the
corral fence.

Connor continued grooming Tempest, stroking the stallion's flank with a
hard brush.  "Thought you'd be playing poker."

Dancer grunted.  "No one around here has nuggets.  It ain't worth
playin' unless you got nuggets."

Laughing, Connor patted Tempest's hindquarters and sent him preening
and prancing to the far corner of the corral.  "Not everyone has a gold
mine, Dancer."

"Don't I know it."

Connor leaned against the rail and stretched his legs.  "Was there
something you wanted?"

"Did you take your pa around the south end of the ranch today?"

"No.  Some reason why I should?"

"Went down that way myself this afternoon.  Frankly, I couldn't stomach
the company 'round here, but that ain't my business."

Connor knew there was no love lost between the prospector and Beryl.

"What is your business?"

"I think you got rustlers stealin' from your herd down that way."

He saw he had Connor's complete attention.  "Don't know it for a fact,
but the signs look right."

"Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I'm sayin' something' now."

Connor whistled sharply.  Tempest's ear's pricked.  The stallion
trotted along the perimeter of the corral to Connor's side.  Connor
hefted his saddle off the top rail and slung it over Tempest's back.

"You want to show me where?"  he asked, fastening the straps.

"It's near dusk," Dancer pointed out.  "It'll be hard to track."

"I don't plan on doing anything tonight," he said.

"All right."

They set out ten minutes later, taking the first part of the journey
swiftly.  Dancer was not a tracker by nature, but Connor had no trouble
finding the signs.  Grass was trampled.  There were broken branches
where horses and cattle had passed hurriedly.

"Not Indians," Connor said.  "They'd never be this obvious.

Looks like the work of two men.  They picked out the grazing stragglers
and didn't go for the heart of the herd."

"How many you reckon they got?"

"A dozen."

"They're long gone then."

Connor dismounted and went forward on foot for awhile.  It took him
less than ten minutes to find the remains of a fire.  "They were pretty
certain we wouldn't see the smoke from the house.  This was a big fire
and they weren't in any hurry to leave."

"Figure they plan to come back this way?"

"That's exactly what I figure."  Connor glanced up at the sky.

There was virtually no daylight left.  "We'll start out tomorrow.

They were headed for your property, Dancer.  They could be holed up at
your cabin."

"Like hell."

Connor grinned as Dancer spit to emphasize what he thought of rustlers
using his place.  "Come on," he said.  "Maggie's going to be
worried."

"Don't count on it," Dancer muttered.

"What?"  Connor glanced over his shoulder.  "Did you say something?"

"Never mind.  Keepin' my nose out of people's business."

"Sounds more like your nose is out of joint."  He waited to see if
Dancer was going to reply.  When the prospector didn't, Connor shrugged
and led the way back to the ranch.

Beryl was waiting on the porch.  When she saw them approaching she
smoothed her lavender gown over her midriff and hips and tripped
lightly down the steps and across the yard.

Dancer saw her coming first.  "Here's trouble," he said under his
breath.  More loudly he added, "I'm going' 'round to the bunk house and
tell the others what we found.  You take care of the animals."

He dismounted and got out of Beryl's way before she reached them.

Connor slid out of the saddle and took both horses by the reins.

Ignoring Beryl, he led them into the stable and into their stalls.

"What is it now, Beryl?"  he asked, lighting a lantern.  He hung it on
a hook just outside the stalls.

"You might make me feel a trifle more welcome," she said, sidling up to
the first stall.  Her face was bathed in the warm lantern light.

She watched Connor work for a while before she said casually, "Your
daughter's lovely.  If she is your daughter, that is."

His head came up and he looked at her sharply.  "What the hell is that
supposed to mean?"

"'just that I know Maggie was the whore you met at Mrs. Hall's
brothel.  I imagine it's hard to know which dark-haired, dark-eyed
patron fathered that baby."

"What the hell goes through your mind, Beryl?"  he asked angrily,
striking the offense before she cornered him.

She shrugged delicately.  "Have I misspoken?"  she asked.  "I thought
since Maggie shared it with me I could talk plainly to you."

Connor's eyes narrowed as he looked at Beryl for a long moment.

"Maggie told you about Mrs.  Hall's?"  he asked, suspicious.

"How else could I possibly know?"

That was something worth finding out, Connor thought.  "Meredith is my
child and if you think Maggie told you something else then you
misunderstood her."

"Perhaps I did," Beryl said softly, backing off slightly.  "Tell me
something, Connor, was she pregnant when you married her?"

"I didn't think so," he said.  He rubbed down Dancer's horse.  "It
didn't have anything to do with why I married her, Beryl, so stop
barking up that tree."

She laughed lightly.  "What an unpleasant picture."

"It suits you," he said bluntly.  "You're a bitch."

Beryl blinked.  The line of her mouth hardened.  "You'll regret saying
that."

He stared her down.  "A bitch in heat."

She slapped him.

Connor didn't respond except to become very still.  He saw Beryl
flinch.  After a moment he pushed past her and went into the next stall
to take care of Tempest.

Beryl recovered and followed him.  "Your wife's not happy here," she
said.

Most anything else Beryl could have said, Connor would have ignored.

This barb struck an open wound.  "Did Maggie say that?"  he asked
cautiously.

"What do you think?"  she countered.  Before he could reply Beryl went
on.  "When I was in Denver I spent some time with her sisters.

There was talk of Maggie wanting to be a doctor.  I confess I find the
whole notion rather odd, but then she comes from a rather odd family,
don't you think?"

Connor didn't reply.

"Do you think she resents you for getting her pregnant?"  asked
Beryl.

She leaned against the side of the stall and crossed her arms in front
of her narrow waist.  "You might not have known she was carrying a
child, but she knew, and with all the bastards in her family, what
choice did she really have?"  Beryl shrugged.  "You have to admit,
Connor, it seems Maggie gave up medicine to come out here.

If I had a dream like that I wouldn't be happy with anything less."

Connor gave Tempest a slice of apple from the flat of his palm.  He
glanced sideways at Beryl, his dark brows drawn.  "You did have a
dream, Beryl.  You wanted to marry money and get out of Colorado, and
you'd almost given it up when you met my father.  Strange, though, you
got exactly what you wanted and you haven't been happy since.  That
doesn't leave you in a very good position to know Maggie's state of
mind."  He brushed his hands off on his jeans and started to move out
of the stall.

Beryl blocked his path.  "It was never just about money with your
father," she said.  "And never just about getting east."  She put her
arms around Connor's waist.  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you
what it was about."  She raised herself on tiptoe and pressed her mouth
against his.

Connor simply picked Beryl up and set her away from him.

"Where did you get the idea I might love you?  You're an astonishingly
beautiful woman, Beryl" Maggie stepped into the stable holding Meredith
in her arms.  Her features were expressionless.  In that moment she
taught her husband about cold and distant eyes.  "Rushton's looking for
you, Beryl," she said flatly.  "I told him I thought you were out
here."

"And here I am."  Beryl smiled coyly at Connor.  "I guess that means
I'll excuse myself" Her walk was deliberately provocative as she left
the stable and slid one last, over-the-shoulder glance at Connor before
she disappeared into the night.

Tempest snorted and moved restlessly.  An owl in the rafters flapped
its wings and hooted.  A litter of kittens mewled for their meal in the
loft.  For more than a minute the animals provided the only sounds.

Afraid that she'd sound like a harridan or a harpy, or start screaming
and never stop, Maggie remained silent.

"Maggie," Connor said quietly, gently.

It was the voice he used on the horses, she thought.  That low, lullaby
tone that kept them calm while he reined them in.  It was the soft,
sweet cadence of capture.  She wasn't having any part of it.

Connor raised his hand, reaching for her as she turned to go.  His
outstretched arm remained suspended, just inches from her.  He could
have extended himself and touched her.  Instead he did nothing.

Lowering his arm, he watched her walk away.  He'd wondered how he would
convince her to leave the Double H. Now he knew.

Maggie was sitting in the rocker nursing Meredith when Connor came back
to the house.  She didn't look up as he entered the room or at any time
while he was getting ready for bed.  Meredith watched him, though, and
to Connor's guilty conscience even his daughter's eyes looked faintly
accusing.

"I heard we have rustlers," Maggie said, lifting Meredith to her
shoulder.

"That's right."  Connor slipped under the covers and rolled on his
side, propping himself on an elbow.  "Dancer found their trail.

We're going after them tomorrow."

"Do you hunt them down or lie in wait for them to come back?"

"Either.  This time, a little of both.  Patrick, Ben, and Luke will
wait for them.  The rest of us are going hunting."

"The rest of us?"

"Dancer, Buck, and me."

Meredith burped.  "There's a good girl," Maggie praised her.  "Are you
ready for sleep?  Hmmm?"  She kissed her daughter's cheek.

"What about Rushton?"  she asked Connor.

"What about him?  My father's not going."  He held out his arms as
Maggie rose from the rocker.  She handed him Meredith and he rolled on
his back, letting the baby rest on his chest.

Maggie unbuttoned her dress.  "He thinks he is," she said.  "In fact,
I'm certain he's counting on it."

"Then he should count on something else.  It's too dangerous.  He
hasn't done any hard riding for years and I'm not sure he can handle a
gun.

"He was examining your gun case earlier.  He looked as if he knew which
end to point."

Connor paused in stroking Meredith's silky cap of dark hair.

"What are you saying, Maggie?  That I should take him along just
because he can still get on a horse and hold a gun?"

"No, of course not."  She unhooked her button shoes and rolled her
stockings down and off.  "You have to decide if he would be a help or a
hindrance.  I just don't think you should ignore him."

"Did he put you up to this?"

"No!"  She let her dress drop to the floor, stepped out of the circle
of material, and went to the wardrobe to get her nightgown.  "I just
think you should consider the consequences of not taking him with
you.

It would be a slap in the face."

Connor's reply was a soft, noncommittal grunt.

Maggie picked up Meredith, held her above Connor's face for a kiss,
then laid her in the crib.  She stood over the bed, patting Meredith's
bottom gently while the baby squirmed and squealed.

Connor blew out the lamps and the baby quieted almost immediately.

Maggie gave it a few more minutes then crawled into bed.

She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling.  She could feel Connor
watching her.  The very thing he expected her to talk about was the
very last thing she wanted to talk about.  Her emotions were too raw to
bring Beryl into their bedroom.  "What happened between you and your
father today?"  she asked quietly.  Even though they weren't touching,
she felt him stiffen and knew she had struck another nerve.  "I know it
was something," she said.  "You and he went riding this morning in
reasonably good spirits.  You haven't exchanged five words since."

Connor didn't answer right away as his thoughts drifted back over the
conversation with Rushton.  "I asked him why he left," he said
finally.

"He made my grandfather the scapegoat, said Old Sam thought he'd take
my mother away from the ranch.  Convenient, since Old Sam isn't in a
position to defend himself."

That hadn't settled well with Connor, Maggie knew that, but some sixth
sense told her there was more.  She waited, using silence to draw him
out.

"He told me my mother asked him to leave the Double H."

Maggie expelled a breath she hadn't known she was holding.

"You didn't believe him."

"I called him a liar."

"Oh, Connor," she said softly.  "Can't you imagine any reason that Edie
might have wanted Rushton to go?"

He didn't hesitate.  "No," he said.  "No reason.  She loved him.

He was everything to her, more important than Old Sam, or me, or this
ranch.  When you love someone like that you don't think about asking
them to leave."

Her voice was gentle.  "Don't you?"  she asked.  "Even if you thought
they were miserably unhappy?"

This time Connor didn't answer.

Maggie and Beryl stood on the porch at daybreak, watching the men ride
out.  "There's no good reason for him to go," Beryl said angrily.  "He
could get himself killed."

Maggie gave her a sideways glance.  Beryl's profile was stark, her skin
pale.  "There's every reason," she said.  "It's not in him to ask
others to do what he won't do himself."

"He didn't ask anyone."

"I suppose he didn't.  But it's his land, Beryl.  His
responsibility."

"Not any longer."

Frowning, Maggie turned to face Beryl more directly.  "What do you
mean?  Of course the ranch is his."

The line of Beryl's dark brows made her blue eyes seem even lighter.

The corners of her mouth were pulled in a frown.  "What are you talking
about?"  she asked, clearly bewildered.  "He sold the ranch."

"Sold it?"  Maggie's green eyes clouded, then cleared.  "Sold it," she
repeated softly.  She realized then their entire conversation had been
at cross purposes.  Beryl wasn't worried about Connor.  Her concern and
her anger was directed at Rushton.  "Of course," she said.  "I don't
know what I was thinking."  Maggie hurried into the house before Beryl
could see the smile she couldn't quite hide.

Dancer glanced over his shoulder in time to see Maggie return to the
house.  "Well," he told the others, "they ain't killed each other
yet."

Buck laughed.  Rushton and Connor made no comment.

"Course, if we're gone more than a day," he mused, "anything's likely
to happen."

Connor shot the prospector a sour look.  "You'd do better to think
about what's ahead than what we left behind."  It was his last word on
the subject and Dancer took the hint.

The group split at the site where the rustlers had built their
makeshift camp.  Patrick, Ben, and Luke found places to hide among the
trees and rocks while cows grazed on the grassland below them.

Theirs was a waiting game.  Connor led the others further south to
Dancer's property.  Theirs was a hunt.

From time to time during the trek, Connor's eyes shifted from the trail
to his father.  Rushton was holding his own, even, Connor thought,
looking comfortable in the saddle.  As the morning passed with no
sighting of the rustlers, Buck and Dancer fell back on the trail and
spread out, leaving Connor and Rushton to ride in tandem.

The sun beat down on them warmly while the breeze was cool.

Connor brought the brim of his hat down to shade his eyes.  "Maggie
thinks I should listen to you," he said.

"Did she say that?"

"Not in so many words."  His smile was brief and a trifle
self-mocking.

"Maggie never uses very many words."

"I've noticed that."

"She makes you think, then she makes you think it was your idea."

"Clever woman."

Connor shook his head.  "Not clever.  Wise.  Maggie is wise."

Rushton glanced at his son.  "You love her."

"You sound surprised."

"Shouldn't I be?  This marriage wasn't to your liking and I'm not
really sure it was to hers.  I wasn't even certain that you and Maggie
were still together.  Her letters to Jay Mac didn't ring true of life
here at the Double H, and she had next to nothing to say about you."

"Is that why you came out?  To see for yourself?"

"Now you sound surprised."

Connor shrugged.  His eyes scanned the narrow pass they were about to
enter.

"Edie wanted me to leave the Double H," Rushton said, "but she never
meant for you and me to be estranged.  Why do you think she sent you
east for your education?  Why do you think she never willed the Double
H to you?  She meant for this land to be our connection."

"You were going to sell our connection," Connor said.

"It brought you home."  "This is my home," he said.  "Your deal with
Jay Mac took me to New York."

"You wouldn't have come any other way."

"And we both know why."  There was no need to explain.  Connor had
invited Rushton to Denver to meet his fiancee and attend the wedding
and Rushton was the one who got married.

Rushton's dark eyes studied his son's face.  "Are you really sorry you
didn't marry Beryl?"

There was no hesitation on Connor's part.  "Hell, no."

"Then put it in the past."  He looked ahead again.  "When I left the
Double H I didn't know I'd never live with your mother again.

She gave me Old Sam's silver nuggets to start a business in the
east."

"Old Sam said he bribed you to leave with those nuggets."

"You can call me a liar again, but that's not how it was."  He waited a
moment.  Connor said nothing.  "She was going to join me when I was
settled and I was foolish enough to believe she meant it.

I suppose she knew I'd never have gone otherwise."  He was quiet and
thoughtful.  "Edie thought I was miserable here and Old Sam made
certain she kept on thinking it.  I never really understood then why
she was so adamant that I get out.  It took me a long time to realize
she meant to be noble, sacrificing her happiness for mine."

He glanced in Connor's direction again.  "But the hell of it is, she
never asked me if that's what I wanted."

Connor was quiet, thinking.  He shook his head, his slight smile filled
with self-mockery.  "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"So I've observed," Rushton said gravely.

Appreciative of his father's dry pronouncement, Connor's glance slid
sideways.  He missed the flash of sunlight in the ridge of pines above
them.

Rushton didn't.  He wasn't aware of any conscious thought on his
part.

He simply reacted, pushing Connor out of the way and shouting a warning
at the same time.  It was odd, he thought, how he could feel the impact
of the bullet in the very moment he heard its report.

Chapter 16

Connor grabbed his rifle from the scabbard and fired two shots into the
tree line above him.  He heard a shout, but in the pass it was
difficult to know its origin.  Using Tempest for cover, Connor helped
his father down from the saddle.  Rushton was holding his shoulder.

Blood seeped through his fingers.

"Can you get to those rocks?"  asked Connor, pointing to the boulders
behind him.

Rushton nodded.  His face was ashen and he was breathing hard, but he
was game.

"All right.  On my signal.  I'll cover you."  Connor fired into the
trees again.  "Now!"

Both men scrambled up the hillside.  Stones slid under their feet as
they searched for purchase.  There was more gun fire.  A rock shattered
near Connor's left hand, showering him with shrapnel and dust.  He
pushed his father up the incline, rolled on his back, and shot again.

This time something moved in the trees.  Connor made it to cover just
as one of the gunmen fell from the low hanging branches of a pine.

Rushton leaned back against the protecting rock.  He pulled out his
gun.

"You need that hand to hold your wound," Connor said.  "You're damn
well not going to bleed to death on me."

Rushton grinned.  "Just as well.  I haven't shot one of these in
years."  He passed his gun to Connor.  "Where are Dancer and Buck?"

"Circling 'round.  They were back far enough that they probably weren't
seen."' He took off his hat, put it on the end of his rifle, and raised
the barrel slightly above the boulder that shielded them.

A bullet struck the hat, spun it on the barrel.  Connor lowered the
rifle, took off the hat, and showed Rushton the hole by poking his
finger through it.  "Looks like we're stuck until the cavalry gets
here," he said philosophically.

One corner of Rushton's mouth rose.  "You sorry you let me

come?"

Connor realized that his father had overheard some part of his
conversation with Maggie the night before.  He answered honestly,
tearing off a piece of his shirt to bind Rushton's wound.  "There's no
one I'd rather have with me."  He handed his father the strip of
material.  "Here, hold this while I look at the damage."  He caught and
held his father's eyes for a moment.  "And thank you," he said
huskily.

"That's the second time you've taken something I thought also was
intended for me."

"The second?"

"Beryl was first," Connor reminded him.  "And I don't think I've ever
thanked you properly for that."

Rushton grunted softly as Connor examined the wound.  "I didn't do that
for you.  I'm not that selfless."  He tried to get a look at his
shoulder while Connor probed.  "And Beryl's not quite what you think
she is," he said.

"We could get nose to nose," Connor said, "and never see eye to eye on
Beryl."  A bullet ricocheted off the boulder.  Connor and Rushton
ducked instinctively.  "Hold this dressing in place," Connor said,
reaching for his gun.  "I want to have another look."  He turned and
knelt, facing the boulder.  Instead of looking over the top he edged
around the side.

The body that had fallen out of the trees was still lying on the
hillside.  The neck lolled sideways at an odd angle.  Connor doubted it
was a bullet that killed him.  The man's hat had slipped off his
head.

His curly brown hair was powdered with rock dust.  Even in grotesque
death there was something familiar about the shape of the man's broad
face and the color of his hair.

Whistling softly as he made the connection, Connor ducked back behind
the rock.

"What is it?"  asked Rushton.  "More trouble?"

"Not exactly.  I think I know who the rustlers are."  He gave his
father a brief account of his encounter with Tuck and Freado at
Dancer's cabin, raising more questions than he wanted to answer.

"Let's just say one of them looks like another of them.  They're all
kin and it would be hard to find a good apple in the barrel.  My guess
is they figured what happened to Tuck and Freado and came looking for
Dancer.  Somehow they tracked him to the Double H."

"Then they're not after your cattle."

"That was to get us out, but they'll take 'em."  A shot was fired from
their side of the hill.  "I hope that's Dancer or Buck," Connor said,
"otherwise we're not safe here."  Several more shots were exchanged.

None of them came near the boulder.

In spite of the pain throbbing in his shoulder, Rushton managed a dry
grin.  "It's the cavalry."

"Seems that way," said Connor.  "I'm going to help."  Without another
word Connor left the safety of the boulder and scrambled higher up the
hillside.  Covering fire came from above as Connor dove behind another
outcropping of rocks.  From his new vantage point he could see
Dancer.

"Where's Buck?"

"Comin' at them from the other side," he called back.  "Thought you
might need some protection over here."

Connor ducked as a bullet came overhead.  "It's appreciated."

"There sure as hell are more than two of them and I'm not countin' the
one you got already.  I reckon four, maybe five."

"They're kin to Tuck and Freado," Connor said.

"That a fact," Dancer drawled.  "Then we got the whole clan."

Beryl sat at the kitchen table watching Maggie peel potatoes.

"Aren't you worried?"  she blurted out.

"Worried?"  asked Maggie.  She looked up at Beryl, her brows arched in
disbelief.  "That hardly describes it.  I'm terrified."

"You have an odd way of showing it."  As far as Beryl could see, Maggie
had let nothing interfere with her routine.  She'd done housework most
of the morning, fed Meredith, prepared lunch, ironed, and was now
preparing dinner.  For her part, Beryl had found nothing could take her
mind off things.  "You haven't gone to the window once today."

"I'm letting you do that.  I have to keep busy in other ways."

Maggie reached behind her, opened a drawer, and pulled out a paring
knife.  She slid it across the table.  "Try peeling some of these."

"You don't even know if they'll be home for dinner."

"I'm hopeful."  She rolled a potato toward Beryl.  "Peel."

Beryl peeled.  "How could you let Connor go this morning?"

"How could I not?"  She paused in her work, cocking her head to one
side as she thought she heard Meredith.  There was another whimper then
blessed silence.  "I can't stop him from running this ranch.  It would
be like asking him not to breathe."

Beryl tossed the peeled potato into a pot of cold water and picked up
another.  "That's what he asked you to do."

"What do you mean?"

"I always heard you wanted to be a doctor."

"That's true.  But Connor never asked me not to do it.  That was a
decision I made on my own."  Her smile was gentle.  "Not quite on my
own.  Meredith was an influence."

Beryl shook her head slowly, studying Maggie with her pale blue eyes.

"You're happy here, aren't you?  You actually like the Double H."

Maggie stopped peeling.  Without thinking about it, her gaze drifted to
the kitchen window where she could see the tall trees and grassland,
the distant peaks and azure sky.  "It's different from anything I've
ever known," she said almost reverently, "but I feel as if I belong
here."  She met Beryl's curious eyes frankly.  "It's hard to know which
part of it is because of Connor, which part is Meredith, and which part
is just me.  Perhaps there's no separating any of it.

But, yes, Beryl, I'm happy here.  Very happy."

Beryl Holiday merely shook her head.

"Wonder what Maggie's got cookin' tonight," Dancer said.  The lull in
the gunfire had already lasted more than twenty minutes.

The prospector's thoughts had turned to dinner.  "You think she's
expectin' us?"

"I think she'd like to see us," said Connor.

"Reckon Buck's hungry about now."  Dancer's head cocked to one side to
catch the direction of the low rumble that caught his attention.  "That
your stomach, Rushton?"  he hollered.

"It wasn't," he called back.  His wound had stopped bleeding.  It ached
abominably but Rushton was happy to be alive.  "But it could have
been."

"Hear that, Connor?"  Dancer said.  "Your pa's hungry.  Seems like we
ought to settle this showdown by sundown."  He cackled gleefully,
scrambled to a kneeling position behind his rock, took aim, and ended
the lull in the battle.

Maggie sat on the first step of the porch, teasing Meredith with a
rattle.  Beryl sat on the rocker behind them, pushing it back and forth
with an intensity that wasn't meant to be relaxing, but to use up
nervous energy.  Listening to the incessant creaking, Maggie thought
she understood why Freado had shot the chair from under her.

Suddenly that whole encounter seemed wildly funny.  Maggie's smile
widened, a giggle erupted, then she was laughing deeply and heartily.

Meredith stopped her flailing to watch the play of expression on her
mother's face.  Her eyes widened and rolled comically.  Her chin
quivered.  Then her mouth opened and the beautiful sound of baby
laughter, clear, honest, and purely joyful, tumbled out.

Beryl's shoulders began to shake as she attempted to stifle her
laughter.  She didn't know what she thought was funny or what anyone
else thought was funny, she only knew that suddenly it was impossible
not to laugh.  Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and she didn't
bother to brush them away.  She tried to catch her breath between waves
of hard laughter, gulping the air as though she were thirsty for it.

Maggie's lap shook, bouncing Meredith, as they laughed together.

Beryl's own laughter made it difficult for them to stop.  The three of
them took turns instigating another round of helpless, healing laughter
until they were simply unable to go on.

Maggie reached for the hem of her gown and drew it to her eyes.

She dabbed at them, then at her wet cheeks.  Then she sighed deeply,
shaking her head, her smile rueful.  "That felt good," she said.

It had, Beryl thought.  And she still didn't know how or why it had
started.  The smile she offered Maggie was tentative, as if she
expected rejection.

Maggie lifted Meredith so she could look at Beryl.  "See that pretty
lady there," she said softly to the child.  "That's your
stepgrandmama.

Ooops, there went her smile."  She paused, watching Beryl closely.

"No, not quite.  See, it's tugging at the corners of her mouth again.

She's struggling, but.  .

Beryl laughed and leaned forward in the rocker.  She spoke to
Meredith.

"That's right.  I'm your stepgrandmama and this is the only time I'm
saying it.  I'll never answer to it and if you call me anything but
Beryl I won't send you presents from New York."

Meredith listened to Beryl, her small head tilted to one side.  Her
dark eyes were solemn and unblinking.  One of her chubby hands unfolded
and she made a reaching gesture in Beryl's direction.

"Imp," Maggie said fondly.  "You heard the word "presents" and you're
ready to make friends."  She held her baby out to Beryl.

"Little mercenary," said Beryl, scooping up Meredith.  She tapped the
infant on her button nose.  "I think I like that."  She glanced at
Maggie through the fan of her dark lashes but continued to speak in
singsong fashion to Meredith.  "Your mama doesn't know whether to also
take me seriously.  No, she doesn't.  Wait.  She's smiling just a
little.

Oooh, there it is.  The whole smile.  Just like yours."

Maggie leaned back against the porch support.  Her smile gradually
faded from fulsome to wistful.  Twilight hung like a blue-gray shroud
over the ranch.  "It doesn't seem as though they'll make it back
tonight," she said quietly.

Beryl's pale eyes looked toward where she expected the riders to
appear.  There was no sign of them.  Anxiousness stirred in her
again.

"Have you ever shot a gun?"

The question surprised Beryl.  "A few times.  I can hit the broad side
of a barn.  Why?"

"I just wondered."  She hesitated, wondering what she could tell
Beryl.

"I wish I didn't have to stay here, waiting.  I wish I could have gone
with them this morning."  She sighed.  "At least I would know."

Beryl nodded.  "Men don't understand about the waiting.  They don't
understand the toll it takes."

"Edie would have gone with them."

"Probably."  Beryl's eyes drifted back to the baby she cradled in her
arms.  She touched Meredith's chin with her forefinger.

"Rushton says that Edie could do most anything."

Watching Beryl's pensive expression, the knit of her dark and delicate
brows, Maggie asked softly, "He talks about her?"

"All the time."  Her half-smile was self-mocking.  "I don't think he
even realizes how often.  Sometimes I think .  . ."  She shrugged.

Maggie waited, silent, but Beryl offered nothing else.  "Are you tired
of holding her?"  she asked.

"No, I'm fine."  She looked up, her features set softly in the dusky
light.  "That is, if you don't~" This time Maggie realized that Beryl
broke off purposely as something beyond Maggie's head caught her
attention.  Maggie's head swiveled as she strained to see what Beryl
had seen.

At first it was only shadows, near-shapeless and shifting forms moving
slowly through the fading light.  The shadows were bunched, coming
forward almost as a single mass; then they seemed to splinter,
separating as they approached, becoming more recognizable.  The lead
horses and riders broke with the pack suddenly and thundered toward the
ranch house.  There were shouts that were not understandable but
clearly communicating jubilation in volume and tone.

Maggie stood, listening for one voice in the midst of all the others.

Behind her she sensed Beryl rising and moving to the lip of the
porch.

Turning, Maggie took Meredith into her arms.  Both women stood silent
and still, straining to see and hear.

Buck and Patrick reached the porch first, cheering and whooping as if
it had been a race and they'd won the prize.  Ben came in just behind
them, stirring a dust cloud as he pulled his mare sideways to keep from
colliding with the others.

Maggie was on tiptoe now, looking over them and past them, trying to
see the rest of the party.  Beryl had moved to the bottom step, her
entire upper body leaning forward in anticipation.

Luke brought his mount up sharply, shaking his head at the antics of
the others.  Dancer loped in beside him.  He tipped his hat to the
women and grinned widely.  "Sure hope you saved us some."  he said.

"Hell of a thing, bein' late for dinner."

Beryl was running now, her sights set on the last two riders.

Half the hands turned to watch her.  The other half watched Maggie to
gauge her reaction.  What they saw caught them all off guard: Beryl's
run never veered once toward Connor, and Maggie's features were serene
and untroubled as though she had expected nothing less.

Maggie smiled at Dancer and handed Meredith to him.  "Here, take her.

She missed you."  Then she followed in Beryl's wake.  and Connor pulled
up his horse, dismounting quicky as Maggie came upon him.  She nearly
leaped in his arms.  He lifted her, laughing, and returned the kisses
she scattered over his face.  Her whispers of welcome and longing
warmed his skin, touched his soul.  He held her closely and then his
mouth found hers.  The kiss held, healing and deeply hungry in the same
moment.

"Maggie," he said huskily.  He kissed her again, this time on the
corner of her mouth.  He tasted the salty wetness of her tears and he
said her name reverently this time, knowing the tears were for him.

Her smile was watery.  "Next time, I'm going," she said.

Even in the deepening twilight, he could see that she was serious.

He didn't say no.

"Are you two quite finished?"  Beryl asked sharply, helping Rushton
dismount.  "Some people come home in one piece and some people don't.

Put your arm around me, Rush.  That's it."

Connor set Maggie away from him and went to help his father.

"It's just a scratch, Beryl," Rushton said gruffly as Connor took

Beryl's place.  "It hardly aches now."

"Scratch!"  Her voice rose.  "Maggie, look at it!  He's got a hole in
his shoulder and he can barely walk!"

"I've been riding and crouching the better part of the day," Rushton
told her, limping along.  "I'm not stretched out yet."

* Beryl grabbed Maggie by the arm and pulled her along as Connor helped
Rushton to the house.  "Stretched out!"  she cried.  "Any more of this
damn foolishness and you'll be stretched out in a pine box."

"Pine box?"  He grinned, turning his head to look at his wife.  "I
think we can afford better than that."

She raced around Rushton and Connor, forcing them to halt in their
tracks as she turned and faced them.  "No," she said firmly, fists on
her hips.  There was high color in her cheeks and her pale blue eyes
glittered angrily.  "There'll be no we then.  So help me, Rushton, I'll
have you buried in a pine box and I'll keep all your money."

Through her haze of fury she saw his dark eyes widen slightly, his jaw
loosen and drop a notch.  "You can't be surprised," she went on.

"It's what you expect from me, isn't it?  It's all you've ever expected
from me.  I couldn't have married you because I loved you.  That would
have been inconceivable.  It must have been for your money.  It must
have been because I wanted to live somewhere where the buildings
towered over us and not the mountains.  I couldn't have chosen you over
your son for any reason but money and position."  She looked from
father to son and back again, tossing her head in agitation and
disgust.  "It's easy to live up to expectations when they're like
either of yours."  Beryl pointed to Maggie who was watching her calmly,
letting her have her say.  "She figured it out."

On that note Beryl spun on her heels and stormed into the house.

Dancer laughed his high-pitched cackle as the door slammed behind
her.

Meredith burbled.  Patrick pushed back his hat and scratched his
head.

"What the hell was that about?"  he asked the other hands.

No one answered him.  Maggie opened the door for Connor as he helped
his father onto the porch and inside.  "Take him to his room and get
him out of that shirt.  I assume the bullet went through."

"Clean through."

"And that Dancer's already taken care of it."

"As best he could."

"All right then," she said.  "I'll get my herbs."  She started to go,
but a hand laid gently on her wrist stopped her.  At first she thought
it was Connor, then she realized it was Rushton.

"You figured it out?"  he said quietly.

Maggie shrugged.  "Beryl's giving me more credit than I deserve," she
said.  "It took me until you rode out this morning."

Rushton shook his head.  Even through his pain he managed a rueful
smile.  "That's more than twelve hours ahead of me."

"She loves you," Maggie said simply.  "When you think about it both of
you, you'll realize that it explains everything."

They watched her go.  "Wise," Connor repeated softly.  "Maggie's
wise."

Maggie steeped washes to cleanse the wound and teas to relieve the
pain.  She showed Beryl how to apply the wash and the balm and let her
give Rushton the tea.  It was material from one of Beryl's petticoats
that was fashioned for Rushton's sling.  No one mentioned the lace
edging around his elbow when Beryl slipped his arm into it.

Connor came up behind Maggie in the kitchen.  She was standing over the
stove, stirring clear chicken broth.  His arms folded around her and he
took her slight weight as she leaned into him.  He kissed her lightly
on the crown of her head.  "Let Beryl do that," he said.

"She's enjoying herself."

"So is your father."

"I've noticed."  Connor slid his palms along Maggie's ribcage, past the
curve of her waist, to her hips, then up again.  "I'd like a beautiful
woman to pay attention to me," he whispered.

"Beryl's busy."

He gave her a small squeeze, letting her know what he thought of
that.

"Your daughter's sleeping."

Connor nuzzled her hair and removed the chicken broth from the stove.

"You're the woman I want," he said gently.  "And I know just where I
want you.

Maggie's protest died away when she turned and saw the loving look in
Connor's eyes.  "For all time," she returned quietly.

"You've got to want me for all time.  I won't let you send me away."

The merest flicker of his darkly mirrored eyes gave him away.

"How did you know?"

She searched his face, the stoic features that no longer kept secrets
from her.  She touched the side of his jaw, her thumb brushing just
beneath his lower lip.  "How could I not know?"  she asked
plaintively.

He reached for her hand, stilling it.  His fingers closed around her
wrist.  He drew it away from her face and toward his side, then he led
her out of the house and toward the stable.

Night cloaked the valley.  Lantern light flickered from the bunk
house.

There was a shout of laughter from that direction, followed by Dancer's
distinctive cackle.  Maggie looked sideways at Connor.

"Someone's embellishing your standoff with the rustlers," she said.

"I've heard the story from Dancer and Rushton and they're both twists
on the truth.  No one really finishes a shootout because they're
hungry."

"If they get hungry enough they do.  We were and we did."  He saw she
didn't quite believe him and Connor was fine with that.  He didn't want
to talk about killing rustlers or debate western justice.

Dancer's random firing into the trees brought down another cattle thief
Buck, in the rear position, wounded still another.  Connor wounded two
as they scrambled for higher ground and better cover.  Surrender of the
last uninjured man came quickly after that.  Two of the wounded were
mere boys, thirteen and fourteen, and even knowing that he'd likely
have to face them again as men, Connor let them go.  The others
hanged.

"It had to be," Maggie said, responding to things left unsaid.

He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer as they
walked.  "Do you always know the right thing to say?"

"Hardly ever."

"Then maybe it's the way you say it.  Your voice is as soothing as one
of your special teas."

Maggie thought she liked the sound of that.  She kissed him on the
cheek as they entered the stable.  Connor gave Maggie the lantern to
hold as he lit it, then he hung it on a hook by the doors.  "Where are
we going?"  she asked as he began to lead her away from the entrance.

He pointed to the loft and nudged her toward the ladder.

She dug in her heels and gave him a saucy glance.  "You're going to
tumble me in a hayloft?"

"I certainly hope so," he said feelingly.

Grinning, Maggie hiked up her skirts and climbed the ladder.

Connor gave her a boost over the top by palming her bottom and
pushing.

She obligingly went down in a thick mound of hay.

Laughing, she held out her arms to Connor.

He knelt beside her.  A rush of emotion left him without a voice for a
moment.  Her face was simply radiant.  She stared at him with eyes that
were like twin jewels.  Her smile beckoned him.  And her laughter
cleansed his soul.

His fingers touched her temple.  She turned her cheek in to him,
rubbing against him in a sensual feline gesture.  His hand delved more
deeply in the dark coppery fire of her hair.  He stretched out beside
her, hay cushioning their bodies.

"Love me," he whispered.  "Heal me."

She took him into her arms.  Into her heart.  Then into her.  She
bathed his face in soft, sweet kisses.  Her fingers fluttered along his
shoulders.  She cradled him with her body.  And he gave her pleasure.

Her flesh vibrated with sensation as they moved together.

Fierce need drove him into her again and again.  She accepted the force
of him because her need mirrored his.  She wanted to feel him
everywhere.  His hands in her hair.  His mouth on her breasts.  She
needed to feel him between her thighs, in her and against her.

Her legs wrapped around his flanks.  She ground against him.  He knelt
back, lifted her bottom, looked at their joined bodies, withdrew and
plunged into her again.  The stab of pleasure was intense enough to
make her cry out.  Her neck arched, then her entire body.

He absorbed her shudder then let her absorb his.  Their flesh seemed to
ripple with the after shock.  He collapsed against her, rolling onto
his side, then his back, and took Maggie with him, supporting the
length of her against him.

She smiled down at him, her teeth flashing briefly before the curtain
of her hair blocked the light from below.  "Tell me about

Beryl," she said huskily.

He blinked, surprised.  "You do pick your moments."

Maggie nudged his nose with hers.  "Tell me," she said.

Connor shifted so Maggie could slide onto her side against him.

He liked the way she kept one leg over his, liked the proprietary
air.

"I met Beryl in Denver," he told her.  "Almost two years ago.  She was
working in her mother's dress shop."

"And since you needed a dress .  .

"And since I was walking by the shop on my way to the saloon I happened
to see her through the window.  I thought she was pretty."

"She's beautiful."

"All right.  She is beautiful."  He noticed that Maggie's expression
didn't change.  It didn't matter to her that he thought Beryl was
beautiful.  It was a fact, more simply, an act of nature.  "I courted
her, brought her and her mother out to the Double H, and~" "You brought
her mother here?"  Maggie asked incredulously.  "I never knew that."

"You never wanted to hear before, remember?"

Maggie's fingers had been drumming lightly on his chest.  They stilled
for a moment as she realized there had been times when he wanted to
explain.  "Go on."

"I was being gallant," he said.  "And respectable.  Grace came along as
Beryl's chaperone."

"Are you saying that you and Beryl never" He put a finger across her
lips.  "No," he said.  "I'm not saying that.

I wish I could."

It was what she had expected, exactly what she had always thought, but
it was still difficult to hear.  "You didn't know me then."

"That's right.  I didn't even know someone like you existed."

Maggie placed her hand over his heart.  "Do you always know the right
thing to say?"  she asked.  She kissed him lightly on the mouth.

The kiss lingered a moment.

Connor pulled a piece of straw from her hair as she leaned away
again.

"Almost never," he said.

She smiled.  "What happened then?"

"At Beryl's suggestion I invited Rushton here for the wedding and she
ended up marrying him."  There was no bitterness in his voice; saying
the words without it was a new experience for Connor.

"She fell in love with him," Maggie said softly.  "And neither of you
could believe it."

"We refused to believe it, I think.  I know I did.  I couldn't accept
her choosing my father over me.  My pride was battered.  I beat his
down as well."

"He was still willing to marry her on any terms."

Connor nodded.  "But the seed had been planted.  He never believed she
married him for love."

"She was angry at him for that," Maggie said.  "Angry at you both.

She became what you expected her to be.  Vain.  Shallow."

One of his brows rose.  His glance was skeptical.  "Let's say that she
emphasized those traits," he said dryly.  "They were certainly
there."

"Perhaps," Maggie said.  "She's also very clever."

Clever, Connor thought.  Yes, it was the right word to describe
Beryl.

Unlike Maggie.  He simply smiled at her, listening.

"She tried to make Rushton understand," she went on.  "Tried to make
him prove he felt something for her by making him jealous."

"He was jealous."

"But he never really let her know that.  And she couldn't find any way
to tell him how she felt.  Then you married me and her dilemma became
even more complicated.  She couldn't make him jealous if you seemed
totally unavailable.  If Rushton knew you loved me, really loved me,
then he could be certain you wouldn't take an interest in Beryl.  You
had to seem available.  She doubled her efforts to get back at both of
you.

"I know," he said.  "I was there.  Through all of it."

Maggie plucked a piece of straw from the mound and traced Connor's
lower lip with one end.  "Your pride's not stung again, is it,
realizing she never wanted you at all?"

His pride was stung.  "I think she wanted me a little bit," he said,
his tone sulky.

Maggie laughed.  "I'll scratch her eyes out," she said fiercely,
growling playfully as she nuzzled Connor's neck.

He was forced to laugh at himself.  That was the secret of Maggie's
real healing, he thought.  "I believe you would."

"Of course."  She laid her head in the curve of his shoulder.

"When I saw you with her here in the stable, I almost did."

Connor remembered the coldness in Maggie's eyes on that occasion, the
emptiness that had made her expression bleak.  "I hurt you.

I'm sorry."

"No," she said.  "I hurt me.  I didn't trust you and that's what hurt
me.  It frightened me when you left this morning and we hadn't talked
about it, even more so when I realized it was Rushton that Beryl truly
wanted, and how misplaced my anger was.  If anything had happened to
you .  . ."  She didn't finish.  She couldn't.

Connor stroked her hair, his fingers sifting through the silky
strands.

"I was going to make you leave," he said quietly.  "And it occurred to
me that Beryl might help me drive you out.  You were right not to trust
me completely.  God, Maggie, I want to make you happy."

"That's not your job," she whispered, tears gathering in her eyes.

"In fact, the pursuit of happiness is one of my inalienable rights."

She lifted her head so he could see her face.  "I'm happy now," she
said.

"With you.  With Meredith."

"You should be a doctor," he said.  "Not a rancher's wife.  If I leased
some land to Rennie for the railroad we would have the money" "I
wouldn't go back east without you," she said.  "I won't go anywhere
without you.

"Then I'll go with you while you study."

"Oh, Connor."  She framed his face with her hands.  "What a beautiful
gesture."

It was a gesture, he realized, because they didn't have the money and
Maggie didn't have an acceptance from any medical school.  "I mean it,
Maggie," was all he could say.

"I know you do."

He had to be satisfied with that.  Connor turned on his side and
fingered the edge of Maggie's chemise.  He traced the swell of her
breasts.  "My mother told my father to leave the Double H," he told
her.

It was difficult to think with his hand moving slowly over her skin.

"You believe Rushton, then?"

"I have to, don't I?  When I realized that I was prepared to do the
very same thing to you, it all seemed clear.  He said she never once
asked him if he wanted to go."

"You've never really asked me," Maggie said.  Her breath caught as the
heel of his hand passed over her nipple.  "But, no, I don't want to go
. . . not without you."  Her breast seemed to swell in the cup of his
hand, stretching the material of her chemise.  "Did you ever mmm.  .

.

tell Beryl about the.  . . mmmm.  . . brothel?"

He liked the way she hummed her pleasure.  "No," he said.  "She told me
you did."  He lowered his head as he tugged at her chemise.

Her breast was bared.  He covered it with his mouth, sucking gently.

"I wonder" Fire shot through her limbs, tugged at her loins, and
brought her hips arching against him.  "how she knew."

Connor had more important things on his mind.  He didn't try to
respond.  In a little while Maggie forgot anything but whispering
Connor's name.

By turns they were demanding.  By turns they surrendered.  They shared
kisses, traded caresses.  "Your mouth," he said.  "Here."

And then he drew her down.  "Touch me," she said.  "There?"  he
asked.

His fingers stroked.  "Yes," she whispered.  "just there .  . .

oh, and there."

Her skin was warm and soft.  The hay shifted under them as they
moved.

Kittens peeked from behind a mound then disappeared again.  He raised
her chemise to her hips.  She opened to him.

"Like that?"  he asked.  She nodded, watching him.  'just .  . . like
that."

Pleasure drawn so tightly had to snap.  Maggie's breath came shallowly,
her skin flushed.  Connor's heart hammered.  Their bodies were faintly
damp when they finally parted.

She drew one finger back and forth along his arm as he held her to
him.

"I like being tumbled," she said.

"I thought you might."

She fell asleep smiling.

* * * Fifteen days came and went before Beryl pronounced Rushton is
well enough to leave.  Over the course of his recovery she had attended
to all his needs, eschewing help from every quarter.

Watching her come and go, even Dancer was impressed.

Beryl smiled more easily, not a calculated arrangement of her mouth but
openly, with genuine amusement that brightened the pale blue of her
eyes.  Rushton's gaze was most often wondering, like a man struck by
good fortune so suddenly he could not quite comprehend it.  He saw
Connor laughing with Maggie, and knew they were both pleased and amused
by the way his eyes followed Beryl as she moved through a room, or
stared at her vanishing point the moment she left.

The remoteness disappeared from his dark eyes, the lines in his face
eased, and once again the resemblance between father and son was
striking.

Rushton read a great deal during his confinement.  He grumbled there
was not much a wounded man could do in bed.  His wife took pleasure in
showing him otherwise.

Maggie was pleased to see Rushton and Connor talking together, trading
ideas about the ranch, about the railroad, about... women.

Overhearing them on the subject of the latter, she smiled to herself
and kept silent.  Sometimes it was good to be such a mystery to her
husband.  Later, she told Beryl what she'd heard and they laughed
together until their sides ached.

It was within minutes of their planned departure that Rushton motioned
Beryl to step inside their bedroom and shut the door.

Packed trunks and valises littered the floor as Beryl stepped carefully
around and over them to reach her husband.  He was standing by the
bedside table, a book in one hand, a letter in the other.

"What have you got there?"  she asked.

He handed her the letter.  "I was getting ready to return this book to
Connor's study.  I've never had a chance to read it.  That fell out
when I was leafing through the pages.  You can see it's addressed to
Maggie."

She glanced at the letter.  "It's from a medical college."

"Read on," he said.  "It's dated last April.  It must have been slipped
into the book then and forgotten.  The book was probably stored at her
sister's until we brought it out.  I'm sure Connor's never seen that
letter."

Beryl placed a finger on Rushton's lips.  "Let me read," she said, her
eyes skimming the contents.  Taken aback, she read more slowly the
second time: It is a great pleasure to accept your application to the
Philadelphia Medical College for Women.  In examining more than one
hundred and fifty applications, the admissions board agrees that yours
is particularyl outstanding.

We welcome the opportunity to meet with you and discuss your curriculum
and boarding arrangements.

The letter went on, praising Maggie's accomplishments and commitment in
having chosen medicine as a profession.  Beryl's eyes kept returning to
the very first sentence.

"Maggie was accepted," she said softly, raising her face to Rushton.

"She turned them down, not the other way around."

"It looks that way," he said.

"Who knows about this?"

Rushton shook his head.  "I think we do.  She's let everyone believe
just the opposite, including Connor."

"What should we do?"

"Go on letting everyone believe it, I suppose.  It's Maggie's affair.

She had her reasons."  One of them was napping in a crib in the next
room.  Rushton took the letter from Beryl, folded it, and slipped it
back into the leather bound copy of Gray's Anatomy, just the way he
found it.  "She's had more than her share of interference in her
life.

Her father .  . . me .

"Me," Beryl said regretfully.  She took the book back from him.

"Let me think about this."

"Beryl.  I don't want-" She placed one hand on his shoulder, raised
herself on tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek.  "Trust me this time,
Rush," she said.  "I won't interfere.  Just the opposite, in fact."

He studied her face.  Her eyes were clear and so was Rushton's
conscience.  "All right."  He kissed her lightly on the mouth.

"I'm going to tell Connor we're ready to have the wagon loaded."  He
glanced around the room.  "Is this everything?"

Beryl's glance followed her husband's.  She nodded, satisfied.

"Everything."  When Rushton left, Beryl kicked the black leather bag
back under the bed.

* * * Standing on the lip of the porch, Maggie watched Connor say
goodbye to his father.  Tears gathered in her eyes and she blinked them
back at first, then simply let them fall.  One of them dripped on
Meredith's cheek.

"Let me take her before she drowns," Dancer said.

Maggie gave him a watery smile and handed over Meredith.

"I didn't expect to cry," she said.

Dancer snorted, bouncing Meredith lightly in his arms.  "Don't know how
you expected anything less.  Look at 'em.  It weren't so long ago that
one'd say black and the other white just as a matter of principle."  He
grinned widely, one side of his scarred face puckering.

"Now they disagree 'cause they enjoy it."

As Dancer spoke, Maggie saw Rushton lean down from the wagon and extend
his hand to Connor.  It was grasped firmly, held, and given up
reluctantly.  Connor stepped back from the wagon.  Maggie could see the
emotion in his eyes mirrored in his father's.

Rushton glanced at the house and said roughly, "Where's Beryl?"  and
The front door opened.  "I'm coming," she said, hurrying across the
porch.  She stopped beside Maggie and held out Gray's Anatomy.

"I didn't have time to put this away," she said.  "Rushton was looking
through it last."  Her voice dropped to a whisper and her pale blue
eyes were earnest.  "You may want to think about the bookmark you left
in there.  Connor would want to know, but it's your decision."

Without waiting for recognition or a reply, Beryl thrust the book in

Maggie's hands, hugged her hard, then tripped lightly down the steps.

Connor helped her into the wagon.

Beryl secured her bonnet, fastening the lavender ribbon beside her
cheek.  She waved to Meredith, smiled farewell to Dancer, and had
something to say to each of the hired hands.  Her gaze drifted to the
porch where Maggie stood clutching the book.  She kept her eyes on
Maggie, but her words were for Connor.  "If she loves you as well as
you love her, I'd say you got what you deserved."

Glancing at his wife, Connor grinned.  He took the steps to the porch
in a single leap and came to stand beside Maggie.  He put one arm
around her and pulled her close.  "If she loves me half as much, I'd
say I still got the better of the bargain."

Embarrassed, Maggie leaned into Connor and merely smiled to herself.

Rushton picked up the reins.  "This is it," he said.  He looked around
again at the trunks, bags, and supplies in the back of the wagon.  "Or
is it?  Beryl?  Where's that black case you couldn't let out of your
sight on the way here?"

Beryl fiddled with her bonnet ribbon, making adjustments where none was
required.  "What, dear?"

"That black case," Rushton repeated.  "The one that looked like a
physician's bag.  I think you kept your brushes and combs in it."

"Oh, that thing.  Don't worry about it, Rush.  I left it for Maggie."

She spared a glance for Maggie and Connor on the porch.  They were
simply staring at her blankly.  "I left it under the bed in the guest
room," she told them.  Beryl took the reins from Rushton's hands and
gave them a snap.  The team started forward.

The sky was clear.  Sunlight had burned off the early morning mist and
shone brightly in the valley.  The wagon rolled past the stable, the
corral, and took the path that followed the stream.  No one at the
house moved until it was out of sight.  Gradually the hired hands
drifted back to their work, Luke and Ben to the horses, Buck and
Patrick to the cattle.  Dancer kept Meredith with him and headed for
the kitchen.  Connor and Maggie stood together, feeling the tug of
separation as a loneliness in their hearts.

"I didn't think I'd miss them," Connor told her, giving Maggie's
shoulders a slight squeeze.  "Do you remember the day they got here?

God, I wanted to run for cover."

"You'll get your chance.  It's only a matter of time before Jay Mac and
Mama descend on us.  They'll probably bring Skye.  Then Michael and
Ethan and Madison will want to visit... and Rennie and Jarret."

Just thinking about it made Connor want to seek out a retreat.  "I
suppose the best cover is with Mary Francis at the convent."

Maggie laughed.

"What's that that Beryl gave you?"

"Gray's Anatomy," she said.  "It's one of my books I left with
Michael.

She or Rushton were looking at it.  I'll put it away."

She kept it close to her side, her heart pounding a little
erratically.

She would tell Connor about the medical college one day, but not now,
not when he would have to move heaven and earth to make her dream come
true.  "Let's go in."

Connor nodded.  He waited by the door to the study as Maggie shelved
the book.  They headed down the hallway again.  A few steps on the
other side of the bedroom that Rushton and Beryl had used, he
stopped.

Maggie paused, looking sideways at him.

"What is it?"  she asked.  Connor's brows were drawn, his dark eyes
vaguely unfocused as he looked right past her, deep in thought.

"Connor?"

Tugging on Maggie's sleeve, he backtracked to the open doorway.

"Do you remember what my father asked Beryl just before they left?"

Maggie was struck by the urgency in his voice.  It was completely at
odds with what he was discussing.  "He asked if she had all her
belongings."

"That's right," he said quickly and prompted her again.  "And he was
looking for .

"Beryl's combs and brushes."

"No!"

"Well, he was looking for the bag they were in.

"That's right!"

"Do I win something?"  she asked, bewildered.

Connor's face cleared.  He burst out laughing, picked Maggie up, and
spun her into the room.  "If I'm right, you've won all the money in the
kitty."  He set her down, steadied her, and dropped to his knees beside
the bed.  Thrusting his arm beneath the frame, Connor felt around.

Suddenly his hand touched what he was looking for, what he was hoping
to find.  He drew it out slowly, watching Maggie all the while.  "All
twelve thousand dollars," he said, pulling out the bag.

Amazement stole her breath as Connor opened the black valise.

Memories that had only vaguely teased her rushed to consciousness.

"Oh, my God," she whispered hoarsely, dropping to her knees.  Even her
voice was suddenly familiar, the aching whisper of someone who needed
help desperately and had depended on this visitor to provide it.  Quite
without thinking, Maggie touched her throat.  "It's like you said
before," she told him, "I thought you were a doctor."

He nodded, watching her closely.  Her expression was distant as memory
drew her backward in time.

"You gave me whiskey," she said slowly.  "I thought it was for
medicinal purposes."

He vaguely remembered saying something like that.  "I wanted you to
relax."  His breath came easier when he saw her smile was wistful, not
accusing.

"I was very relaxed .  . . very .  . ."  Her voice trailed off; then
she added on a somber note, "I wanted you."

Connor waited as Maggie let silence stretch between them.

"Afterward I was afraid .  . . I was ashamed."

"Maggie," he said gently.

"No.  It's all right."  Her face cleared as she looked at him
directly.

"I don't feel that way anymore.  But then... you have to understand I
didn't know what I was doing afterward."

"What are you talking about?"

"That," she said, pointing to the bag.  "I never looked inside it.

I needed somewhere to hide my nightshift after I got dressed.  I
stuffed it in there and ran out of Mrs. Hall's with your case.  When I
got home I threw my clothes and the nightshift in the fire and pushed
the bag under my bed, out of sight.  The next morning I didn't remember
anything about it.  Never once, in all this time, did I really believe
I took your money."

Maggie's green eyes were filled with regret.  "I'm so sorry," she
said.

"I've never .  . . I'm so sorry."

Connor picked up the bag and turned it over.  Bundles of paper bills
dropped like stones to the floor.  He picked up one, untied it, and
tossed the money in the air.  It burst like a roman candle over their
heads then fluttered toward them.  When Maggie reached out to catch
one, it was her hand that was caught.  She was pulled slowly,
inexorably toward Connor.

"I'm not," he said.

There was nothing remote about the distinct gleam in his eye.  Epilogue
May 1884

The auditorium was crowded with family, most of it, it seemed, by the
same family.  That was certainly Connor's point of view when he glanced
over the first three rows before he sat down.  He picked out Schyler's
beacon of red hair immediately as she craned her neck to see the stage
and his ears caught Mary Francis's bright laughter.

Michael was sitting next to Ethan, her arm curved under his.

Beside them, Madison teased her little brother with the end of her
pigtails.

Rennie and Jarret sat together, separating their young twin daughters
on either side.  The girls were peeking around their parents, giggling
as they communicated with glances and gestures.  Rushton was there and
Beryl was beside him.  He held his three-year-old son in his lap while
Beryl surreptitiously fed the boy small pieces of a cookie.  John
MacKenzie Worth was glancing at his pocket watch, then at the stage,
then at his wife.  He looked as if he might be about to grumble about
the late start of the ceremony, but then his wife touched his hand and
smiled gently at him.  Anything he was about to say was simply
swallowed.

Connor took his seat beside Dancer Tubbs.  The prospector was wearing a
new suit and a shirt so white he complained it would near blind him
before the day was out.  Meredith climbed from Dancer's lap onto her
father's.  Connor helped her straighten her dress.

"Will it be soon?"  she asked in a whisper loud enough for two-thirds
of the guests to hear.

"Soon," he said, pressing his forehead against hers.

Almost immediately there was a stirring in the crowd as the Dean of the
Philadelphia Medical College walked on stage and took his place behind
the podium.  Silence settled as anticipation held the audience still.

Madison stopped teasing her brother, the twins ceased giggling, Beryl
put the cookie away, Meredith sat primly, and even Jay Mac Worth was
properly subdued.

"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests.  . . it is with great pride that
I present the graduating class of 1884."

It was no light, polite applause that attended this announcement.

As the curtains swept open and the twenty-three women on the stage were
revealed, the auditorium thundered with the crowd's approval.

Looking out from her place on the stage, it seemed to Maggie that most
of the thunder came from the first three rows.  She saw them all in a
single glance: her mother and father, all the Marys, Jarret, Ethan, the
nieces and nephews, Rushton, Beryl, Dancer, Meredith then Connor.  He
held her glance as he applauded her and she was honored by what she saw
in his eyes: fierce admiration for her accomplishment.

She wanted to go to him.  She wanted to leave the stage and go to him,
let him take her in his arms and hold her.

As if from a great distance she heard her name being called.  She
thought when she stood she would fall, that her legs couldn't support
her.  Connor would, though.  Mentally she reached for him and the
answer was there as he leaned toward her.  She stood slowly, hesitated,
looked to him again.  His smile pushed her forward as she walked across
the stage and took her place at the podium.

Dr. Mary Margaret Holiday unfolded her notes and began her valedictory
speech.

"Come to bed," Connor said, watching his wife with some amusement.

"It's been a long day.  Or do you want to sleep with that instead?"

A little guiltily, Maggie laid her diploma down.  "It's going to take
some getting used to," she said, "but I'm not prepared to sleep with
it."  She turned back the table lamps so only a flicker of light
remained and climbed into bed beside Connor, nestling next him.

Her hair lay like fiery silk against the pillow.  "Sometimes I
despaired of this day ever coming," she said quietly.  "This afternoon
I thought I'd never wanted it to end.  But now, with you here, I'm glad
it has."

She rubbed her cheek against his chest, stroking his arm idly.  "You've
given me so much .  . . left so much behind .  . ."  She turned,
lifting her face to see him better.  She touched his jaw with her
fingertip, brushed it along the strongly carved line.  "You've
weathered four years in the east pretty well, but I'm recommending the
Colorado cure.

"The entire state?"  he asked, one brow kicking up.

"All the Double H," she said.  "Space and silence .  . . Meredith
doesn't even remember."

"Do you think she'll like it there?"

They had been away four years while Maggie went to school.

Connor had left the ranch in Luke's capable hands.  Dancer gave up
prospecting and stayed on as a cook.  Ben and Patrick and Buck remained
loyal to their boss in his long absence.  There were a few more hands
Luke had hired that Connor didn't even know.  Leasing the back quarter
of the property to Northeast Rail had made the ranch busier than
ever.

Cattle drives were shorter, civilization closer, but the valley was
largely untouched.  Maggie had no fears of how their daughter would
respond to the breadth of the sky and the lay of the land.  "She's
every inch her father's daughter.  She'll love it."

She said it with such conviction that Connor was forced to believe
her.

"Did you hear her this afternoon?"  he asked.  "She was so excited."

"Everyone heard her," Maggie said dryly.  "At least I think she was the
only child there who interrupted my speech with, 'Is Mama ever going to
stop talking?"

Connor squeezed Maggie's shoulders, chuckling.  "You've never been
accused of talking too much before."

She had to smile.  "Everyone important in my life was there."

'Jay Mac was beaming.  You would have thought the entire thing was his
idea."

"I'm sure it was .  . . in his mind."  She began stroking his arm
again.  "It doesn't bother you?"

He shook his head.  "I know the truth."

So did Maggie.  Connor Holiday had made his magnificent gesture a
reality.  His long-lost poker winnings bankrolled her education and
their home in Philadelphia for the duration of her studies.  He argued
with her objections until she tripped over herself and mentioned the
acceptance she had turned down a year earlier.  After that he just
ignored her.  He knew it was what she wanted and in the end she
admitted it to both of them.  "Rushton will be sorry to see you go."

"He'll have to find someone else to manage his Philadelphia steel
mills."

She tapped him lightly on the arm.  "He'll miss you for more than
that."

"I know," Connor said after a moment.  "It will take some getting used
to.  I've become accustomed to this arrangement .  . . the
closeness."

Maggie knew he wasn't merely speaking of geography.  She slid one arm
across his chest.  "You heard him today at the reception; they'll visit
us."

Connor kissed the crown of her head.  She couldn't see his wicked
smile.  "Do you realize we'll have to add more rooms to the ranch
house?"  he asked.

She became very still.  "Why is that?"  she asked, carefully neutral.

"Because if everyone who said they'd visit, does, we'll be sleeping
under the stars ourselves."

She relaxed.  "You can't imagine how much I'd like that."

"Hmmm," he said, kissing her again.  "I'd like that, too."  The
pressure of his mouth changed slightly as the kiss lingered, then
deepened.  "But we should probably still add a room," he whispered
against her lips.  "For the baby."

Maggie's eyes opened.  "Meredith's not a" She stared at him more
intently, saw the hint of laughter in the shape of his mouth and the
warmth of his eyes.  "How long have you known?"

"A few days."

"I was going to surprise you."

"I'm surprised," he said agreeably.  He rolled Maggie onto her back.

Her arms looped loosely around his neck, her fingers threading through
the dark hair at his nape.  His eyes darkened, touching her with their
unwavering intensity.  "Love me," she said softly.

He touched her nose with his, his lips a moment away.  "Shhh," he
whispered.  "I don't want a chatterbox."